The Macau Story - Lisboa

If there is a word to summarize Macau adequately, then that word is Commercialization. From overpriced fast food joints to the casino jungles to the great polarization of income disparity. And like all cities, created and sustained largely on the tourist dollar, they commercialize the single most important commodity,

Sex.

There really isn’t much to do in Macau except to gamble – and people say Singapore is boring. Yes, you can do dumb stuff like bungee off the Macau tower, but you are in the Sin city, do you really want to die jumping off a building without so much as getting a handjob on the way down?

It’s because travelling all the way there just for that, or sightseeing for that matter is like wanking yourself off in an orgy. There is a time and place to be adventurous, Macau isn’t one of them, unless you are cart-wheeling naked through the casino.

I don’t know much about the sex scene there to properly write a credible thesis, but from what I’ve seen, if you look like a domestic helper from Philippines or Thailand, then you are highly desired there. I’m not even joking because we saw a whole load of them and I thought the place was a maid agency.

The only thing that distinguished them as working girls, were the translucent blouses and prominent number tag display. And they need it, because the moment they so much as a have broom in hand, you will be asking her to clear your table and bring you coffee with your newspapers.

That said, I must advise Lisboa as a destination for all, even if you don’t have a penis, because if Macau ever had to promote tourism, this is one place they should be promoting.

When we first arrived, no one told us anything about the place, no historical brief or a pre-emptive wink that we were approaching the greatest spectacle of all Macau. All we knew was that it is a hotel and there is a casino, which makes it like 90% of every other building in Macau.

2 minutes into the building, I corrected my verdict that Macau lacked beautiful women, because here I was at a basement and there were hordes of women in powersuits walking pass me, and I thought,

“Wow, people in Macau work really late.”

Then couple seconds in, it became, “Wow, I would really love to work in an office here.” Suddenly, I sensed something amiss. By the general rule of thumb, when a place is filled with gorgeous people, you can assume the following,

1. You are at a Ladyboy bar
2. They are prostitutes
3. You are in Taiwan. If you are not, then refer to 1 and 2.

This was quite a sight because there we were, at one of the restaurants and I was looking out and there were easily 50 girls, in office wear, just pacing the entire basement. And most of these girls were hot and they were walking so fast up and down the corridor, you would actually have thought this was Raffles Place.

They are the reason why the term ‘Streetwalker’ was coined, because all they do is walk and it is literally a mobile Geylang. This was going to be my reference quote to prove that Chinese are an industrious race because for the sheer distance they walk each day, they would make an Ethiopian school boy who runs to school every morning look lazy.

I could have sat there and amuse myself all day just by watching them walk by so hurriedly as if they had a purposeful destination or that they were genuinely late for an appointment. Then a minute later you will see her walking back again, still hastily and you think, “oh maybe she left something behind.” Then she walks by again and again you say,

“Either she’s really forgetful or I guess that’s what she does all day.”

Beyond that, it’s all the same. If diabetes ever becomes airborne, you will know that these are the people who spread it, because these people say the sweetest shit.

I don’t know why people turn to psychiatrist when they are suffering from low self esteem, because if you ever need to cure it, you should go to places like this. Most of these girls are so trained with words that they will convince you that you are the best looking guy in the building.

If doesn’t matter if you are a victim of alopecia or that your face is a topographical representation of the Grand Canyon, because they will convince you that those are manifestations of character and that your perceived flaws are virtues in their eyes.

Some of them are so good, they will make your 2 inch dick sound like Sea Biscuit.

So here I am, trying to save lives. If you are suffering from depression, your girlfriend left you or maybe you felt you don’t have a redeeming trait in you, then head down. It’s therapeutic really, and when you’ve heard enough bullshit you can actually convince yourself that it’s true.

If all else fails, then maybe it’s time to do that bungee jump off the tower.

The Reservist Tales

Reservist never fails to amuse me on the sheer spectrum of people they can consolidate into a platoon. Yes, I hate regimental routines and unsolvable mysteries on why we are always waiting, not to mention the dread of having a haircut, but I find joy in other trivial pleasantries.

