A Rendezvous with a Whore: The Place

As I entered the tiny complex, a feeling of nervousness engulfs my senses. The place is familar. Its fascade is unassuming. There are no pretentions unlike the streets of Geylang or the alleys of Patpong. Located in a national road bordering two cities, it is easily dismissed as a structure designed to house small local businesses. Perhaps it is designed that way. With prying eyes that are not only reserved to authorities, the clandestine operations of the men's club, like any other similar club, for that matter, is not totally hidden from locals inhabiting its surroundings. In fact, the patrons are often from the same community or the nearby towns. It is an example of the paradox of cultural norms wherein the professing of virtues is aesthetic at best.  People of the faith abhors it and some say hypocritically. Wives would silently wish it wont exist. The governing kind vows to eradicate it. However, its existence is not dependent on any moral standard. In fact, it is numb to it. The banality of its perceived presence is checked ultimately in its doors and any attempts to destroy its essence would lose its reason to do so. Human nature is empowered to make something out of it senses. This place stretches that idea to, to some extent, to the extreme. No invention of man, physical or non-physical, can go against the tide of nature.

And there, I was. Received by a man in his 40's as I entered a hallway, no greater than two people can fit. Its walls were adorned by curtain-like trappings that were seemed installed in order to hide its imperfections. No different from a woman who hides behind a make up who will be greatly attracting men who are drunk, yet, repulsed the morning after when all that covers her are all taken down.  Again, the thought that this minicule path leading to the main hall is part of the greater design of things, lingered continuously. Behind a curtain of beads, similar to those that can be seen in porn movies, the sound of music blasts its way to the eardrums. The songs are familiar and it can induce anybody to hum along. The beats are no different from the ones that you can hear from upscale clubs that cater to the young and the young at heart. A DJ, trying his best to mimic an American accent, is blurting out words that can hardly be understood. Its like a murmur with a mic stuck to your mouth. The verbage is incomprehensible but funnily the people who are patronizing the joint, seems to undertand what is it all about. For every word or sentence that is uttered by the man with a plan, a woman or a group of women, scantily clad, of course, gets out and go to the stage. For reason that escapes me, everyone, including the waiter, fixates their eyes towards the direction of the platform, everytime a girl or the girls come out. Its part of the drill. Clockwork, it seems. The chance of the patron to see his possible merchandize for procurement. "Behold! The satisfaction of your whims." are the words that comes to mind and it never fails to excite.

While the music reverbrates in the atmosphere of temporary ecstasy, I was led to a couch. It is one of those delights that makes this place stand out among its peers. Unlike similar places that cater to the same economic strata, there is some quaint difference in terms of the comforts that one can get. In some places, the usual setup is a a table and a plastic chair. Others, even just a stool with no back rest. Airconditioning is a staple. And so is a funky smelling men's room. Men hardly care.  There is a single purpose in mind and amenities that are expected from a bar is far from their minds. The place, where I was, had the value add amenities. The setup is like a big hall with tables, chairs and couches are all over the place. Often, the middle spots are hardly full because the choiciest area are either in front or at the corners. The front area is where the less discrete customers go. It is a strategic spot depending on context. As the area where most of the illumination is concentrated, one can see the women in full High Definition. Best of all, it is the place where action called "Area" happens. "Area" is the word that performers use for a steamy lap dance often not by request. Unlike its counterparts in the US, groping is allowed while the dancer does her "area". Some even lock lips with customers. Often, it is the girl's ticket to be chosen as host by the client for the night. It really adds a whole lot of meaning to the phrase "show me the merchandize". Not only do they show them. You can feel them.

In contrast, the corners or the back areas dont get lap dances. However, it is also filled with people as they are most discrete locations of the hall. Unlike the front area wherein everybody can see you and the girls, the corners and the back are the spaces wherein discretion is highly valued. Unlike being in front, the risk of embarassing yourself if someone recognizes you is a lot more less. Nevertheless, in both places, groping is a common activity. The place is like an orgy wherein the only difference is that the only one naked is the one dancing on the stage. Not being naked doesn't mean less erotic, though. Its a free for all (how's that for an irony?).  The conversations are often about doing things privately. Which means, the customers will opt for a more private area called the VIP room and the place has 7 of them. The girls will do eveyrthing to convince you to make that choice primarily for economic reasons. Inside the VIP room, a minimum charge is required which basically assures the girl of better income. Therefore, to entice customer to go inside, all tactics are utilized. The hostess will whisper sweet nothings in your ears. Let you touch her legs and her hands traversing your crotch area. She will go as far as allowing you to feel hers but she'll stop it quickly to act as if they suddenly got sticken with modesty. In truth, it is an act to seduce you further so that you will decide to spend more. It does make sense. Money talks everywhere and this place is no different. In fact, money is the only one doing the talking  here.The bigger the money, the louder the voice.

