Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Chapter 2

Isn’t the human female the most beautiful creation on this planet?
Our city, in particular, is teeming with beautiful ladies. Even a casual stroll through any street in Kuala Lumpur would show you as much. And I think our country is blessed for being so multi-cultural. It is a melting-pot, a smorgasboard, a buffet of girls.
I love them all.
Malay, Indian, Chinese, Arab, Caucasian. I love the colors of their eyes and lips. I love them with or without headscarves, in full-length dress or the shortest of shorts and tank-tops. I adore the way they walk, the wiggle in their butts and their little feet tucked into cute flats or six-inch stilettos. I like them in low-cut tops or turtleneck sweaters. Often the idea of what lies beneath is much more enticing than out-and-out revealed skin. I like the way they talk, and how sometimes they feign innocence when you first meet them or chat them up.
They are so exotic.
How then, would I be satisfied with just one? That’s why I have to try as much as I can. And for the past four years, I’ve tried them countless of times. Sometimes (most times) I forget who they are, and what they do. I don’t always date the same girl more than once, or sleep with the same girl more than a few days at a time. A lot of them are Touch’n’Go cases; sure sometimes I’d bump into them again in the clubs or on the streets of KL, and often when that happens there is but the tiniest acknowledgements of what had transpired between me and them. Then we’d move on, pretending not to know each other.
But there are always those that linger on in the annals of my memory. There that sort of occupy a permanent slot in my mental cupboard, for various reasons.
There was this Punjabi girl; Sujata. She had skin the color of of the richest latte you could ever imagine. Her lips had tasted like spiced honey and tea, and her eyes were the lightest brown I’ve ever seen in a girl. I had met her not in a club, but at a meeting between my firm and a client; she had actually been our clients legal representative. We had argued some business stuff during the meeting on that day… and when night fell, we were having wine in a hotel and subsequently messing up the bedsheets afterward. She had been, for lack of a better word, ‘gymnastic’ in bed. She could bend and twist like no other girl. The two of us could have re-wrote the karma-damn-sutra if we wanted. We fucked for a week before both of us decided it wasn’t appropriate ‘professionally’.
A year ago I met Haliza, in a bank. A pretty, small, slim, girl-next-door type, who, at the time, was fresh out of college. She was in her bank uniform, wearing a hideous slip-on tudung. I had said ‘Hi’ as I handed her my ASB book (yes, I have an ASB account) and she smiled at me. She had a tiny mole on her lip and snowy-white skin, and when she smiled, she went from pretty to beautiful. I had casually asked if she’d like to go for lunch… to which she blushed, thought for awhile and had said yes, sure, why not. Three days later, we were kissing with my hand up her blouse and her hand down my jeans. A day after that, she was bent over my sofa, her pants around her ankles and the rest of her clothes on the floor as I went BAMBAMTHANKYOUMA’AM behind her. This went on for two weeks; every night she called me up to meet up, and everynight she’d ask for more more more. Then abruptly, she texted me saying that she couldn’t go on like that and was going back to some shitty town in Kelantan to get married.
 Then there was Amanda Mok; the girl you could never, ever maintain eye contact with on the virtue of loose collars and a spectacular set of breasts. As she had danced in the club where I first saw her, those breasts seemed to be dancing independent of her body. I had approached her and asked, were those real, and at first she seemed offended but then I laughed and she laughed and we joked and I asked again if those were real to which she said ‘touch them and find out’ so I did and lo and behold, they were. I don’t know how I knew, I just did. I could have asphysxiated between them and died and would have been happy. I knew she tried.
There are more, of course, of these girls I could not forget. But I have to clarify one thing here though: not forgetting does not mean lamenting. I lament none of these wonderful girls. I thank them for the times we spent together, but no, I do not miss them. I don’t think of them, sigh and go ‘If only I had taken the next step.’
After all, after one girl comes the next. It’s like the Hydra in Greek mythology. Cut off one head, three will replace it. It’s almost the same with these girls. As one leaves or more accurately, as I leave one, more will follow suit. I am always on the hunt for the next Sujata or Haliza or Amanda.
And as surely as the sun will rise the night after a heavy clubbing session, the head and body of a new girl will always be beside me on my plush mattress and pillow.
I have learned much in the past four years about the rules of the game. In fact, the first year of that four was spent learning all the subtleties and tricks, so to speak, about scoring.
First, the superficials.
