Even I—Jazeline Lim Boon Huay—know (sometimes) when I have been too much.
I am always right, it’s true. But sometimes even I have to admit that perhaps I’m just a little bit wrong. Waking up the next morning, I definitely knew that this was one of those times.
As much as I hated Sharon for being such a bitch to me—should I really have done what I did?
I know I was sloshed (which is actually a good excuse) and yes, Sharon had really pissed me off (also a very good reason) and I was feeling a bit gross and awful about the whole Carlyle’s scene (I guess maybe I am a bit to blame for not saying no at any point when I sort of could have?). Also, I was feeling a little sad that Roy hadn’t texted so I guess guniang here was looking for some comfort—somewhere. (OK, this one even I will admit is quite a cock excuse.) But when I woke up the morning after, all I could think about was the sound of Sharon crying at the food court a few days ago.
Her husband, Alistair, surprisingly, was quite a gentleman once we were alone; he was even a bit sweet. He didn’t make a big fuss when he said goodbye to his friends to send me home. I don’t even think they knew he was leaving because of a girl. And in fact, he seemed a little shy once we got inside the taxi, keeping quite quiet, sitting all the way over on his side of the seat. I wondered if maybe he was feeling awkward about asking me right away whether I actually wanted to be sent home or wouldn’t mind going to hotel for a bit. So he was just asking me stupid questions like “Where do you work?” That kind of shit. (I also pretended to ask him some questions back, even though I already knew where he worked and what he does. He didn’t mention Sharon at all. And of course he wore no wedding ring. Typical.)
But when the taxi was almost in my neighborhood, he moved a bit closer. “It’s not that late, actually . . .” he said. “Just after midnight?”
“Yeah—so?” I said, pretending to yawn a little. Guniang was a bit mabuk, yes, but not so drunk that I didn’t know how to make him sweat a bit.
Alistair looked a bit worried. “I guess if you’re tired . . .” he started to say, then quickly added, “but if you’re not too tired . . .”
“If not, then?” I said, purposely acting a little blur.
“Then . . . would you like to get a drink?” he asked, getting closer so he could put his arm around me now. I could see taxi uncle staring at us in his rearview mirror, shaking his head and then blinking his eyes.
“Like, at another bar?” I asked, leaning a bit closer to him and tracing one of my fingers on his thigh. I could hear him breathing heavily now. Pathetic fucker.
“Jesus Christ,” he said very softly.
I could see from his face that he was thinking quite hard. Was he feeling bad? Interesting—if so, this was definitely the first time I’d come across this kind of thing. Could it be that guys like these sometimes could actually have a conscience? Just the thought of that made me suddenly feel a little tender toward Alistair.
Besides, before Sharon got fat and obsessed with her baby, even though she wasn’t Miss Chinatown material, she was not terrible-looking. If this guy actually married her, perhaps he did actually love her.
The taxi uncle was slowing down a bit now, reaching my block. When I felt Alistair pull away from me, I thought, OK, this guy—he’s really not bad. Good for Sharon. Maybe she’s wrong after all about why her hubby goes out so late so much. Maybe he’s just sowing wild oats by drinking and flirting with guniangs at the bar, never following through and going all the way.
But then Alistair leaned forward and said to taxi uncle: “Actually—Fauntleroy Hotel, please? Sorry, we’re not stopping here.”
I guess at that moment, I could still stop it. I could say, “Sorry, I’m tired. Maybe another day.” And I honestly hadn’t thought much about whether I would go through with it at this point. Part of me wanted to find out whether Alistair was really the guy that Sharon thought he had turned into—and, if I was wrong, then I’d figure out a way to tell her. (Without incriminating myself of course.) But to be honest, guniang was feeling a bit sad after watching Fann and Melvin snog all night. Roy still hadn’t texted me; and even though I had felt quite happening to be dancing on the bartop at Carlyle’s with all these guys looking at me, in the end, none of the cute guys ended up coming to talk to me or buy me drink. Like that—how can? At least here—here was a guy, married or not, who could provide some comfort and entertainment for a few hours.
