Sarong Party Girls by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

payoff, after all. As tough as those days were, you know what those aunties always say—­better to know hardships early in life, otherwise later when you have a good life, you won’t appreciate it.
    Later on, once Seng finished army, we all had a bit more money, but he and I would still go to the kopitiam sometimes. Drinks at clubs were expensive after all—­so if you sit in a kopitiam first, drink four or five Anchors, get mabuk already then that’s the time to go clubbing. When you get to the club already high, you don’t need to spend so much on drinks there. Seng even hung out with us girls sometimes back then, but we hadn’t invited him in a long time. If you want to meet ang moh guys, if you bring a Singaporean guy along—­aiyoh—­you might as well just give up before going out. (Louis is different. A rich guy buying bottles for everyone—­who doesn’t want to hang out with him? Even ang moh guys also like him.)
    Seng also taught me to smoke back then—­he said it would make me look sexy. The last time I smoked with him, he was trying to teach me how to do this stylo move, pushing smoke out through his nostrils like a dragon. But no matter how many times I tried, until my nose was fucking pain, almost want to nosebleed, I also couldn’t do it. This skill—­Seng knows he is champion, and he was doing it now. My head that morning was so painful, however, I just sat there and watched him make those long dragon smoke puffs. Everything was quiet. I had nothing to say.
    Earlier this morning—­my god. I was still trying to not think about it.
    â€œYou hungover lah,” Seng said, taking one sip of his kopi that was so big that almost half the cup disappeared. I never understood how that guy can drink so fast. Kopi, whiskey, all the same. One sip, two sips—­time for a refill already.
    I didn’t want to respond to his cock comment. Usually better not to encourage him. If I answer one question, I will have to answer ten more. “This kind of obvious thing,” I just said, “no need to say lah. Waste saliva only.” Seng just put out his ciggie and pointed one more time at the kopi uncle, who immediately stood up, pulled up his pajama pants and shuffled over to make more kopi.
    â€œGuniang, you last night didn’t vomit is it?” he said, shaking his head. I didn’t move, hoping that if I didn’t say anything he would just shut up. “You ownself ask for it,” he said, lighting another ciggie. I could see him looking at me—­at first I thought maybe he’s pitying me or some shit but actually, it was quite funny. The fucker looked like he was concerned. Must be my lucky day.
    â€œYou should know this what,” he continued, “if you are going to get that mabuk, then must make yourself throw up before sleeping. Otherwise, if you get hungover until like this, what’s the point of drinking?”
    It’s true lah. Right then, I was thinking, what is the point? That morning—­aiyoh. That morning. At first, when we left Attica, I planned to just go that guy’s place, finish already then make some quick excuse and go home. But then, my god, guniang here was so tired and mabuk I just fell asleep! Not to say that the guy was that good—­but luckily he was quick. So even though he was also quite mabuk it was almost literally like, garabing garabung then everything over already. If he didn’t shout one time when he came, I probably wouldn’t even know that anything happened. When he suddenly said “GOD!” guniang was actually lying there, still slowly adjusting my hair on the pillow and all, wondering whether I should try and turn over so I wouldn’t have to see his nose, which, once we got outside of Attica and I could actually see his face, I realized was not only big but also hairy as fuck. Kani nah, next time I go to Strip I’d better ask