I was in no mood for a trip to the VIP. I was in no mood for sex. Contrary to the expectations of a young college student about to be devirginized, graduating and being relatively successful doesnt automatically grant you to have the same libido as before. In fact, the curiosity that brought a green horn to a place of sexual exploration, can be absent from a young man bombarded with resposibilities in life. The race to be successful in one's career drains the energy to spend time for fun, ironically. Unless you are manor born, this irony is a fact of life. In fact, it is life.

So, there I was, opting neither the front or corner seats. I chose the middle as I was not expecting to stay for more than an hour. I wanted to be discrete but not too discrete which I will hunt for a prey or to be the prey myself.  Primarily, I just wanted a beer. While driving home, I just had the urge to relax and have my favorite brew. The usual watering holes are filled with people wanting to party or already partying. The atmosphere is way too familiar that it doesnt grant a respite from the every day grind. I am not too old but neither too young. Peaking is the word that qualifies as description. Yet, I dont know its meaning.

And at that moment, I wasnt interested to know neither. I chose to sit and relax and see people in a different light. I was asked by the waiter what would I want to drink. "A beer.", I said. "Sir, lights?", he retorted. "Hell no! That's not beer. That's cow piss. Do you have Cerveza Negra?", I vigorously replied in the vernacular with an unprintable swear to punctuate it. "No sir." while scratching his head. It suddenly occured to me that this is not a place for wine or beer connoisseurs. I am neither. But I know my beer. Sensing that it will be hopeless to ask for anything else, I opted for a Pale Pilsen. There is no plan to get drunk anyway. It will be a quickie and there is no pun intended. Halfway with my bottle, I was approached by the floor manager, traditionally called the "Mama San". Of course, I didnt call her Mama San. Even in these places, being tactless will get you into trouble. She told me that she will introduce girls to me. I told her I wasnt interested as I wansnt staying long. She insisted by telling me that there are no commitments(?). Just an introduction. I know that it was a ploy but before I can retort for another dismissal, a lass was introducecd to me. I was figuratively  sucker punched into it. The surprise was effective that I stood up and shook the hand of the girl. Obviously resistance is futile. I told myself, what the heck. I am very prudent but unlike college days, I am not necessarily penny pinching. So what's a few bucks for a drink and  to avoid embarassing a lady whose name I dont recall? So I acquisced.

I am thankful that I did acquisced. Because it allowed me to stay for more than an hour. Little did I know that the girl that was introduced to me was the one who will  lead me to the person, who will allow yours truly to see a different color of this thing called life.

(...To be continued....)

A Rendezvous with a Whore: The Beginning

A cliche-driven love affair is nothing but uncommon in this age of TV overload. Contrary to proponents of reality bitten experiences, it is common for people to have this deep longing for a fairytale story. A less vocalized wish to be in constant euphoria while Nat King Cole(fine....is Michael Buble alright?) is singing his love tune. Nevetheless, like the ecstatic effects of any form of vice, such foray into the sometimes carnal world of attraction do wear out. And like the after effects of any addiction, the aftermath is worse than the state before the jump.

Such is the fate of Angel. Her story is almost generic as a soap opera or a B-movie. In fact, if one is intoxicated by the atmosphere of her place of work, one can just dismiss the whole conversation as a ploy to add more value to what she offers to her clients. I met her one night in a club outside of Manila. On my way home from that bastion of ancient faith in Espana street, after many years, I decided to pass an old watering hole. Alone. For reasons that dont matter. And for purposes better left unuttered. Tempting the fates' accusation of hypocrisy, the reasons and purpose were not sexual but rather sensual. A psychotic inclination to short circuit my sensibilities and senses.

The place is one of those dingy venues often patronized by the less priviledged. Working men whose salaries, if one is abnormal enough not to cave in to the sins of flesh, is better reserved for food and shelter. Its only similarity to the ones that cater to the elite is its dark atmosphere wherein the psychedelic lights provide the neccessary illumination for fantastical purpose first and for practicality being secondary. The pricing point of such venues caters to those who are either one day millionaires or their subtleterns. Such economics appeals to college students who saved up their allowances, hardearned by their parents, after a long semester. (The more affluent are more inclined to venture to nests wherein money should flow like water and that money is hardly hardearned.) Or by High School seniors, mustering the nerves to get themselves baptized so as to gain right of passage to full manhood. Not that they need to go through the unholy process to become the man that they want to be or they ought to be. They just need to. Foolishness notwithstanding. Sin they say is the scourge of man. The ritual seems to be immuned to that. I was both the under-priviledge college student and the high school senior waiting to be initiated.

But this time around, I am no longer both.

(To be continued....)