We went on a long trip, and at the end of the trip we were in Singapore. We stayed at a four-star hotel called the Orchard, which unbeknownst to us (or maybe my husband knew and didn't tell me...) was right beside a building known for its bars and nightclubs catering to visiting businessmen and ex-pats (we discovered that the popular name for it was "four floors of whores" because it was four floors of nightclubs and bars catering to the sex trade...). There were, in other words, hundreds of young bar girls surrounding us, mostly Thai and Malay, dressed in short skirts and high heels, along with high class escorts who looked Vietnamese and Chinese, dressed in expensive brand name clothes.
My husband didn't seem interested in hiring one of the girls--he was convinced that they were all were carrying some sexually transmittable disease of some sort--but I'm sure seeing them all the time must have made him horny (I have to admit that being surrounded by such wanton sexuality, all for hire, intrigued me...). We talked about what we thought was going on next door and in the rooms surrounding us (the walls seemed thicker than most hotels and so we actually didn't hear any sex, but seeing the slutty girls coming and going down the hallways late at night, I'm sure there was plenty of activity.)
We had a beautiful hotel room, with a view window from the bed of the shower (!) and bathroom, which my hubby speculated must come into constant use as a view port for the visiting businessmen to watch the call girls bathe. I had a little fantasy in my head our first night, pretending in my mind to be a bar girl, but even as I fucked him, riding his thrusting cock, it ended up being pretty tame. I was still horny after we both came, and despite my desire for him to abuse me somehow, to treat my like a slut, I saw his eyes get the sleepy look that hits him after he has an orgasm. I quietly fingered myself to another orgasm after he fell asleep, fantasizing about what it would be like to be picked up in one of the bars next door, and I eventually dozed off with scenarios fluttering through my mind.
When my husband was out at a meeting the next afternoon, I dressed up in my slut wear (fuck-me heels, mini-skirt, halter top...) and went next door to check out the night clubs. I got a lot of evil stares from the working girls, who I'm sure were checking me out as competition and as an interloper. Some of the pimps looked at me as well, and I felt a little fear, but decided that I would be okay as long as I stayed alert. I picked one bar called "Peyton Place" which was incongruously named, since it didn't really suggest the salacious activities that were going on inside. The bar was crowded (it was a Friday in the early evening) and full of Thai bar girls waiting to be picked up. They all had long black hair, and were tiny--most below five feet tall, and so I towered over them. Some drunken Aussies were lumbering about shouting rugby songs, each of them with a little Asian prostitute on their arm. Everywhere the girls were dwarfed by their loud sweating johns.
I leaned against the bar and started to imagine myself into the role--what was it like to be a working girl here? Were they making money for families back home? Single mothers sacrificing for their children? Or did they just like having spending money for Prada bags and designer outfits? I had seen a number of these young whores walking in the expensive malls on Orchard road with older white men, hands clutching the handles of shopping bags. Were they rented by the day, by the week? Was shopping one of the perks of being a high end escort? I doubted that the girls in this bar were taken shopping--they seemed like one-night stand material. Many of them were soft, with belly fat oozing over their low-cut skirts. They wore make-up like a stereotype of cheap whores. They were also darker skinned than the high class escorts we had seen walking in the hallways of our hotel, and I realized I probably looked and was dressed in a way that made me look more like them than the girls in this bar. I must have stood out somehow, literally because of my height, but also perhaps because I was light skinned and half-Asian, exotic looking amidst their dark complexions.
I hadn't been in the bar long enough for my eyes to adjust to the dark when a middle aged man in a suit and tie came up to me and asked if he could buy me a drink. I smiled and said "why not?" and ordered a rum and Coke. He ordered the same, and asked the waitress (who I had to admit was quite pretty--I found her sexy, not quite as young as the girls stocking the bar, and more fully chested, but with an alluring face, quick eyes and sharp smile--I wished that I could come back later and perhaps hire her for a private visit to our hotel room...) to make both drinks doubles. He was handsome, not much taller than me and thin, but with a gentle smile. I asked him whether he was trying to get me drunk, and he replied that he hoped that there were other ways to "take advantage of me." I laughed and played coy. We chatted over the drink, talking through another three. He worked for a multinational, and was here for a week of meetings. I couldn't quite place his accent, it wasn't American, but wasn't as strong as a British or Australian accent. He was obviously intellligent and quick witted, and I could tell that he was increasingly excited that I was able to match him conversationally. Outwardly he was confident and relaxed, but I knew from years of experience with men that I was controlling the conversation, almost teasing what was apparent to me as his eagerness to find some personal connection as we conversed.
