About Nude Not Naked

5 o’clock and the birds were still making happy noises, warmly tucked in their nests. There I sat, trying to help two French boys decide their supper meals while E was at the next table, chatting to some bar tenders from a place we used to frequent. Ain sat to my left, contented to allow me do the translation. Waiter spoke in Cantonese, I translated into English and the French boys translated into French (in their minds) before they understood the 5 a.m. menu.

“And who are the main stars?” I asked, pretending to be oblivious to the appareant answer.

E pointed to the two French fellows. The girls were not decided who was the more physically good looking of the two, so I shall differentiate them by height; one was taller than the other. Earlier on, the two boys told us that they were writers for the Lonely Planet Guidebook. Yeah. Right. And we were so born yesterday. The girls countered their stories with a more believable and perhaps rather frightening story. Even for boys.

We told the French boys that we (the girls) were actually a pornography production team. That is, we are producing The Bang Bus: Tourist Edition. Impromtu Ain said that she was the cameraperson. Being the rather inquisitive and vouyeristic person that I am, I said that I was the Art Director. E took on AB’s earliest job in his production team – the guy who held the bushy black mic and lightings.

“According to our latest demography, we have a demand for the man on man category and we hope that you would participate,” I tried to say it as smoothly as I could. “We will turn you into overnight superstars. Everyone will know you as you walk around China Town. In return, we will offer you an advancement of 50 DVDs, that you can sell to fellow travellers at RM8 each. Or give away as Christmas presents this year, whichever you fancied more.”

My readers, would you pay me a small sum of money to see how their blue eyes darted back and forth? Gorgeous curly brown lashes flickered every few seconds, speaking presumably in French body language as I said, "why would four girls ever ask tourists out for clubbing, if not to lure them into pornography?" E shook her head and pretended as if that was the most logic reason for inviting two strangers to join us four girls.

The conversation progressed to borderline idiocy and pornography, which was a clear indication that all of us were sleep deprived and it was time to go home. Ain was the first to be dropped off and then the two boys in their guesthouse. On the previous nights, Ain and her friend, LT were dorm mates with the two French boys until the four of them got kicked out of the first guesthouse for violating the curfew time of 2 a.m. Which traveller goes home at 2 a.m.? I know none.

The sight was precious on Sunday night. I had spotted Ain walking towards our table 100 meters away. On each of her side was a good looking man. Our table of four girls and two French boys were merrily drinking and by midnight, had decided to head to Lola, where we continued where we left off. Ten bottles of beers shared between the three girls while I gulped three Vodka Ribena-s later, we were all wriggling away smoothly. The two French dudes were standing and people watching.

E spotted another table of girls and boys and had decided that they made better conversation buddies than the two French boys. They were quite easy to spot since they were sat two tables away from us at the previous bar and by 1 a.m. were immediately next to us in Lola. Being the great PR person that she is, she was within their circle and mingling away. Soon one of their friends were slurring all over Ain and her girl friend, LT. The guy was keying into his keypad LT's Indonesian mobile number and although LT gave her correct number, he keyed them wrongly. He was too drunk to even notice.

And what was Little Miss Otto doing? E introduced me to this adorable looking boy in the group, the one who was looking at me each time I glanced to look at him. She insisted that she made a splendid wing woman and that I need not thank her for her fabulous services.


***
“Look at the time,” I said. The clock showed 5:30 a.m. “This time yesterday, you were thrown out of the guesthouse because some crazy chicks kidnapped you to Lola. Do you fucking regret it?”

“No man, it was the most fantastic experience,” the taller one said in English with a slight French accent.

I stopped the car in front of their guesthouse. The two sat quietly behind and the car was silent for the first time. E then proceeded to break the silence and said, “Well boys! Good night!” The boys were still sat in the car. I looked at E and smiled. I got out of the car, telling them to come for a hug. Gave them a good squeeze and sent them packing back to the 2nd guesthouse, where they had a set of keys to enter, thus avoiding what happened on the previous night.

The blue car then zoomed off at great speed. I don’t think E looked at them through the mirror. Neither did I, come to think of it. We then chatted some other stuff, which I cannot remember 4 hours later as I write this to you. What I do remember was telling E a short piece of conversation I had with the taller French guy earlier that night.

What kicked off as a bet between the taller French boy and I was this other man sitting at our table earlier. I had met him before and was adamant that he was Italian while the French boy claimed that he was Finnish. After a firm handshake to formalise our bet that had no prize, the French boy said, “Good night, my Finnish friend” and the guy nodded and returned the greeting. Not satisfied, I asked some other friends and they confirmed that the man that was about to leave us was Finnish.

“So what do I get now that I had won the bet?” the taller French boy said with a smirk.

“Supper. I would buy you supper. You can order 3 plates of noodles and 10 milk teas to last you till lunchtime.”

He laughed then brushed his fingers through his floppy mop of brown hair. For the first time, I looked intently into his eyes and saw that they were blue. Not ice blue like the Scandinavians but blue nonetheless. He still had that victorious smirk across his face.

“Oh no, I don’t want supper. I know what I want.” He then paused before continuing, “I want a massage.”

That cheeky little bastard, I though to myself. MiniBoyFriend R had told me a long time ago that when a woman offers to give him a massage, it often meant that he had to make a dash to the bathroom because it spelt an invitation for sex. Now, of course I know that is not true for all occasions but that smirk, ah I think I know that smirk.

“I’ll treat you to supper.” Best response to unwanted statements. Ignore and pretend to be stupid. After I repeated that sentence a few times, he relented and said, “And what would you like for dessert?” He still had that smirk. Swift as a bird I replied, “There aren’t desserts after supper.” Somehow I drifted into another conversation with another person and our bet conversation was over. But I had noticed that he stood next to his shorter companion for quite some time then after. Talking. Whispering. Smirk on his face for some time. The shorter guy licked and rolled a joint, his eyes intently in our direction, listening to his partner's story.

E and I sat in the car for the next half hour talking about the night after we had sent the boys and Ain back to their respective guesthouses. I related to her how this other girl at our international table of drinkers came over to tell me that her friend (whom she referred to as “a very handsome Malay friend of my boyfriend”) said that I was adorable looking and that he had sent his regards. Yes, just what I need. Another 19 year old boy sending me his regards. I had similar regards sent the previous nights and I am doubtful that I should be glimmering with happiness that some teenage punk kid found me attractive.

“How many girls do you know can string boys, GOOD LOOKING boys along with them every weekend?” I said.

E laughed, which symbolized that it would make everything feel better. But it did not feel better. I loved going out and having so much fun. Every night was addictive and empowering. Each look, each touch, each and every word was stimulating and intoxicating. Whenever someone asked with whom I was with, I would tease that it was a boy at every postcode. I no longer find the statement amusing these days. Perhaps it is time for me to move on to perhaps just one boy at one postcode.

“It was fun while it lasted but we seriously cannot do this forever," I said.

E smiled and flicked her ciggie out of the car.

"Oh yes we can."