Back at the hotel, while waiting, I recall my 1 am stroll two nights earlier from J.W. Marriott Hotel, southward along BB Walk and ending near Royale Bintang Hotel. Partway, a man – either a Myanmar national or Vietnamese – approaches me and hands me a card which I read using the light of my mobile phone. It contains the contact number of a social escort service and the prices.
My hail-fellow-well-met demeanour goes down well with the tout. He gives me answers to several questions in accented English. More interesting than the escorts is his work: his distribution quota is 300 cards every night, and he earns RM30 per night. Two co-workers station themselves in other areas. They work from 9 pm until all cards are distributed selectively. Their cards bear different cell phone numbers so that each tout’s ‘sales performance’ can be monitored. Every tout gets an additional RM5 for procuring a client. ‘My boss carries five handphones,’ he says. ‘Two numbers for two different websites. Three different numbers for us. Like this, he knows where business is coming from.’
A short distance ahead, another tout, a local Chinese, upon seeing me, crosses the road from the other side and accosts me with a blunt offer: ‘Looking for girls? I got China girls, Vietnam girls, Thai girls, Indonesian girls.’ Smiling, I ignore him.
Before reaching my destination, I pass a taxi rank and a lone driver, leaning against the bonnet of his vehicle, asks in Cantonese dialect: ‘Boss, looking for lang looi (mean beautiful girls)?’
‘No need, I’ve got beautiful wife,’ I reply in Cantonese.
The taxi driver chortles, glances around for other prospects.
The doorbell rings, dissolving my flashback. I open it and my eyes fall on two girls outside. Charles gets up to greet the visitors. A cloud of wonderful intractable hair frames the face of the taller girl – obviously she’s the VIP model. ‘Hello, I’m Candy.’ Her bangs partially conceal a high forehead; her lips are as red as cherries, her skin as creamy as milk. She is wearing a dark, skin-tight, halter-neck dress with a gold choker around her neck, and black stiletto heels support her five foot seven frame.
‘Come in, please. I’m your client,’ Charles says.
Candy puts her Yves Saint Laurent purse on the coffee table, and sinks down gracefully on a velvety chair. Charles sits on another chair and starts small talk.
The second girl, garbed in a beige strapless dress with a bow tie in front, leans up against the doorjamb, folding her arms underneath her breasts. Her eyes meet mine with a smile. ‘So, that makes you my client.’
‘That’s right.’ She certainly exudes self-confidence.
She tucks a few strands of wayward hair behind her ear. ‘Call me Jeannie.’ She strides past me with dainty steps on high heels and I close the door behind her. ‘My boss said you want a talkative woman. What’d you like to do?’ Her hair has been cut to fashionably unequal lengths, creating a layered look, and the parting zig-zags across her scalp. The style suits her oval face and high cheekbones.
‘Yes. I’ve a special requirement. Tell me your experiences, your opinions. I want to write about them. Deal?’
‘You’re a newspaper reporter?’ Her mesmerising eyes – rimmed with sea-green eyeliner and flaunting blue eyelids – level with mine. Since she’s wearing four-inch heels, we are about the same height.
‘Writer, yes – reporter, no.’ I show her my name card. ‘I’m writing a book.’
She turns the matte-finished name card over in her hand and looks at it. ‘One condition – no recording. I don’t want my sexy voice to be recorded.’ The tone of her voice reminds me of my discipline teacher in school.
‘Agreed. I’ll take notes.’
‘It’s rare I get booked just for chatting.’ She smiles, displaying pearly teeth with a small gap between her central incisors. ‘Okay, payment first.’
‘Here’re some chocolates for you,’ I say, passing a glossy box to her with the cash.
‘Thanks.’ She receives them with both hands. ‘I love chocolates.’ Her peach nail varnish complements her fair complexion and subtle pink lipstick.
Not to be outdone, Charles picks up his bottle of perfume on the dressing table and gives it to Candy. She opens the box and a crystal bottle makes her eyes sparkle. ‘Oh... you shouldn’t have. Thank you so much.’
‘Come, let’s leave them alone.’ I say to Jeannie. ‘We’re going to the Western restaurant on the first floor.’ I turn to Charles. ‘Join us if you have time, okay? The food’s excellent.’
