In June of 2016, I found myself in Kuala Lumper on a Thursday morning. I don’t say “found myself” as a stand-in, uninspired loss of metaphor to start a narrative. I’d been in Bangkok the day before and, blasted out of my skull, had booked a flight to KL for the morning and apparently had the lunatic, alcoholic wherewithal to set an alarm and summon a cab to deliver me to the airport and take the flight. As best I can recall, I’d elected to flee Thailand because an Ozzie mate I was with at some Dwarven plastic table outside a shabby Rambutri beer joint had invited this American girl to sit with us and she’d gone on at length about Thailand healing her psyche and making her a better person while I watched middle-aged dentists from Ohio attempt to woo lady-boys in the streets. At some point, it seems I stood up and declared loudly that I needed to put a militarized border between myself and the recently enlightened. Then like a shitty, wetwork SkyNet, I became self aware in the lobby of a boxy hotel in the Chinese district of KL as I contemplated the mechanics of the pen I was holding to sign a credit card receipt. Arriving in my room, the interior of my skull buzzed like an unserviced fluorescent light installation in a middle school hallway. I checked my dop kit and was relieved to find the Valium I’d picked up in Siem Reap. I took two and slept off the day like a worthless asshole.
I awoke around 6:00 in the evening. Apprising the situation, I took a Tiger beer from the mini bar and sat down in a hot shower. After 20 minutes and a second Tiger beer, I felt a second wind. I inspected my potential wardrobe. Damp board shorts and foul, reeking tshirts +1 humid, irredeemable button down. I checked Maps and discovered a mall a few blocks from my location. I strolled down and procured a pair of khaki chinos and a white button down. As my options for foot gear were muddy hiking boots or some hanging-by-a-thread flops from BKK, I also acquired a cheeky pair of J Crew boat shoes I felt ridiculous buying. I regrouped in the hotel room and set about contemplating business about 7:30 pm.
I felt the crushing weight of the 10 day Doomsday Clock winding down to my impending, inescapable return to the pageantry of civility. I’d spent two months in Western Nepal retracing the footsteps of Peter Matthiessen’s Snow Leopard trek. The vibrant frames of Dolpo villages suspended atop cataclysmic valleys, like arrested landslides, hung in the foreground of my working mind. I starred idly out the window at the lights of KL. Then, regaining my dog sense and appetite, I Googled ‘pubs kuala lumper.’ After a quick flick of scrolling, I settled on an establishment called the Estate that, according to Maps, was located in the basement of the Intermark Mall and Hotel Plaza. I pocketed the info and hailed a cab. My hopes were not set high, rather just middling above the horizon for steak and potatoes accompanied by beer darker than my piss.
Arriving at the Intermark, I realized I’d made inaccurate assumptions about its size and internal complexity. Its hotel tower climbed well into the low slung cloud cover. And the ‘basement’ of its centerpiece turned out to be three, sprawling interior floors of shiny, buy-me nonsense. The entire complex wore the thin, universal and unmistakable veneer of oil money that sets everything in the soft light of a 90s sitcom. Owing to its uniquely fucked colonial history, Malaysia comprises an odd mix of ethnicities. About 60% of the population are Bumiputera Malays. Three quarters of the remaining 40% are ethnic Chinese who’ve had a trading presence in the region antedating my own country’s independence. The final 10% is principally constituted by Malaysian Indians who’ve been in the mix for several generations.
I wandered floors of this mostly shuttered, shilling testament to the slick wheelings and dealings of the late Ahmad Shah of Pahang. As I was about to say ‘uncle’ and return to my hotel district and swill beer and noodles in a street stall, an elderly, Indian man in the glossy red uniform of the Intermark approached me and kindly asked me if I needed assistance. I’ve spent time in Northern India and have some business there. I do not speak Hindi but I can conduct basic pleasantries in it. Thinking it might surprise him, I responded “Mere dost, mujhe ek pab kee talaash hai. ise estet kaha jaata hai.” He grinned and shook my hand. Then he made the universal ‘follow me’ gesture with the crooking of an index finger and set off down a hall I’d previously dismissed. We arrived at a coffee shop, clearly closed for the day. As I was assembling a rephrasing of my original question, my new found guide approached a back wall of the seating area and gripped one of its ribbed, flexing structures. The wall piece moved and disclosed a door frame beyond which progressed a hallway of purple, plush carpet on three sides beneath a dark wood ceiling. In an ad hoc creole of English and bad Hindi, I tried to ask my new friend is this was the entrance to the “Estate” pub I’d found on Google. I failed to communicate my question and as my new friend continued to gesture invitingly at the hallway, I surrendered to the evening and went in.