Be clean. I shower thrice daily. In the mornings, before I go to work. In the afternoon, at work (bless my company for having its own gymnasium, complete with shower facilities), and of course, at home when I get back. I use plenty of product; high-end soaps, shampoos, moisturizers and scrubs to ensure my skin is in its best condition. I always try to look and be clean. I cut my hair once a month at a professional barber, and shave daily. Manicures and pedicures are mandated, as with once-a-month facial treatments. And like I mentioned, I have seventeen different perfumes so I don’t always smell the same.
I always dress well; not necessarily posh or spiffy, but ‘well’. What’s the Malay word? ‘Kemas’. Say what you want about looking like an 80s rockstar, but I’ve learned and seen that girls do not go for guys that look like they stuck superglue on their bodies and just ran through the wardrobe. My work attire consists of tailored suits, in dark colors, often matched with an eclectic selection of shirts and ties. Slim-tipped leather shoes are a must; I have several pairs from Gucci, Prada, and the like. Off work, I am normally in designer jeans and sneakers or loafers, with shirts or t-shirts (I’m partial to Lacoste and Raoul) and jackets. I dress in various colors when I’m casual, though I must say light blue and pink are my current flavors right now.
To maintain my lean, lithe shape, I work out once a day for an hour at least. I run and cycle, mostly. I’m not into weights because I don’t want to look like a steak. I cook my own meals, and only dine out with a girl. I look after what goes into my body.
But while all the product and attire and exercise routine in the world will only give you a ‘look’, it is only secondary to what my real ‘weapon’ is. Just as a rifle is only as good as the man shooting it, good looks are not what decides the trophy.
I’ve noticed that girls are attracted to a man that knows how to carry himself and is articulate in all situations. And girls often fall for the way I talk and the way I say things to them, even if all I’m saying are their names. It’s in the way you ask a question, and phrase an answer, and it’s in the way your eyes meet theirs and how you smile, and how you gently caress their hand or push aside a lock of hair that has fallen onto their foreheads. It’s how you offer to pay for their drink, and show interest in the things they say or believe in, even when you don’t, yourself.
I’ve found out girls like that.
And I use it to my every advantage.

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Chapter 1

Chapter One
The clock strikes midnight and the Friday night crowd has just hit their stride here in this club in the heart of Kuala Lumpur. On the floor, there is bumping, xgrinding and shaking and the gyrating of asses and breasts (of both sexes, might I add). The music is thumping through the gigantic speakers, left-right-up-down-all-around. The atmosphere is hot and dank, an uneasy mixture of alcohol vapor, sweat and the panting and breathing of people.
I stand by the bar, sipping a club soda: always a club soda. I am dressed in a black sport-jacket over a plaint white crewneck t-shirt, and skinny blue Levi’s. My red Onitsuka Tigers complete the look I was going for: young, subtly stylish… definitely not a poseur. I sip my drink as I watch these people dance.
Or to be more accurate, as I watch the girls dance. There are a lot of them; Chinese, Malay, Indian, everything in between. Most are dressed to kill. Some seem to have lost their inhibitions already, at this ‘early’ hour. They’re beautiful, most of them.
And they’re the reason why I’m here on this Friday night.
I watch as a pretty, tanned girl walks up to the bar. She is breathing in short stitches, clearly catching a breath after dancing her heels off on the floor. She is wearing a blue V-neck sleeveless top that shows just enough cleavage to indicate she’s well stacked up top, and a white mini-skirt that barely covers her rather flat buttocks. Her hair is cropped into an imitation of Audrey Hepburn.
I pretend not to notice her while I enjoyed my club soda. She orders a Mojito from the tired-looking bartender, and moves her head to the beat of the music while she waits for her drink. She glances at me, quickly, but also long enough for me to notice she does a double-take. I made a mental note of the time, and decided this was the one that would do tonight.
“Great night, kan?” she says, smiling, showing off the pink-accented braces on her teeth.
“Excuse me?” I say, acting surprised.
The girl laughed. “I said, it’s a great night. I love this place.”
I shifted my body to face her and leaned on the bar a bit. “It is.” I gave her a smile.
“Are you all alone?” she asks.
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m here with you.”
She laughs again. “Cheeky.”
“I must be,” I said, “because it’s not often girls start a conversation with me. Especially pretty ones like you. So when one does come up to me and says something… well, cheeky is somewhat charming, as a response.”
The girl lifts an eyebrow. “Is that a pick-up line? Calling me pretty?”