Jeannie and I seat ourselves in a corner far away from other occupied tables to avoid eavesdropping. She flips the pages of the menu and signals to the waiter. When he reaches our table, she says, ‘Get me the French onion soup, poached salmon and starfruit juice.’
‘Steamed mussels, sirloin steak – rare – hot Darjeeling tea.’ The waiter writes on his pad, ogles briefly at Jeannie’s décolletage and goes away.
Our starters and drinks arrive in a jiffy. We place the napkins on our laps and start to eat. The waiting staff is standing far from our table.
‘How long have you been escorting?’ My tone is hushed. ‘Do you do it full-time?’ I detach a mussel from its shell with a fork and slurp it down.
‘Five years. I’m not full-time.’ She drinks a spoonful of soup, and shakes some pepper into it. ‘I’ve a day job.’
‘Why did you enter this industry?’ I attack the mussels like a starved monkey devouring a comb of bananas.
‘I come from a well-off family, actually. My mother’s the second wife of a businessman. When I was young, I had everything I wanted. But we had bad luck, and a recession hit my father real hard. His business went into the red. Worse, he developed cancer and died soon after that. As a result, I attended a local university. Actually, I’d planned to go overseas. My uncle helped to finance my studies. I had to lower my standard of living. Take the bus. Buy clothes from the night market. I wasn’t used to that lifestyle. Then I got a job after graduation. Didn’t pay much.’ She dunks a piece of bread into her soup and tears off a morsel. ‘After breaking it off with my boyfriend – he was my colleague – I decided to be an escort. I was no longer a virgin, so what more could I lose? I was lonely, I was confused, and I wanted a luxurious life. Daffodil’s my second agency. The first closed because the partnership fell apart. One partner cheated the other, and secretly pocketed proceeds from certain clients.’
I scribble quickly in my notebook. ‘What’s the best part of your work?’
‘The easy money. What I make in ten hours is equivalent to my monthly salary. During the Formula 1 Grand Prix every year, I get lots of bookings from foreigners. They parade me in front of their friends like I’m their mistress. But I hate Sepang. It’s so hot and my make-up always comes off. Now, I wear oil-free products so that they stay put. At night, we go dancing, drinking, shopping. Some buy me clothes, shoes and watches. I’ve got eight watches.’ She raises an arm to show me her Piaget wristwatch. ‘Last month, a client gave this to me.’
‘What type of man is your typical client?’
‘Six out of ten are married. They’re nice people. Nice to old ladies, nice to animals, nice to their mothers. It’s hard to imagine that they cheat on their wives. Many are in their thirties and forties. Others are bachelors; some even have girlfriends. Daffodil’s upmarket, so my clients are mostly executives, professionals and businessmen. Generally, they’re polite and generous.’
‘Any bad experiences?’ I dab at my lips with a handkerchief from my shirt pocket.
‘There’ve been a couple of scary experiences. A foreigner booked me overnight. At first, he was polite, then we went to a pub, he started drinking. When we came back to his hotel room, he was drunk. He asked for anal sex but I told him “no”. He said he would pay me extra. I was firm and told him I don’t perform this sort of thing. But he couldn’t take “no” for an answer. He grabbed me. Tried to pin me face down. I struggled and rolled away. I snatched my clothes and handbag and ran to the bathroom. I locked the door, put on my clothes and called my agency. That bastard kicked the door several times and shouted obscenities. I became so afraid I broke down and cried. My agency phoned the reception, and they sent a security guard up. When the guy answered the door, I ran out of the bathroom. I was barefoot and crying. The driver was waiting at the hotel entrance.
‘Another horrid client was from Penang. He comes to Kuala Lumpur regularly. Halfway during sex, he discreetly removed his condom. He wanted to ejaculate into me. Lucky, I realized it and stopped the love-making. He was a disgusting pretender, and claimed it had slipped off. Even tried to blame me instead. After the booking, I told my boss about the incident. I also asked him to warn the other girls should this guy book any of them.’
Daffodil Escort Services at your disposal and operates 24 hours, 7 days a week. We have Local Malaysian, China, Thailand, Indonesia, Philippines & Vietnam Girls and Escort Models! We can help you find the best girls.
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Address: 51-A, Changkat Road Bukit Bintang, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia