Текст книги "Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 1"

Автор книги: O Thiam Chin

Соавторы: Stephen Leather,Alison Lester,John Burdett,Aaron Ang,Hari Kumar,Yusuf Martin,Christopher Mooney-Singh,Jonathan Lim,Erich Sysak,Annabel Pagunsan
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

They moved aside and Wolfman waved at the bottles of booze. ‘Free drinks,’ he said, nodding at Bill. ‘Courtesy of our host.’ I picked up a bottle of Tiger beer. Next to the booze there was a bowl filled with blue Viagra tablets, another filled with small white tablets that I guessed were Ecstasy, and several smaller bowls which could only have been cocaine. By the bed was a large bowl of condoms and two tubes of KY Jelly.

‘We’re waiting for one more, but I think we can get started,’ said Bill, looking at his clipboard. ‘Why don’t you guys get ready.’

The guy in the ski mask took off his shirt and jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear and he already had a huge erection, which I figured was probably chemically-induced. The Hairy Guy took off his trousers to reveal legs that were just as hairy as his chest.

‘I don’t see your wife,’ I said, popping the cap off my bottle of beer.

‘She’s in the bathroom,’ he said.

‘She bloody well better be,’ said the guy in the ski mask. He had a Scottish accent. Glasgow maybe. As he turned to look at the bathroom door, I saw that he had a blue and white cross of St Andrew tattooed on his arse.

There was a knock on the door and Bill went through to the other room with his clipboard. I took off my shirt and trousers and hung them up in the wardrobe. I was wearing my Union Jack underwear, flying the flag. The Scotsman grinned and raised his beer bottle in salute. ‘Nice,’ he said. I hoped that he was talking about my boxer shorts and not my growing erection. I sipped my beer and tried to look as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be in a hotel bedroom with four naked men.

Bill returned with a short man in a linen suit and a pink shirt, his face hidden behind a fancy black mask that was studded with fake diamonds.

‘Bon soir, so sorry I am late,’ he said. He had a French accent and a large square chin with a dimple in the centre.

‘Aye, better late than never,’ growled the Scotsman, scratching his backside. ‘Can we get started? Let the dogs see the rabbit?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Bill, putting his clipboard onto the cupboard. ‘Just to recap the rules, gentlemen. Basically, everything goes unless my wife objects. Her word is final. If she wants to stop, you stop. If she doesn’t want to do anything, you don’t do it. She has a safe word. Two words, actually.

High Heels. If she says “High Heels”, then you know she’s serious. I hope that’s clear. If she says “Stop!” or “No”, then you can ignore it, but if she follows it with “High Heels”, then you have to stop. Are we all clear on that?’

He picked up a small video recorder. It was a Sony, an HD version that stored its video on memory cards.

We all nodded. The Frenchman took off his clothes and then helped himself to a glass of wine. He was overweight and his skin was peppered with small brown moles, but he seemed totally at ease. I couldn’t help but compare dicks. I’d have to say that I was about average, and that Dog Mask was the biggest by far. His member would have looked more at home on a medium-sized Shetland pony. The Scotsman’s was the smallest, about the size, shape and colour of a small carrot. Not that size is important, right? I’m joking. Of course, size is important, and any girl who tells you different is lying.

Bill pointed at the bowl of condoms by the bed. ‘I got all your medical certificates and I can assure you that my wife is clean, so it’s up to you whether or not you use condoms.’

‘Hate the things,’ growled the Scotsman.

‘Right,’ said Bill, ‘let’s get the show on the road.’ He went over to the bathroom, knocked on the door and opened it. ‘We’re ready for you now, honey,’ he said.

She walked out of the bathroom. I’d been worried that perhaps the photographs I’d seen had been Photoshopped, but if anything she was even sexier than in the pictures. She was tall for a Thai, but the stiletto heels made her look taller, with very white skin and long black hair that could have been used in a shampoo commercial, made even blacker by the contrast of the white towel robe she was wearing.

She had amazing cheekbones and as she slid off the robe I could see that her skin was totally unblemished, smooth and soft and white with absolutely no stretch marks or tramp stamps. She’d definitely never had kids, but I suspected that she’d had a bit of work on her face because her nose was bigger than you find on a Thai, even a Thai-Chinese, which she obviously was. She smiled at us and then bowed her head and waiedus, putting her hands together as if in prayer. God, that was sexy, seeing as how she was totally naked, except for the shoes.