Like laughing at other people.

Last year I introduced you what I crowned to be the high point of my reservist stint. His name was Gary, he was our signaler and he was deaf. This brought me endless amusement because if the irony didn’t tickle you, watching him on in action would.

This year, Gary seemed to have had a successful ear drum implant because he was responding a lot better, although sometimes he still had trouble figuring who was calling him. This sucked because I was looking forward to him pissing the commanders off this year again.

Reservist also poses a health hazard to me because I share my bunk with obese men who take multiple meals a day religiously like Sunday communion. The good thing was that they were highly entertaining and they only serve to endorse my medical canon that denial is a symptom of obesity.

Fes – I call him such because not only does he look like Fes from That 70’s show, his disposition and mannerisms bear such an uncanny resemblance -, would deserve a post entirely dedicated to him because he says the funniest shit.

He will regal you in sexual stances and his fetishes for anal sex and butt spanking. He will dry hump the bed when he is bored. And he will light up every time the conversation introduces words like, ‘breast’, ‘bitches’ and ‘chocolates’.

He: “..this MILF is hot. Every day I talk to her I also get turned on.”
Me: “Why?”
He: “Her voice is damn sexy and she always gives me chocolates. Mmm, chocolates..”
Me: “…”
He: “Eh, not one two piece you know. A LOT of chocolates..”
Me: “That’s why you are fat.”
He: “Eh, I don’t have an eating disorder. The only reason I’m fat is because I don’t exercise.”

And they will stand by this, even when they have 2 Big Macs, fries, 20 pieces of nuggets and a large coke for supper. This is enough to feed a platoon of women at an anorexic camp, but apparently this is perfectly normal for other human beings. Or so they think.

The Crier

The only thing that actual beats listening to Whales defend their diet is watching grown men cry in military garb because this just instills confidence that these are men who will defend our country. If I were you, I will seriously start giving Superman an emergency text. Now.

On the day we were supposed to have our range shoot, I got back to the company line to find a man, and I stress a man, because this guy was past his mid thirties and he was crying. There he was, squatting over his gear, and sobbing about a lost bayonet.

Crying over this is perfectly okay when you are 19 years old, living on NS pay and might need to pawn their organs just for entry to a club. When you are in your 30s, you just whip out your cheque book and pay for the losses because crying not only makes you look stupid, it also makes you look poor.

You have no idea how hard it was for me to watch all this while trying not to laugh, because I suppressed it so impeccably that I might have ruptured several internal organs just trying to contain my laughter.

Crying is almost an understatement, because this guy was wailing, his face all cringed up and tears were flowing. If he said he was aging backwards like Benjamin Button, I would have believed him, because no grown man I know cries over a stupid knife. Okay, maybe gay sushi chefs do, I don’t know.

It got even worse when we had our range because he was the direct detail before mine and he was fucking up the shoot so badly, I thought someone was going to be hit by his stray bullet before lunch came.

He was such a jittery mess, even someone going into epileptic seizure had better composure than him. He didn’t know how to clear jammed bullets and he kept pointing the rifle to the side only to have the Safety officer kick his rifle back to the front.

And it wasn’t just once. Each time he did it, they would start yelling at him and that made it worse because he panicked more and it made them panic more. It was a vicious cycle and it came to a point where it made me panic as well, thinking he might misfire a round and I might die from it. So, I did what every thinking soldier would do. I hid behind the nearest pillar.

Being the bitch with the imaginary vagina that I am, I started telling my bunk mates about TheCrier, his debacle and almost inherent massacre at the range. Then one of them said,

He: “Oh, he has some mild mental problems.”

There was silence, largely from me because I was gawking – for a damn long time to be precise. When I finally recovered from the shock, like two eons later, I mustered the one word that I took forever to verbalize but was swarming- in capital letters with exclamations -in my head,

Me: “WHAT?!”