Also, I know we girls are supposed to think hooking up is bad, but I think this kind of experience, always somehow ends up being useful—it’s like research. Cock sometimes small, cock sometimes big; sometimes the method is more action action, sometimes it’s more slow and romantic. And sometimes I even learn a new technique, different ways of teasing that can get ang mohs even more steam. Kind of like that old government “Productivity” song they taught us in primary school. “Good, better, best—never let it rest. Till your good is better, and your better best!”
On top of all that, I guess I was a bit itchy. Go home alone to my sad bedroom and lousy single bed? Boring lah! Plus, the Fauntleroy Hotel is quite atas. Definitely not Hotel 81! This is one of the big downtown hotels, by the Singapore River and all. I had been there before—but only for high-class wedding dinners. I never knew anyone who had the kind of throwaway money to just anyhow stay there. So in the end, I just didn’t stop Alistair.
Alistair was holding my hand, stroking it gently, by the time we got to the Fauntleroy. He helped me out of the taxi—not bad, quite the gentleman—but once we were outside, he made sure to walk a little bit ahead of me as we entered.
“Welcome back, Mr. Davis,” the doorman said, bowing as he opened the heavy gold door for us.
Alistair waved at him slightly then quickly walked through.
“It’s not that I do this often,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed as we crossed the very quiet marble lobby. “My firm does a lot of business with the Fauntleroy—they let us have a room whenever we want it so I end up having a lot of meetings here.”
OK—whatever he says. Hallo, he’s not my husband after all—like I give a shit what he uses the Fauntleroy for.
I decided to wait by the lift lobby while he took care of business at the reception desk. Better lah. No matter how polite those receptionists are—they always gossip. Alistair didn’t say anything when he came back to the lift lobby and we were silent all the way up to the top floor, all the way to the room at the end of a long corridor.
When he opened the door—wah! It was a suite! I had never been to a suite for hookup before! But guniang made sure to act cool. I pretended to look around and seem bored.
“Is this OK?” he said, looking a bit worried as he closed the door. “I can get something else . . . or we can go somewhere else, if you prefer? I just thought it might be a little more private—and quiet—to have a drink in a room.”
I walked over to the big glass window—a serious one! Extending all the way from the floor to the ceiling type. From there I could look out at the small tourist boats on the river, the bright lights of the tall casinos, the ocean. I felt so tall, so big, like a god looking out at all of Singapore or some shit.
“No, this is fine,” I said, turning away from the window and smiling at him.
Now that we were in the room, standing around, feeling a bit awkward, he seemed even more shy. What happened to the mabuk guy frantically licking my stomach at Carlyle’s? Maybe he really doesn’t do this that much? Cannot be. But who knows? (And who cares?)
“I guess . . . we should have that drink I promised you,” he said, looking carefully at the fridge—at the bottles, not the price list! It was the first time I’d seen anyone go to a hotel minibar and not look at the prices at all.
“I noticed you drinking Chivas at Carlyle’s—is that all right?”
I just nodded. So he opened a medium-sized bottle of Chivas and poured two glasses on the rocks, bringing one over to me by the window.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass with mine. We both took a few long sips, standing side by side, looking out at the lights. I could feel him slowly rubba-ing my back, stroking my hair—it was actually feeling bloody good. I bet he gives a good massage, I thought. He bent down to kiss me, very slowly but very sweetly. A warm warm soft soft one. I could feel his cock pressing my thigh—not only was it bloody hard already, but it was also damn bloody big. Wah, that Sharon—lucky girl!
I moved my hand over to rub his cock but he stopped me.
“Not yet,” he said. “Can you take your clothes off for me?”
I started to pull my blouse off but he stopped me again. “No—sweetly, slowly,” he said, walking over to sit on the couch. He put his glass down on the gold-rimmed coffee table so he could hold his hands up, using his thumbs and index fingers to make a rectangle, as if he was taking a photo of me standing in front of the window. Then he smiled and put his hands back down again.