Her breasts were magnificent, large and full and proud and her stomach was as flat as a washboard. Bill hadn’t lied about his wife regularly visiting the gym-you didn’t get a body like that by accident.

She lay down on the bed, a sly smile on her face. The Scotsman made a whooping noise and jumped onto bed and thrust his groin at her face. She opened her mouth and took him straight away, clawing at his chest with her long nails, her eyes wide open. I swear her eyes were sparkling with pleasure as she worked on him, moaning softly.

The Frenchman growled like a dog and threw himself on the bed and pawed at her breasts. Bill had his video camera on and was filming away. I moved forward but the Hairy Guy stepped forward at the same time and we banged into each other. We both laughed nervously, I guess neither of us were used to touching another naked man.

‘Age before beauty,’ I said, waving for him to go first.

‘Pearls before swine,’ he said, stepping back. He had a Man-chester accent and sounded a bit like Noel Gallagher from Oasis.

I grinned and got onto the bed. Bill’s wife grinned and moved over to suck me, still holding on to the Scotsman’s dick with her right hand. Her nails were long and painted blood red. I gasped as she took me into her mouth. She was good. My God, she was good.

It went on for hours. Hours and hours. Thank God for the Viagra. She was insatiable and so were we. She took us one at a time, two at a time, three at a time, and at one point she was on top of me while the Scotsman was in her arse, she was pleasuring Wolfman with her mouth while she had a hand on two other guys as if she was using ski poles. I don’t know where the sixth guy was, but I know where Bill was, standing on the bed with his video camera, capturing it all for posterity.

There wasn’t a single thing that she refused to do. Guys came inside her, over her, in her hair, up her arse, in her mouth. She begged for more, she wanted it harder, faster, longer. She mewed like a cat, yelped like a puppy in pain, and bellowed like an angry bull.

Pretty much every hour, Bill would stop and change the memory card in his camera and by midnight, there were four cards on the cupboard by the door.

We started taking breaks. The Scotsman kept going out on the balcony for a cigarette, the Frenchman kept taking showers, Wolfman did a line of cocaine once every thirty minutes, as regular as clockwork. I took another Viagra and four lines of coke and drank half a dozen beers. One of the guys, the one in the dog mask, gave up before midnight. He was having trouble breathing and said he was having chest pains. He’d taken two Viagra and it was a laugh seeing him trying to pull his trousers on over an erection the size of a policeman’s truncheon. I don’t remember him leaving because by then, I was doing Bill’s wife from behind, pounding into her and grunting like a pig while the Scotsman slapped her backside and called her a whore and the Hairy Guy was thrusting in and out of her soft, wet mouth.

There was a lot of name-calling going on, I remember that. We were bastards, we were shits, we were rapists, we were swine. She was a bitch and a cow, a whore and worse.

She was bathed in sweat like a racehorse that had been ridden too hard, and by midnight her eyes were glazed and her mouth wide open, but she wouldn’t stop, she wanted more and more and more and wouldn’t let us stop even if we’d wanted to.

At one point, just after midnight, she went out onto the balcony and stood looking out over the sea as we took it in turns to screw her from behind.

She wailed like a banshee all the time and I was sure that anyone walking down Beach Road must have been able to hear her. When the last guy had finished, I thought that would be the end of it, but she went back into the room and gave her husband a long, slow, blow job while he filmed her and then she lay on the bed again and started swearing at us, telling us all that we were babies and that if we were real men we’d rape her and make her beg for us to stop. We took her at her word and for the next hour, she was raped in every way that a man can rape a woman.

I left about two o’clock in the morning. I was exhausted, I was drained, and I was sore. By then it was just the Scotsman, the Frenchman and the Hairy Guy still at it, and she was taking everything they could throw at her.

No one said goodbye or God bless; in fact, no one even looked at me, they were too busy banging Bill’s wife. On the way out, I helped myself to one of the memory cards. I know it was wrong, I know it was stealing, but I figured what the hell: I was one of the stars, so I deserved a memento. And I figured that Bill had more than enough video to look at over the coming years.

I took the mask off as I went into the lift, dropped it into a garbage bin on the street, and five minutes later, I was back in my taxi heading towards Bangkok, barely able to keep my eyes open.