Then nonchalantly he replied.

Him: “Ya, apparently he attempted suicide before and has this history of depression.”
Me: “He has mental issues.. and he is firing a live weapon!?”
Him: “Ya. Haha..”
Me: “What the fuck! Are you people hoping to die? Massacre at shooting range isn’t even a remotely amusing headline.”

Let’s hope next year I will get an amputee as a medic, or a blind rifleman. Now that will definitely top this.

The Macau Story - Pt 5

If you’ve been following my travel stories with LB, then you will know that there is a kind of curse that plagues our every flight. And from the time we got to the airport for our departure for Macau, we started listing out the possible screw ups.

There were the times that we almost missed our flight and then there was that infamous Phuket debacle that we actually missed our flight. I somehow wonder if this is a divine joke that starts with, “let’s keep fucking up these two’s flights and see how long they’ll keep travelling together.”

The original plan was to book the 3pm flight back to Singapore, but when LB left it to me and I saw a later slot available, I thought it was a better idea to book that flight instead because that would allow us an additional full day at Macau.

Of course, I thought we could take a ferry down to Hong Kong on the last day but that fell through because I had no idea where the ferry terminal was and neither did I know any illegal immigrants who could hook us up with a sampan.

And somehow, I always assumed our flight was at 7pm, which left us an additional four hours more than the rest which were all on the 3pm flight. So when we got back to Macau on the last day, we figured that 4 hours was too short a time for us to venture out of the Venetian to wander a city which other than overpriced hookers and casinos, didn’t seem to offer much else.

LB had also lost our booking confirmation slip so we had no idea what was our actual boarding time and we had to get one of the guys to check for us when they checked in.

Guy: “Your flight is at 10.30pm.”
LB: “10.30pm?!”

LB turned to stare at me. I immediately wave him off.

Me: “Check if there is a 7.30 flight.”
LB: “Can you check if there is a 7.30pm flight?”

He continued to eye my incumbency on this matter in suspicion.

LB: “No 7.30pm flight?! Earliest is 10.30pm?!”

Did I actually fuck this up? Could I have possibly fucked up a simple booking? I’ve done tons of moronic acts, but surely not booking the wrong return date. Could I? Did I?”

We both hit the panic button, more so this time because we were nearly drained of cash and I had no desire to spend another night trying to topple the casino. We simultaneously whipped out our phones, trying to retrieve the confirmation slip from the emails we corresponded.

The great news was that I did book it on the correct day, just that I got the timing confused. The down side was that we had another 7 hours left to burn in Macau and there was NOTHING else we could do. I was going to be disciplined about gambling so I didn’t want to stay in the Venetian, lest it eroded my will and pledge.

So I left LB by the Blackjack table and took a solo tour of the Venetian, which was beautiful, I must admit, given even my disdain for sightseeing. I mean this place actually rocked because there was a canal, gondolas and weird people doing freaky mimes for petty cash.

When I got back to the casino for LB, he was still rooted to the same place I left him over an hour ago.

Me: “Are you going to gamble or what?”
LB: “Dude, I just lost all my money.”
Me: “What?!”

He was staring at me with eyes that burned of desire to recoup. Now that I think back, those are the very same eyes you see in homeless people. His tone still echoed in defiance to desolation. I knew he could not be coaxed or persuaded to abandon the tables, so I did what every true friend would do.

I urged him to recoup his losses.

He immediately made a beeline for the cashier and then a brisk walk to the nearest available table. It started well. He was cautious and controlled, and luck was upon him. Then 15mins later, he had lost everything.

LB: “What the fuck! I was up $1000! Where’s my money?!”

I knew there and there, I had to step up to the plate. There in front of me, almost half hysterical was my best friend and he was in dire need of my help. I had to do the right thing.

Me: “I got $1000 here. You want?”
LB: “Fuck! Let’s do it!”

10 minutes later. He lost everything.

Me: “You want to go walk around? There is a canal in here.”
LB: “Fuck your canal! Where is my money?!”