I was beginning to think this was turning out a bit strange. These types of hookups usually are never like this. (Not that I do this that often lah—you must believe me, this is really true.) But these types of things—usually are just fast fast hard hard type; no storybook kind of set up. Married guys, especially, usually have to go home quickly after all, so the moment they’re inside the room, pants come off already. But this one, it was as if he was shooting blue movie in his head. I wasn’t sure what to do with this—and if I should be offended. The way he was bossing me around, it made me feel a bit like a pro! I’d never experienced anything like this before. But I had already gone this far—I didn’t want to offend him or make things not nice. So I thought—why not? It’s quite simple to just go along with this—at least for a bit.
So if Alistair wanted a show, then I decided I would give him a show. Guniang was already inside the room—might as well go all the way. Besides, it could be fun? First, I took another sip of whiskey, then licked the entire rim of the glass before putting it down on the floor. Then I leaned back against the glass window and spread my legs a bit. Slowly, slowly, I peeled up my skintight red blouse. I could hear him sighing loudly as he slowly saw my black lace push-up bra appear. Then, I unhooked the back of my skirt and unzipped it—but this one, I couldn’t control how slowly this went though. The skirt was flared, so the whole thing just fell off in one second. Alistair had already see my red lacy panties before but still, he couldn’t stop staring. Good.
Next, the bra was unhooked. I covered my breasts with one hand and used the other one to throw the bra at Alistair. He was staring so hard at me, waiting for me to take my hand away from my chest, that he couldn’t even react in time to catch it.
“More,” he said. “Please?”
When I moved my hand away, he sighed damn loud. I know my boobs and butt are not say as nice as Fann’s lah. But I been told before that my body was like a little Japanese girl’s body—everything is small and tight. This kind of body is actually quite popular with ang mohs—I think they have some fantasy of being our uncles and protecting us or some shit. And I guess if your wife is now a fatty, maybe you really miss this kind of look. Poor Alistair.
I refused to take my panties off though.
“Kitchen closed,” I said. “Now—you.” I started to unbuckle the straps on my heels. After all that, my feet were really hurting.
“Don’t,” he said, standing up and walking over. Were we going to fuck by the window? Not bad—I had never done it facing all of Singapore before. Instead, he suddenly picked me up and carried me like a baby to the bedroom, throwing me on the bed. Damn strong! Guniang here was starting to get quite horny and tried to unbuckle his belt.
“Not yet,” Alistair said, pushing me back on the bed and pulling down my panties, spreading my legs apart, stroking my feet and high heels. “I think I should finish cleaning you up first.” And then he started licking me all over, from my toes to my legs to, OK, you know where. All the way up and back down again, then he kept licking me there. Guniang here don’t want to say too much lah so I’ll just say I didn’t have to fake anything. In fact, all I could see for a while right after that was large white dots. This—confirm—had never happened to me before.
By the time Alistair took off his clothes, guniang here was so high that I didn’t even care that his body was not great—not fat, mind you, and you can tell he does work out, but his skin all over was super pasty, like those oily white Hainanese chickens you see hanging on a hook in the hawker stall, and his chest was filled with curly gray hair.
By that point, I couldn’t think. All I could do was stare at him while he fumbled to open a condom wrapper.
“Oi,” I said, giving him a bloody dirty look. “Hurry up!”
Alistair laughed. But he did hurry up. By the time we left the room two hours later, the pack of three rubbers he said—as if—he bought for a friend at 7-Eleven earlier that night was all habis.
Thinking about it the morning after, I started to feel a little hot all over again. And then I felt terrible. Jazzy, what’s wrong with you? Even if you’re feeling lonely and sad for yourself and horny—there are so many guys in the world. Why would you go with your schoolmate’s husband? In fact, after Alistair sent me home—for real—it was all I could think about. The guy was even nice enough to ask if I was hungry and wanted to order anything off room service right after, but all I could think about was whether Sharon was going to give him hell for creeping home at five in the morning. So, I just hurried us both out of there.
I had no answer for why I did what I did. But now that I’d done it, I couldn’t stop thinking about how good Alistair felt. I needed to snap out of this. But how?
“Ah Huay!”
Perfect timing. For once, I was happy to hear my mum’s voice. “Yes? What?” I said, getting up and opening my bedroom door before she could even put her hand on the knob. When it swung open, she just stared at me a bit shocked. This eagerness to see my mum had never happened before.