The following week, I started my new job in Singapore. I worked long hours and put everything into the job, knowing that it’s vital to give a good impression from day one. Other than the occasional visit to Orchard Towers-known locally as the Four Floors Of Whores-to pick up some paid-for company, I was practically a born-again virgin. After a week, I found myself checking Craigslist to see if Bill would tout his wife again. I used to watch the video, too, and it was almost as exciting as being there. In fact, it became a regular thing-I’d get home at midnight, after the London Stock Exchange had closed, open a bottle of beer, lie on the sofa and watch it on my big screen TV. I have to admit that I tried calling Bill’s mobile number, but it had been disconnected and I sent him an email asking if he’d thought of arranging a rematch, but it went unanswered.

To be honest, and like I said, everything I’m telling you is God’s own truth, I couldn’t get that night out of my head. It was the best sex I’ve ever had, bar none. I don’t know if it was the masks, the cocaine, the fact that I was there with strangers, or because Bill’s wife was so enthusiastic, but nothing I’d ever done before or after came close. The memory, and the video, began to torment me, reminding me of what I’d never be able to have again. I realized that no matter what I did in the future, nothing would come close to the sexual experience that I’d had with Bill’s wife. And then, two months after I’d started work in Singapore, they came back into my life, Bill and his wife, in a way that I’d never have expected.

The company arranged to fly over its top clients for a two-day presentation in Singapore-putting them up at the five-star Fullerton Hotel by the mouth of the Singapore River and taking them to the city’s best bars and restaurants while promoting what we thought were the best investments in the region. We’d arranged company visits and interviews with government officials and economists and had several presentations and demonstrations.

It’s something most brokers do; the clients get an all expenses-paid holiday and we get to pitch sales to them face to face.

The presentation started on Thursday which gave our guests the option of extending their holidays over the weekend if they so wished-at our company’s expense, of course. The guests arrived during the day and our first official get-together was in the evening in a suite at the Fullerton. Elegant waiters glided around with trays of canapes and vintage champagne flowed.

I was munching on a piece of smoked salmon on a miniature bagel when I saw them.

I didn’t recognise Bill at first because the last time I’d met him, he’d been wearing a stocking over his face, but there was no mistaking his drop-dead gorgeous wife. She was wearing a black dress, low cut to show off her amazing breasts and cut several inches above the knees to accentuate her fabulous legs. She had on stiletto heels and was carrying a tiny gold handbag; around her neck was a thin gold chain with a very large diamond and on her wrist was a diamond-studded Rolex. Pretty much every man turned to look at her as she walked into the room on Bill’s arm. Bill was wearing a matching Rolex and a black Hugo Boss suit. He was in his late fifties and without the stocking, he was a good-looking guy in an Alec Baldwin sort of way, though with more grey at his temples.

He strode over to one of our company’s top executives and shook his hand, then introduced his wife. She shook his hand, too, and smiled with her soft, warm mouth. I felt myself grow hard as the memories flooded back. Her standing on the balcony, moaning into the wind as we pounded into her from behind. I shivered.

‘She’s something, isn’t she?’

I turned to see Robert Tam smiling at me. ‘Bloody lovely,’ I said. ‘Who’s the guy?’

‘Bill Mayweather,’ he said. ‘He’s based in Dubai. Runs an investment fund for one of the sheiks. He’s on a percentage, and he’s worth millions. Do you want an introduction?’

‘You know him?’

‘Known him for years,’ said Robert. He sipped his champagne and smacked his lips. ‘We don’t do much business with him though. He has his favourites and it’s bloody difficult to get into his inner circle.’

‘I might be able to work some magic on him though,’ I said. I could feel my heart pounding. Handled the right way, the memory card that I’d taken from the Sandy Spring Hotel could be just the magic I’d need to persuade good old Bill to let me into his inner circle.

‘He’s immune,’ said Robert. ‘Always cuts a deal in his favour, takes no prisoners, that’s why the Arabs love him.’

I swirled my champagne around as I stared at Bill’s wife’s legs and her cute backside. I wanted to tell Robert what I’d done to her and what she’d done to me, but that was a secret best kept between me, her, and Bill. ‘I think I might have some leverage,’ I said.

‘Leverage?’ Robert chuckled. He gestured with his glass. ‘Bill’s wife, you mean?’

‘What?’ I turned to look at him, my mouth open.

‘Forget about it, everybody knows about her,’ said Robert.