Me: “Look, let’s go play the slots. It’s 1 cent a game and I have $20 here. That means we can hit the button 2000 times, do you know how much time that will kill?”
LB: “Why the fuck did you have to book a 10.30pm flight?!”

When we finally left the place for the airport – a lot more broke and still very much sober-, we assumed that nothing was going topple the episode at the casino. Yet now I learn that when you are me, you should never assume, because when it rains, it's capable of pouring so much shit that it would seem like it's raining NeWater.

When we checked in, it was a familiar scene as it was in Phuket. We were in line, bantering, largely over the dumb idea of booking a late flight in a city where it takes more than it gives, and then greeted by the attendant with bad news.

She: “Sir, just to inform you that your flight has been delayed.”
Me: “How long?”
She: “3 to 4 hours maybe.”

Like what the fuck?! What were we going to do for the next three hours? Well, maybe we could just go to the boarding area and do some shopping or chill out at a café; we thought. Three words,

Worse.Idea.Ever

The moment I got through the gate, I thought we were at a super budget terminal, because there was absolutely NOTHING there. The place was so fucking boring, it would make Antarctica look like New York City. All they need is a razor by the counter for us to slit our wrist, because I think bleeding beats dying of boredom.

Then I realized what the delay was; the plane hadn’t even left Singapore yet! Let me pronounce to you the gravity of the matter. One, we were freezing our asses off because we checked in our jackets. Two, I was fucking starving and the only café there was not selling food. Three, we were going to be stuck for at least 4 more hours because our plane still has its ass on Singapore tarmac. And lastly, where are the hookers when you need them?

We finally arrived in Singapore at 7am. We were drained, I barely slept well on the plane and LB looked like he was struggling to keep his eyelids opened.

LB: “Where got people come back at 7am!”
Me: “At least we DIDN’T miss the flight!”

The Macau Story - Pt 4

I’ve been to tons of parties and I drinking regular, but I’ve never stretched intemperance like we did on our last night, because I believe what we spent in that last night, is like the annual wage equivalent of a village.

We actually left Macau for short stint up in Zhu Hai, which is at the border in China coming in from Macau. It’s a short drive from the city and once you pass customs, you immediately see a pronounced disparity between the two places.

Gone are the neon lights that light up the skies in Macau and you are greeted by low rise buildings that look like it’s a conservation site for 19th century architecture. People are also driving on the wrong side of the road here.

However, what we’ve been palavered with, are tales of decadence and promises of absurd dip in cost indexes compared to Macau. That effectively meant that we needed only a fraction of the cost for twice the fun.

It didn’t matter that our dinner looked like it was catered for 20 people when there were only nine of us. Half the time I had no idea what I had stuffed in my mouth, and going by the gourmet principles of Asians – Chinese specifically -, we eat anything that moves and we waste no part of it.

I won’t be surprised if I’ve had Golden Retrievers, Chihuahuas of maybe a Komodo dragon, because I’ve learnt that with chilli, everything tastes the same. I’ve given up trying to second guess what I’m chewing because someone would say pig’s ears and another would say it’s liver and for all I know, I could have been having rabbit's penis.

At 8pm, they took us to one of the most famous KTV’s. We had a round of beers and 3 bottles of X.O which came with about a $360 per bottle tag and mind you, this is already relatively cheap if you looked at it in context to where we were.

We barely stayed past 11pm and we left for 88, which is a club on a popular kaleidoscopic street of pubs and clubs. The place was packed when we got there and there was already a private room for us and I prepped myself to lose a liver that night.

It’s different when you have a table lined with bottles and it becomes a countdown as to how many bottles will be left by the end of the night. This time round, it was watching them stack the empty bottles we consumed at the front of the room, because it seemed like an endless cornucopian liquid buffet.

Between the 9 of us and the girls, there were about 18 of us partying and contributing to the ceaseless refills the waiters had to keep up with. By the time it was 2am, I no longer gave a shit about dancing even though they played relatively decent dance tracks and my priority shifted to the line of shots at the table.