My mum paused for a second and said, “I know you’re always very busy—don’t know doing what in this messy room of yours,” she said, looking around and sighing. (It’s true lah—I hadn’t swept the floor in a week now. Dust and Her World magazines were all over the floor.) “But I need your help in the kitchen.”
Once again, she looked shocked when I just nodded and followed her out. From the slight smile on her face though, I could see she was happy.
My mum had the table all set up in the kitchen already—one giant tub of bean sprouts. “This whole thing of tau gay—can you peel for me?” she asked, pointing over at the bean sprouts. When I just walked over and sat down, drawing my plastic stool closer to the small round kitchen table, I could see her raising her eyebrows. (I bet the old lady was wondering who was this person and what happened to her real daughter.) My mum paused, as if she was thinking of saying something, but then she turned around and went to the sink to drain a tub of green beans she was soaking,
Bringing the tub over to the kitchen table, she pulled up a stool and sat down next to me, starting to snap the beans one by one. The kitchen was dark—this one, cannot help it lah. When our first flat was old enough that we were finally eligible to buy another HDB flat, there were a few blocks of apartments in this neighborhood that suddenly opened up. This neighborhood is damn central—few minutes to Orchard Road, the financial district, Marina Bay and everything. So everyone wants to live here. So the moment the government announced these new buildings, everybody wanted one! My mum spent days and days nagging my pa to quickly go and apply for one, since they had just become eligible for a new flat. But of course he was so lazy—and so hates to be nagged—that he purposely ignored her for a while. By the time he got off his backside to file the application, all the high floors had been snapped up already. That’s how we ended up with a third-floor flat that’s not only quite small but one with a kitchen that’s super dark because it’s blocked by other buildings from the sun and also faces this wall of gigantic rubbish bins. On really hot days in Singapore, the smell—aiyoh, you don’t want to imagine.
But at least we live in Tiong Bahru. The location really is A-plus-plus.
As always, it was so dark in the kitchen even though it was not even 11 A.M., so we had to really squint a bit to see what we were peeling. It was fine lah—after all these years of helping my mum, I’m used to it already lah.
Side by side we worked, not saying a word. It was somewhat comforting to hear the rhythmic snapping of the green beans from my side and to feel my fingers breaking off the crisp, tough roots of the bean sprouts in my basket and tossing them onto the old Chinese newspaper my mum had laid out for rubbish. I was so focused on this that Alistair and the debauchery of last night quickly vanished. This was simple; this felt good. I know I always look down on shit like this lah, saying that I’m going to have a maid in the future to do this kind of crap job for me—but my mum is right about things (sometimes). Of course it’s nice to have a maid—or two, like future Jazzy will have—but simple hard work like this also can be satisfying. Later on, when I eat my mum’s stir-fry I confirm will feel a bit more shiok. Guniang here earned it after all, my hands here peeling all my mum’s bean sprouts until sore!
“Ah Huay,” my mum suddenly said, interrupting my blank thoughts. “You OK or not? Not feeling well, is it? Is something wrong? Want me to boil some barley water for you?”
My god. And she wonders why I don’t like helping her. Guniang here decides to finally be nice to her mum without complaining about having to spend a morning peeling bean sprouts for her also end up getting interrogated like this.
“Yah?” I said. “Don’t worry. All OK.”
My mum looked at me, still snapping her green beans, her mouth opening slightly. “Ah Huay ah,” she said very quietly. “Your ah pa and I are getting very worried about you, you know. You always go out so late, we don’t know who you are with, you come home drunk, we also don’t know what you’re up to when you’re out . . . Decent girls don’t act like that, you know. If you carry on like that, one day something bad is going to happen to you.” She looked so sad that I was actually feeling a bit bad. I thought about trying to explain to her how everything I was doing was my only chance at actually finding a good husband—that this is what all the girls were doing these days anyway. Besides, most nights, it actually was fun!
“You ah,” my mum said, sighing very loudly, “always sailing too close to the wind.”
“Ma—just don’t worry,” I said, smiling at her. “Everything’s OK. OK?”