‘They do?’

Robert nodded. ‘Everybody knows, but nobody says anything. It’s up to him, right? You make your own bed and you lie in it.’

I nodded, but my mind was whirling. How the hell did everyone know what had happened at the Sandy Spring Hotel? ‘I guess so,’ I said.

‘Beautiful. Sexy as hell.’

‘Thai,’ I said. ‘Thai-Chinese, probably.’

‘All the best ones are,’ he said, and I frowned, not understanding what he meant. He didn’t notice my confusion and carried on talking as he looked her up and down. ‘She used to work at Casanova’s, the bar in Nana Plaza,’he said. ‘One of the star turns, apparently.’

I almost choked. I knew the Casanova Bar. Knew of it, but had never been outside. The aggressive ladyboys with too much make-up and enormous silicon breasts meant that I tended to hurry by with my eyes averted. I’d never been a fan of ladyboys.

‘Bill met her about ten years ago, before she’d had anything done.

Basically, she was a guy with long hair back then.’ Robert chuckled and looked around to make sure that no one else could hear him. ‘He paid for the lot. Hormones for the skin, new breasts, plastic surgery on the face, collagen in the lips, and then finally…’ He made a snipping gesture with his right hand. ‘She had the chop. Or he had the chop. Had it done in Switzerland by one of the top surgeons in the world. Apparently it’s as good as the real thing, except for the old-lubrication problem.’

Lubrication? That’s right; that would explain the KY Jelly by the bed.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Robert, gripping my shoulder. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

‘Anyway, there’s no leverage there. Everybody knows. It’s the secret that everyone knows and no one mentions. You make your own choices in life, don’t you?’

I nodded. Yes, that’s absolutely what we do. We make choices and we live with them.

‘She’s fit though, isn’t she?’ I nodded. Yes, she was fit.

‘I’m not sure I could ever give her one, though,’ said Robert, slapping me on the back. ‘Not knowing that she used to be a guy. What about you?

Could you give her one?’

‘Nah,’ I said.‘Never happen.’

‘There are those that say no one screws like a ladyboy,’ said Robert, gripping my shoulder. ‘They say no one knows what a guy wants better than another guy. What do you think? Think that’s true?’

‘Nah, I like girls,’ I said, but I was finding it difficult to speak. My mouth had gone bone dry. I drained my glass, but my throat was still dry.

‘Don’t we all?’ said Robert. ‘Still, each to his own. If Bill’s happy, that’s all that matters. Whatever rocks your boat, right?’

‘Right.’ And with that, Robert slapped me on the back again and went over to talk to Bill and his wife.

So, that was that. Any thoughts of using the memory card as leverage against Bill went straight out of the window. I was confused, though. Damn confused. The only thing that I could think about just then was that the most intense sexual experience of my life had been in a room with eight other men.

And here’s the thing, the thing that worries me most: I didn’t care. I really didn’t care. The fact that Bill’s wife was a transsexual didn’t worry me one little bit. I still watched and rewatched the video. I still visited the Craigslist website hoping that Bill would arrange a rematch. I still relived that night in the Sandy Spring Hotel-every moment, every position, every orgasm.

I spent so much time daydreaming that my work went downhill and Robert had me in for a chat to say that unless things turned around, he’d have to let me go. I didn’t give him the chance. I applied for a job with a broker in Bangkok and got it. It was half the salary and no accommodation allowance, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted to be in Bangkok, just in case Bill’s wife ever wanted to relive the experience.

And that’s why I’m here, sitting in Business Class and drinking this very reasonable champagne, heading back to the Land Of Smiles. I’m sure that one day, sooner or later, Bill’s wife is going to want to do it again, and when she does, I want to be there. And if she doesn’t…well, maybe I’ll swing by Casanova’s and see what’s on offer there.

EXPEDITIONS IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE
Emilio, Philippines and Singapore

Years ago, I occasionally made trekking expeditions to Sabah in East Malaysia, a more intriguing state than those on the peninsula itself. These expeditions involved a few days’ walk in a wilderness, usually with a mountain to scramble up. At the end of such a trip, I found myself in Kota Kinabalu, staying in a more elaborate hotel than I normally bothered with.

Down in the basement, near the car-park area in the nethermost region of this grand establishment, was what was euphemistically termed a “health centre”.