I was oblivious to a lot of drama that was playing out before me; one girl was crying, one couple was drunk, some were making out at the sofa and many of us were grateful for the attached toilet in the room. If I was less drunk and a lot hornier, I would have taken up the offer to fuck in there.

I was going to take my fill on the night, so the moment my lips kissed the X.O, I allowed alcohol to take precedence over sex. I knew at some point that when she was going to be straddling me, I was going to hate my decision to get drunk, but I also knew that I was going to have to make my money’s worth, even if it meant losing a liver – deep down, I always secretly pray for a Pierre Png.

We were knocking back cognac shots as if it were apple shooters that connoisseurs would have eyed us with contempt on our blatant disregard for appreciation. By the 5th bottle, we were cheering wildly and singing along to the music and some of them started egging me to get up onto the bar top.

By 4am, they had to literally coax me to leave the place because everyone else had a greater agenda for the night because between having a face full of breast and babysitting my ass over another line of cognac shots, I was fast beginning to lose my appeal.

So we left, me with a trophy in tow, a seductive black dress that accentuated her curves and eyeliners that if extended any further up her eyes, would have qualified as a fringe. When we got back to my room, there was a huge surprise waiting for us.

LB got to the door, naked and wildly yelling about his disdain for alcohol and it’s consequence on sexual climaxes. I was half tickled at the sight but too tired to even nudge him for some decency. I wasn’t even going to be adventurous about it because from the time I got into bed and the time she tried to have a conversation, I fell right into deep sleep.

When we met up the morning after, I was tickled by tales of how the other guys ended their night. Some of them were drunk, did not remember how they got back and some spent time reacquainting with the toilet bowl.

It was funny until one of them told us that we had consumed 9 bottles of X.O, 2 bottles of Black Label and 70 bottles of beer at 88 alone. Raise your hands if you said, ‘What the Fuck!’, because that was exactly the same reaction I had, but with a lot more shock.

How did the 9 of us possibly have gone through that much alcohol in that short a time? Sure, I wanted a carousal affair, best so if came with a little more of a corporeal skin fest, but 11 bottles and 70 beers? I cannot even begin to use the word excessive because if you had left us at the place, we might actually clear out their stock

I quickly did a mental calculation and I came to a consensus that I was going to pawn my kidney the moment we got back to Macau. How did we ever chalk up such a reckless tab? Who the hell said it was going to be a fraction of the cost? Why did I ever wish for an endless flow of alcohol? Is this all a dream?

Wait, did I forget to have sex in the morning?

The Macau Story - Pt 3. That Clubbing Night

Macau isn’t particularly known for their clubbing scene and for a valid reason because it looks almost like 80% of their focus is on casinos. It’s a simple urban development manifesto for them; if there is an empty plot, build a casino, people don’t need houses since they will lose it eventually.

The club we went to was called Cubic and I believe the choice of it was more a matter of close proximity to our hotel than it was an iconic outlet. When we got there at about 1am, the place was relatively empty and the only person we got to know was this lady whom I struck up a conversation with in the elevator. She wasn’t attractive nor did she look sane, so I pretty much ignored her after we got in.

We immediately started off with a round of beers and a bottle of X.O and the night threatened to turn into a minefield of boringness because there was hardly a crowd and even if there were, the male population out-striped the females that it started to look like China’s one-child policy was in place there.

The great thing was that by 2am the crowd started coming in and the music eased gently into a semblance of Trance and House. By 3am and a lot more alcohol in me, it started to look like this was unfolding into the best night in Macau thus far.

There were Thai dancers gyrating on stage and pockets of all women group graciously littered around the club. And with the modus operandi I’ve come to embrace, I do not pick the dancer I like, but I pick the one that shows the greatest interest in me.

She finally came over and after several mock butt humps on my thigh, she popped the question like all true coyote girls peddling shots for a living.