At ten meters, the hallway made a sharp right. In the left corner stood a medieval, European suit of armor with an angular cornished visor. At the next juncture, the hallway opened to a larger, back lit, space of stained wood panel, plush, and marble. The bar was to the left. To the right were a few nooks of cushions and a snooker table. There were six stools at the bar and one was empty. I sat down and was promptly greeted by a bald Englishman in the middle of his thirties. I asked for two fingers of Jameson while I took in the rest of my surroundings. I occupied the left most bar stool and to my immediate right sat a dark haired man of comparable age engaged in conversation with two women to his right. He made a joke I couldn’t hear and, amused with himself, turned and slapped my knee in exuberance. Attempting to account for this odd overture, he said something to me about the inscrutability of women. I chuckled. I took his Lebanese accent and responded with an old red line joke about Beirut. The woman adjacent him moved her bar stool and positioned us in a tight square. We exchanged the accustomed banter of expat hierophants of tech, law, and finance. All three worked in some capacity for Petronas and its mid 20-teens acquisition of former Soviet, and currently Sudanese war crime funded, assets.
The two women made radically different first impressions. To my right was a Cantonese woman in her incalculable mid thirties in a vaguely pinstriped pant suit. She gave me the impression of both active and inherited wealth. She did not seem pleased by my addition to the conversation. To my left was an English woman (made by accent) in a tight skirt of business gray and a tighter white blouse restrictively containing what I imagined to be an amazing rack. Her brown hair was pony-tailed and she used glasses to read to texts. She was older than me (35 at the time) by a few years but had the body of woman who’d been hot by nature in her youth and had worked to maintain that quality since. Conversation revealed that she was in the legal finance mix for some ongoing Petronas-Hong Kong development deal. I was definitely fielding above my pedigree but I decided to play my hand to the river out of curiosity. Some scotch drunk attache from the UK embassy stumbled into our mix and instigated a pool game. I played my part. I’m neither remarkably good or bad at snooker. As we were handed a second round of whiskey by Foreign Service fuckwit, English lawyer woman excused herself to the WC.
When she returned, she discretely passed a folded cocktail napkin into my free left hand as I leaned against the corner of the pool nook listening to embassy attache twat prattle on about himself. She moved on to excuse herself from the rest of the company. I took to the head and read the cocktail nap. It said: “Wait 30 minutes. My name is [xxx] and I’m in room 643.” I timed it down. I slugged my whiskey, said my adieus, paid my tab, redoubled the weird purple hallway, ascended the escalator, and set off for the concierge desk of the ridiculously titled Double Tree by Hilton hotel. A smiling, young Indian woman told me a hotel employee would escort me to the client’s room to see if she would receive a visitor. A starch buttoned lad named Sanjay heeled me to the elevator and punched the numbers. As we ascended, I tried to imagine how I would stand in different scenarios: on my way to my own room, on my way to deliver a hit, delivering a pizza. Sanjay seemed unamused with me.
The elevator chimed and we hit the floor and stepped out in tandem. Sanjay rapt nautically upon the door and English lawyer woman answered in a bathrobe. Inside the room, she indicated the location of a decanter of brandy and glassware. I poured myself a snort and approached her as she sat, left leg over the other, on the corner of the bed. She gave me a smug look and told me to drek the brandy and lose my clothes. I came back from the bathroom naked. She shucked her bathrobe and worked my dick over with her mouth a few minutes. Then she stood up, took her purse off the mantle, and produced a condom that she proceeded to apply to my dick again with her mouth and quite inawkwardly. We played with each other a bit as we reclined on the bed and then she pushed me back on got on top. We can debate the active or reflexive nature of the English verb ‘to fuck.’ Nevertheless she fucked me quite unequivocally. I tried to intuit her rhythm and play my part but she knew exactly what she needed and used my body for it. I’d never felt more used nor enjoyed it more. When she worked off her third, in ascending order of intensity, climax, she rolled off me. As I sucked O2 out of the room, she sidled up and said: “I’ll make you a deal. I’m too sensitive right now to be fucked anymore but if you want to take off that condom and cum on my tits or in my mouth, we’d be square.” I straddled her and spent a few minutes rubbing the head of my dick across one of her nipples. I put about half my dick in her mouth and proceeded to stroke the base. She gripped my upper thigh as I came, flexing forward against the headboard. I rolled onto my side and she moved with me. A few minutes later she got up and filled two highballs with brandy. We drank the brandy on the balcony while sharing a cigarette she produced from her purse.
And then she curtly kicked me out under pretext of having an early flight. I took her card and left by cab. Outside my hotel, I bought some noodles with garlic and squid from an elderly woman with a cart and sat at a tiny plastic table with two bottles of Chang. I never saw her again but I did look her up on Linkedin. She inhabits a world I may chance to visit a few times in my humble, fleeting trajectory on the surface of this spinning, hot rock in space. I doubt I’ll see her again but a month later, I received a 3:00 am text disclosing her room number in Hong Kong
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/l79acp/mf_fucking_in_the_1_for_a_night
Damn! 60 + 40 + 10 adds up to 110% of the population though.