I had not patronised such an establishment before and was not quite sure what to expect. The room was poorly lit, the effect intended obviously being a sombre tranquillity or, perhaps, seductive gloom. It contained a mattress and a washbasin and not much else. I undressed, except for my underpants, then lay down, as only seemed sensible. Eventually a smallish woman appeared; because of the dark, I couldn’t make out anything about her looks other than her size. In due course, as I grew more accustomed to the dim lighting and as we grew acquainted with each other, I came to discover she was a Filipina, working overseas like so many others.

This masseuse was a woman of around thirty with longish hair. It was difficult to judge her features because of the sombre ambiance, but her manner appeared stern, perhaps the consequence of reserve or shyness. Nonetheless, she gave my near-naked body a good hard look, especially the middle zone, and indicated that I should remove my underpants, which she presumably found more offensive than my genitalia. She then abruptly offered me coffee or tea. Thereafter, reluctantly emitting a few gruff pleasantries, she began to massage me, working a little indifferently with oil over most of my torso and limbs. Conversation was limited, partly because of mutual miscommunication and partly because the manner of this particular Filipina (her name, she reluctantly conceded, was Concepcion) was initially very serious, as if she were a doctor confronted with a terminal case. She did not seem very sure of either me or herself. Her voice sounded low, almost gravelly. I could hardly see her, even when I looked back over my shoulders, lying as I was in the typical massage position, face down on the mattress.

Concepcion set to work in a perfunctory manner, as if she were none too keen to touch human flesh. She avoided my shoulders, which happened to be sore and blistering from sunburn; not, as she told me afterwards, out of consideration for any pain I might have felt, but because she thought they might be infected. We talked a little about her life and family. She was divorced; divorced, moreover, with two youngish children who required a maid to look after them while she was at work. “Hundreds and hundreds a month,” she griped. Twisting my head over my shoulder, I could see her grimace. Concepcion leant forwards to judge my reaction to this disclosure.

Now I could see that she bore a slight scar at the corner of her mouth, as if she had been slashed by a knife. Perhaps reflecting on the injustices of the world, she lapsed into silence. Uncertain as to how matters would develop, I myself slipped into a doze.

I woke to feel a finger tracing a circle or two round my anus. A small, oily hand then moved forward a little to brush my testicles. Meeting with no opposition from me, the small hand began to knead them and then, increasingly emboldened, pushed further still to work on my male member, squeezing it more and more confidently as it responded and I lifted my body a little to accommodate this pleasant procedure. Suddenly it was clear to me that a new chapter was about to open in my sexual life, which had never proceeded in a smooth, unfolding manner but in fits and starts, like events in the quantum world, lurching randomly into sudden life and equally sudden annihilation.

Concepcion now seemed more urgent and interested. She suggested, though still nervously, that I might like something in addition to her halfhearted massaging of my back and shoulders. I turned to face her and asked what she had in mind. She made her offer of an extra, her special. This was to mouth my penis which, although it had originally met with her diffidence, was nonetheless erect. “But you must wear a condom,” she said, with the firmness of a primary-school teacher instructing a child. She then disappeared for what seemed a long time. Returning suddenly, she pointed to my trinity.

“You washed it just now?” she asked, pausing a moment. I nodded. Kneeling before me, she tried to unroll a condom onto the relevant part of my body, making a hash of the job. “Quick, you do it,” she said, giving me a small push with one hand while offering the rubber with the other.

I obliged and she started to work with her tongue. Abruptly changing her approach, she told me to lie down on my back, straddling me on all fours and swivelling her body around so that I was staring at her rear. She peered at me between her legs. “You do to me.”

“What?” I said.

“You…” She contorted her upside-down face, searching for the right word. We looked at each other for a few seconds, mutually non-plussed. She waggled her bottom and stuck out her tongue, making circular movements with her head. “Ah”, I said and focused on her backside, my nose level with her entry and exit points. Her anus, a few centimetres away, was pinkish-brown and puckered round the edge. It was neat and charming enough as far as anuses go, and apparently very clean, but I was not greatly attracted to the reciprocal tongue exercises she had proposed. “No,” I said. Peeking through her legs, her face registered an upside-down version of disappointment.

Anus-licking or something of that nature was apparently her particular domain, being relatively safe and uncomplicated.

I renegotiated for a more conventional mode of sexual expression, in which I could be more vigorously engaged.

The lady illustrated an extreme nervousness over actual intercourse: not repulsion or inhibition at the deed itself, but fear that someone would walk into the room which, following the perverse rule in these places, could not be locked. She was equally anxious that the business arrangement be carried out. “I haven’t done this before,” she announced breathlessly, meaning that she had never participated in full commercial sex. This surprised and slightly disconcerted me, as neither had I.

We embraced awkwardly in a standing position, but not without my somehow standing on one of her small feet. “Ouch,” said my partner, recoiling and then re-embracing. Almost immediately, she had a hasty afterthought and disappeared. She scurried across the room and put the cubicle’s pouffe against the door, first stuffing a towel underneath the door so that it would jam if anyone attempted to open it from the outside. This was a cautionary practice which I subsequently found to be near universal. She had obviously consulted her peers on this, even if she were feeling her way in a new field.

All this stumbling and bumbling did nothing to help me sustain my erection… My partner obliged by poking and pulling at my trinity until vigour was restored. She lay down on the mattress. “Quick,” she said again, hastily raising her short skirt and removing her knickers. We clumsily engaged after some more fumbling with limbs, clothes and organs. “Wait a minute,” she said suddenly, expelling me in a peremptory manner before wriggling away, “the sheet will be stained.” And indeed, the sheet was rucked up between us, part of our coital tangle.

She repositioned herself on the edge of the mattress so that the crucial zone was off the sheet and my lower limbs on the carpet. We started again.

Meanwhile, somebody was clunking something down the passageway and talking in a low voice; probably the cleaning lady dragging a vacuum cleaner.

“Oh,” she said, over my shoulder, “they’re coming in!” and ejected me once more. “No, its alright,” she said as the noise passed. “Quick, come back,” and she reinserted me.

We resumed our love-making which, despite her injunctions, was relatively prolonged. I had caught some of her nervousness and could not concentrate on the act. Also, my knees were getting sore from the friction from the carpet. “Can’t we use the mattress?” I asked. “Yes, but I am so worried,” said my partner. She pushed me away yet again and spread a towel, turning over to do so, and we re-engaged in that position. More indeterminate noises could be heard from outside the cubicle. Immediately, she squirmed and tried to say something about the door, but I held her tight despite her wriggling and, after some more confused communication, at long last consummation-at any rate, my consummation-was achieved.

“Phew,” Concepcion said, getting up immediately and looking relieved, as if she had delivered a speech at some important occasion, like a wedding or college speech day. She seemed quite glad that it was all over. She scuttled about, straightening the sheet and restoring her underwear and so forth. I laughed at her amateurishness. “If you find it all so terrifying, don’t do it.” She smiled at me happily. She was obviously relieved that I was not cross, considering the inelegance of our congress. “You should give me more because it was the first time”, she said, taking advantage of the good humour.

“You should be my boyfriend”, she went on, persisting gently and repeating herself, “I have two children. I have to employ a maid to look after them while I am working here”.

Concepcion then sat down next to me and began an unflattering examination of my body. “What’s that?” she said suspiciously, pointing to some blemish in my groin area. “And that,” she continued, looking critically at the sore patches on the inside of my knees, still stinging from the carpet.

“I didn’t want to touch your back,” she said candidly, “It doesn’t look nice.” Then, worried that she had offended me, she said, “Sorry, don’t mean that.

You’re not cross?” She peered at me intently, her face pushed close to mine to judge my expression in the gloom of the cubicle, like a cat hoping to wake its owner and be fed.

“Be my boyfriend.” She leant forward enticingly. “Be my boyfriend,” she wheedled again, pressing her body against mine. I leant back, but Concepcion moved further forward until she lay on top of me, her face still close to mine. She came off as much more confident with her clothes on. I found her urging appealing and instinctively wanted to protect her from her past mistakes and present predicament, but afterwards, my natural impulse to incorporate her into my life wore off. Her insistence might have indicated some stronger need for money for drugs than for her children. This thought made me wary of entering into a relationship because I was new to the guild of massage women like her and could not easily judge how stable or controlled they were. In any event, she lived in Sabah and I in Singapore, and my romantic urge to be involved with her soon faded in the pragmatic light of day outside the centre.

And so I entered into the world of the massage women-a twilight, windowless world, not of the extremes of eroticism but of the fumbling accommodation of desire with commerce… and sometime intimacy, however awkward and confused.