“If it was, it is working because you haven’t left yet despite your drink having been ready about 2 minutes ago. So it must be something other than thirst that is keeping you here.”
She glanced to see that yes, indeed, the bartender had set her drink in front of her. She looks at me again, trying to be skeptical. “So you just sit at the bar and try to chat girls up? People still do that?”
This time I took a nonchalant swig of my beverage. “I wasn’t the one that began this conversation.”
The girl looks at me again, as if in disbelief.
Three hours later, the girl is lying comfortably on my king-size bed and she looks at me with smoldering eyes as I take off her lime-colored panties.
 At five o’clock I wake up. The girl is sleeping beside me, snoring lightly. Spent condoms (four of them) are in the small wastebasket beside my bed.
It is time to cleanse myself.
In the bathroom I turn on a hot shower and let the steam permeate within the tiled walls. Before the wall-to-wall mirror fogs up, I look at myself and stretch out my arms and shoulders. I crack my neck a few times, ironing out the kinks, and run my hands through my hair. I was proud of my body. I work out four times a week; not to be buff, but to remain lean and to look irreristable. I am proud of my abdominals with its hint of a six-pack, and my broad shoulders that tapered down to long, lean arms. My legs are those of a runner. I lean forward towards the mirror and see a stubble has formed; but that was okay as I only shave during weekdays.
But first, shower. I step below the cascading water and scrub myself clean with a loofah and designer brand soap (that cost me more than I cared to admit), to expofliate and get rid of all impurities. Then the moisturizing body wash Next I wash my short, neatly barbered hair with a designer shampoo and finish with conditioner. Finally I wash my face with an exfoliating, moisturizing and anti-bacterial cleanser. I step out of the shower and dry myself, putting on deodorant and one of my seventeen favorite eau de toilettes.
I walk out with only a towel wrapped, and I see the girl has woken up. Her hair is all over the place, and she makes a half-assed attempt to cover up her nude body. She is smiling at me, and wags a finger to beckon me over, which I do.
The girl, of whom I had met at the club earlier in the night and had talked to and casually invited over to my condominium here in Mont Kiara and of whom I don’t even remember the name (must be Shiela or Shira or something) opened up her arms as if to hug me, letting the blanket drop and exposing her breasts.
“Come here,” she says. I walk over to her and she smiles with anticipation. I lean close to her face, and she is about to kiss me when I say, “I’m sending you home.”
After I drop the girl (who sulked all along the journey but tried to make me promise to call her) off at her house, I drive back home.
It is still very early. I fix myself a cup of strong coffee from the machine and drink it at my balcony. Here, on the sixteenth floor of this luxurious condominium, a cool breeze is blowing. It is quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional taxi or motorbike.
The girl I had spent the night with, Shiela or Shira something-something, was a 25-year old front office executive with a five-star hotel. She had said something about clubbing to ‘release stress’ when we had began talking at the club, but I couldn’t care less. I only wanted my nightly fuck, and I had gotten it. I had her number, she has ‘a number’. But I rarely call these girls more than once. It was touch and go all the way for me. Shiela-or—Shira was not the first girl I’ve bedded so far this month.
And she won’t be the last.
I’ve been living this glorious, glorious life for the past four years; pretty much the moment I stepped foot into this cut-throat city.
I should introduce myself by now. My name is Dhani. Dhani Ibrahim. I’m 181 centimetres tall, 75 kilograms in weight. I am in my late twenties (how late, your guess). I earn five-figures a month as an investment banker for a renowned private equity firm, primarily because my talent is charm, and I use charm to convince people to employ me and pay me good money. I eat three balanced meals a day, I drive a BMW Z4 (in metallic black, with a red leather interior) or, on some days, a Ducati Streetfighter S. I live in the already mentioned condominium in Mont Kiara, that I’m paying for myself.
I date a different girl every alternate night. I bed a different girl once every three days. Or two days. Or a different one everyday for a few days, if I’m not too tired and am feeling especially randy. But once every three days is the norm.The clubs and bars of Kuala Lumpur are my hunting grounds and the beautiful, incredibly willing girls my prey.
Last year, one of my Chinese ‘girlfriends’, who I went out with for a few weeks, called me a ‘flower heart’ when she found out I wasn’t interested to pursue a meaningful relationship with her, and that I wanted to date but I didn’t want commitments. She accused me of using her for sex. I didn’t disagree. She had spat in my face.
 But what she called me lingered in my mind for a long, long time. I grew to like it. I liked being called a ‘flower heart’.