Chapter 4

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So four years have passed and now it is already the present. I have felt or been happier. Everything is going according to how I want them to go.

If you ask me how long I intend to live like this and keep this up, I would answer ‘indefinitely’. How could I stop when there’s a bountiful buffet out there? I feel sorry and pity all you men who are ‘faithful’ to your wives and girlfriends. I know deep down inside, you’ve all snuck glances at, I don’t know, the secretary with the short skirt, or the shop assistant who has the nicest smile, or maybe that pretty expat wearing the tight-fitting running gear that always jogs by your house every evening? I know you’ve all wondered what these girls look like beneath their clothes and what they’d taste like on your tongue.

I don’t wonder and I don’t imagine. I go out and do it. I have several ways. They’re pretty common tricks too; some so obvious you never dreamed they’d ever work. I thought the same, but I found out, hell, they do.

Sometimes I act interested but then feign disinterest the moment a girl notices. I’d make her want to get to know me. Other times, I act shy and awkard so as to trigger this somewhat, ‘nurturing’ response in them. But the one that works the most is the direct, honest, confident as hell approach. I’ve found out in my case, girls dig that.

“Hello, you’re very pretty. I’m Dhani and I must get to know you.”

Or

“Hello. Telephone number?”

Whenever I’ve done those two lines, my success rate is very, very high.

Confidence, then, is key. If I carved a notch on my bedpost for every girl I’ve slept with… I’d have more than four bedposts.

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I work in the heart of the city; a five minute walk in any direction from my office would bring you to Kuala Lumpur City Center. My office itself affords a magnificent view of the KLCC park. I often go jogging, as a lot of KL-ites do, at the park before I leave for home. I’ll leave the exact location of my office for you to figure out. The firm I work for is a tenant of two floors of this building.

It has been a tiring past couple of months; so many client appointments, deadlines and other mundane but necessary tasks and jobs to submit. I didn’t mind though. Work keeps me sharp, and I am very good at what I do.

I thought I would apply for a holiday next week. I usually take one or two vacations a year. I almost always travel alone; if not alone, I’d bring my sister and her two daughters (flight and accommodation on me, of course). Last year I went to Bangkok alone, and enjoyed it. No, I do not engage in sexual tourism, because I find the notion of paying for sex distasteful. I actually went to Bangkok for the food, the sights and the people. It was fantastic and I told myself I’d come again, perhaps with my sister and her kids. I immediately filled in the necessary forms and luckily my boss approved it (why would’nt she, I’m one of her best staff). Feeling rather happy, I made my way to the HR office to submit my leave application.

“Hello, Abang Razif,” I greeted the guard stationed in front of the HR office. He was a nice man, with six children and a sick wife. I know this because I asked about his family. Whenever I could, I helped him out with some money, or, as he prefers, food. He never asks for it, it’s just something I feel inclined to do. Not always, of course, and never officially.

“Hello, Dhani. Apply cuti?” the heavy-set man replied with a smile.

“Macam mana tau?”

“You’re rarely down here in HR. What else would it be?” He grinned again and returned the warmth of that gesture.

As I walked into the door, the receptionist, a pretty young Chinese girl by the name of Marissa Ng, greeted me. I asked if Thomas, the officer who handles staff benefits, was around.

“He went out for a smoke, I think, Mr. Dhani,” Marissa said. “You want to wait?”

“Sure, sure.”

I took a seat in the reception waiting area, and that’s when I noticed the woman sat across. I have never seen her before.

She had creamy white skin, and her features were Middle-Eastern, Arabesque; I could see beneath her sharp eyebrows that her eyes were a smoky gray, and her features sculpted, and yet delicate at the same time. Her pale pink lips were pursed in an expression that was half-a-smile, and half-a-smirk. She wore an elegantly wrapped hijab, and a black blazer over a white blouse with a chiffon collar, and a long, black skirt. I thought I had never seen a lovelier woman in my life.

She noticed I was looking at her and gave me a polite, curt smile and nod. I returned it.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

“Are you here for an interview?”

“Yes, indeed, I am.” She had a husky, seductive voice (not intentional, and I do not have the right words to describe this; if you ask me to compare who she sounds like, I’ll say she sounds like Whitney Houston, speaking).

“Investment banker?”

This time she tilted her head sideways, as if curious. “Legal, actually. You’re on of their investment bankers.”

“I am. Dhani Ibrahim,” I introduced myself and extended my hand. For a moment I thought she wouldn’t take it, since she was a hijab-wearing girl. But she did, and her hands were silky soft.

“Damia. Damiawati Isahak,” she said.

“We have the same initials.”

She just smiled and bowed her head down. I looked at her for a few minutes.

I felt the urge to turn on my game. Here was a girl in a hijab, a beautiful girl. And, thought this is terrible for you to hear, I have done hijab girls before. In fact, some of them have been my wildest fucks of the past few years. Often they were young, junior executives, graduates from prestigious and well known colleges and universities, working for reputable firms, and strong willed and eager to make a mark in the world. I remember one, a pretty accountant with Petronas, (Shakira? Shafiza? Something like that), whom I met at KLCC during one particular lunch break; we were lined up together to pay for food, and the line had been long, and she had caught my eye even earlier so I had somewhat followed her. She was compact, in a tailored baju kurung and wore one of those fancy tudungs. She looked a little bit like Amy Mastura. I had chatted her up, though initially she seemed to see right through me; but I prevailed and we exchanged phone numbers, went out for dinner the next night, and ended up spending a whole day fucking at Colmare Tropicale, Bukit Tinggi over the weekend that came after. She had been assertive, fierce, always wanting more, always wanting to be on top, literally. I had enjoyed that weekend very much.

I tried to gauge if Damiawati Isahak was that kind of girl. Across from me, she was avoiding eye contact, instead scrutinizing the forms she held in her hand. I tried to imagine, too, what she looked like beneath that (off-the-shelve, I could tell; something from Padini or Seed. Maybe Brands Outlet Store) business suit.

A phone rang and Marissa the receptionist answered it curtly. Then she called out, “Miss Damiawati, the manager will see you now.”

Damiawati stood up. She seemed to be of good height; perhaps around five-seven without those heels she was wearing. She had a good body; of healthy weight, slender with medium-large breasts and because her long skirt clung to her legs, I could see the shape of lovely, rounded buttocks. I immediately determined she’d look fucking hot nude, and I begin to imagine what her hair looks like. My guess was long, straight and luscious.

She glanced and smiled at me before she left for her interview. “Nice to meet you, Dhani Ibrahim.”

“Oh, it’s just Dhani. Nice to meet you too, Damiawati. And good luck. Hope I’ll see more of you around here.” I offered her my best smile, which she returned. I watched her go, enjoying the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. I imagined taking all those clothes off her.

But here’s the thing; she is not the first pretty lady to have walked within the walls of this firm. And believe it or not, I have never, ever, slept or hit on any of the ladies who work here. Even Marissa Ng, the pretty HR department receptionist, who I once bumped into at a club where she had proceed to grind her ass on my crotch, I have not hit on. It’s just not ethical, I believe. And if I did, can you imagine the complications? Remember that I do mostly touch’n’go. I wouldn’t want to sleep with a  girl only to see her in the office the next day. People, or worse she, would think I wanted a relationship.

In short, don’t eat where you shit, someone once told me. I’m inclined to believe him

So I watched Damiawati walk away, knowing that the only way I’d see her naked and writhing in pleasure would be in my head.

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