She didn’t say anything; just grabbed another handful of green beans. We didn’t say another word until the two tubs were empty.
A few hours later, my phone rang—like, actually rang.
Normally, I don’t really like talking on the phone these days, unless it’s for work lah, so most people know not to actually call me. But guniang here was so stunned to hear the phone ring that I just picked up the call.
“Oi!” was all I heard. Ah, Fann.
“Yes?” I said. “Finished your sex fest with Melvin yet?”
Fann snorted. “Talk rubbish lah!” she said. “I stuck to my plan of course. Just snogging and rubba-ing. I refused to follow him home. The guy had super blue balls, man! He’s already been texting me all morning asking when he’ll see me again.”
Bloody hell. In the end Fann managed to win while I ended up opening my whole kitchen?
“Anyway,” Fann said, “I’m downstairs. My mum sent me to your neighborhood seamstress to pick up a dress. Are you home?”
“Yah, yah,” I said. “Come up—my mum’s just putting lunch on the table.”
A few minutes later, after Fann had said hello to my mum and given her the oranges she quickly bought before coming up, we found ourselves sitting down in the kitchen. The small table was already filled with dishes. Some of them, I know, my mum had planned to save for dinner that night. But once she heard that we were having a guest, my mum decided to just bring everything out, so we had my dad’s favorite salted mustard greens soup lah, some braised duck and fatty roast pork, stir-fried noodles with green beans and bean sprouts, some leftover fried tofu from yesterday.
“Wah—aunty! Such a happening lunch!” Fann said.
My mother smiled a little and gestured to us to quickly eat. “You girls eat first,” she said. “I’ll wait for your pa to come home then eat with him.” Fann started to protest and ask her to sit and eat with us but my mum just waved her away, walking out to the living room to turn the TV on. Aiyah, our parents’ generation is just like that—they think the youngsters feel more comfortable if they’re not around. Which is actually true lah.
The moment my mum left the kitchen, Fann grabbed her chopsticks and started piling all sorts of food on her rice bowl. Watching her, I realized how hungry I was so I did the same. We didn’t really pause again until our rice bowls were half-empty.
“Jazzy,” Fann said after a long sip of chrysanthemum tea in between bites. “So . . . what did you think?”
“Of? The club? The cute bartenders? The shots?” I said, reaching for more roast pork.
Fann slapped my hand. “Aiyoh—don’t be like that lah!” she said. “You know what I’m asking!”
I wasn’t sure what to say—but I knew I shouldn’t pause too long or Fann would think I didn’t like Melvin. It’s true that Melvin probably wouldn’t be the type of ang moh I’d like to end up with. There was something too—quick—about him. Yes, I know it’s ironic considering I was the one who spent the night with an ang moh—something I wasn’t about to tell Fann with my mum sitting in the next room. But at the same time, I had been very clearheaded about Alistair. I wasn’t expecting anything more from him than a few hours of fun, though it was a few hours I was regretting more and more each time I thought about Sharon. With Melvin though, if Fann saw him as a real prospect, we needed to judge him by different standards! To have him pawing at her breasts like that in a public bar? Aiyoh—is that really what a guy who is serious about a girl does?
“Well,” I said, “he seems nice.”
Fann wrinkled her nose. “Oi, woman—if you have something to say, just directly say it lah,” she said.
“OK then,” I said. “Is he serious?”
Fann smiled at this question. Now I was really curious.
“Well, I have one thing to say,” Fann said, picking up her chopsticks again and reaching over to pick up the nicest-looking, fattiest piece of roast pork on the table. Bloody hell—I’d had my eye on that since we sat down but thought I should save it for my mum.
“Brunch,” she said, once she’d examined the pork closely, decided it would definitely do and put it in her bowl. “He’s invited me to Sunday brunch—at the Australian Club. With his close friends. And their wives or girlfriends.”
Jazzy here almost started tearing up after hearing this. Brunch? A daylight activity? With friends and their wives? In an ang moh club, no less! This was some serious shit going on right here.
I reached over and squeezed Fann’s hand. She looked at me and I looked right back at her—and we both started squealing.