I told him that I was visiting Singapore as well "for work," and left it vague. After chatting for almost an hour, I felt like he was a little boy on a leash, even though I'm sure from his point of view he was initiating things. I could tell that he was increasingly eager to move the conversation to a more transparent level of negotiation, but took my hint to keep our exchange on the level of sexual innuendo and suggestive comments. I hadn't eaten since lunch, and so after the fourth rum and Coke I was beginning to laugh easily and I recognized myself losing my inhibitions, becoming increasingly crude in my joking, and finally he asked me flat out what it would take for me to go up to his hotel room.
I told him I didn't come cheap, and that I wasn't sure he could afford me. He laughed and said he was willing to find out. He paid for the drinks and we walked out of the bar. It turned out that he was staying at the same hotel that we were, except on one of the executive club floors. When we got to his room, I told him that I wasn't available for "everything" tonight, and that there was a "limited menu" for him to choose from. Even though I was feeling a buzz from the alcohol, I was nervous and there was a tinge of very real fear, especially as we entered his room. He wasn't that much larger than me, and he seemed very gentle, but as much as I felt in control of our interaction so far, I knew that once in his hotel room his demeanor might change. To make sure he knew that someone else knew where I was, I pretended to dial my cel phone and talked into the phone as if I was reporting what room and hotel I was in, saying that I would check in again after the "usual time."
I made sure that I stayed between him and the door as we spoke, and I was alert in case his tone changed, especially if he became disappointed with the fact that I wasn't available for "fucking." But he seemed quite happy with a limited set of services, and asked my prices. I said casually that he had the option of a handjob for $250 Singapore dollars, a blowjob for $500, or he could have both and the chance to lick my cunt and ass for $1000. I knew that these prices were outrageous for the local market (having looked up on the internet what the going rates were), but he actually seemed happier after he heard my prices, as if he had been validated in choosing a more valuable, and therefore more desirable, brand of handbag. I felt the thrill of playing a whore (which I knew was very different than what it must be like to have to do this every night in order to live...), and imagined the look that would be on my husband's face as I described every detail of this to him later.
I waited as the man (I realized I still didn't know his name, nor had he asked mine...) contemplated his choices, and finally he pulled out his wallet and pulled out ten $100 bills. I saw that he had come prepared, and that there must have been at least another four or five thousand dollars in his wallet. On impulse, I said, "I'll consider special requests, but they'll cost much more." He brightened up at this, and looking straight into my eyes, said that he would like me to give him a blowjob, but if I would consider doing it as a "girlfriend experience."
I had heard this phrase before, and knew that it involved the illusion of intimacy rather than just the buying of sex, and in actual practice meant going bareback without a condom, and the crossing of the no-kissing boundary practiced by many prostitutes. I thought about whether he had any STD's, and decided that it wasn't worth the risk. But just as I was about to tell him no, he anticipated my concern and said that he had just been tested for life insurance and given a clean bill of health, no HIV or any STD's, and to my surprise he pulled out a medical report from his brief case. He said that he had been fantasizing about this moment and had brought the life insurance file just in case he met someone on this trip that he wanted to be truly intimate with, but that he hadn't really been expecting it to actually work out. He explained that as soon as he saw me in the bar he realized that I was different from the other girls, whom he had no desire to be with--he would never make this request of them, but he knew that I was different, that he could "trust" that I was clean if I told him I was.
Strangely enough, as he shifted the conversation towards his own perspective of weighing the risks of contracting a STD from a prostitute, it changed my outlook on my risks with him. I looked at his medical report, still wary, but as he showed me his passport and how the names matched, I realized that I actually believed him. All of his medical history was laid out before me, and I began to think that it was like seeing an x-ray of his life, at least in terms of his physical body. There was an old injury sustained playing football, medication to control high blood pressure, a broken finger suffered playing volleyball. And on the fifth or sixth page of test results, a short list with "negative" checked one after another: "HIV," "Syphillis," "Gonorrhea" and "Hepatitus" both A and B. If this was an elaborate forgery or fake, then he had taken a great deal of trouble to execute it.
