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.’

No.

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.