She: “Can you buy me a drink?”
Me: “How much?”
She: “$400.”
Me: “I have $100.”

It was a bargaining game where she would tell me that there was a minimum set she had to sell, but I was all too familiar with this to be lured in. Then I would come back and tell her that I would allow her to sleep at my place to make up for the $300 and she would stare at me as if I had told her the most ludicrous line.

And finally, she actually forked up the remaining $300 for herself, which I tickled me to no end because if you look at it objectively, it made no economical sense, at all. She was paying $300 of which she would probably earn half that amount on commission and she actually gave me all the drinks. This ultimately meant that she was actually buying me drinks. God bless drunks who cannot count. I love Macau already.

When she had to go do her rounds, I joined the guys who had already gotten to know a group of Viet girls, who suspiciously looked like they suck cocks for a living. I didn’t care much because I believe alcohol is the greatest social adhesive ever invented.

Then that Thai dancer would periodically swing by and make audible her displeasure for me coveting the waist of another girl. Then I would re-assure her that she was by far the only one I was interested to see naked, until of course a group of Chinese girls started popping champagne across the room and I lost focus thereafter.

Then a strip show came on. Yes, a strip show and two Caucasians – presumably Eastern Europeans – started hopping round on stage topless and I found a new focus. It did take me by surprise like an unwarranted erection on a soccer pitch because the last I expected was for strippers to come on stage for what – well, most parts at least – looked like a legitimate disco.

It was all good, until the third stripper came up with a whip and had some poor dude rooted to a chair. She looked like a cross between a transvestite with an artificial tan session gone wrong and a wrestler. It was just horrible and I prayed that she was just going to come up and body slam the guy, without stripping.

I remembered smiling a lot to random women in the club and of course, equally guilty of having my hands conveniently around their waist or on their hips. And then for a brief moment of bumping into the Thai girl on my way to the gents, I saw that she staring so hard at me, I thought she might have lost her ability to blink from all that alcohol.

Then swiftly and most unexpectedly, just as I was close enough to coax a smile out of her, she threw an open palm at me and it caught me entirely by surprise that I took what seemed like an eternity to recover from the shock. I was slapped by a dancer, in Macau, who was probably on medication for mental illness. This is incredible. Does this only happen to me?

The only thing saving her from a flying kick from me half way across the room, was a good dose of X.O that had already lined my liver. Alcohol is great for getting over trivial matters like, being slapped, break ups, divorces and bankruptcy. The only thing that beats alcohol in solving problems, is suicide.

Of course, that slap came with an accompanying vituperation about flirting with other women and I thought it was ridiculous that a working girl of all people would be at the helm of this lecture. She bought me a drink, but was I supposed to marry her for that?

The good thing was that at least I found out she was psychotic before sharing my bed with her. If she can slap me for talking to other women, I cannot imagine what body organ I will lose if I suggested an orgy.

Then LB and some of the guys went off and I stayed back with a couple of them with their group of girls. And at some point in time between champagne toasting and a dice calling, I got dragged away by a Russian girl who wanted to use me as a shield to ward of some drunk.

She: “Come, you pretend to be boyfriend. This guy drunk and I tell him you my boyfriend.”
Me: “Wha…t?”

I barely had the time to react but my instinct was to immediately look for the guy who would potentially be beating me up over a girl. I love being a tool because within seconds of assuming the role of the sudden boyfriend and the subsequent script to convince the guy, she had straddled my thighs and conveniently planted a succession of kisses on my cheeks.

The only thing that would top this was an instantaneous blowjob by the table and everyone else in the club breaking into a synchronized dance ballet complete with singing bartenders and Mariah Carey popping up behind the stage crooning ‘touch my body’.

This is the greatest day in Macau; Ever. I love being me.

Then one thing led to another and it went from superficial banter to teasing lap dances to an open suggestion to take the episode beyond the club. Now, I was already clearly inebriated to a point where everything was a great idea.

I was no longer in the grace of sobriety to consider the possible consequences surrounding my decision to follow her home. For one, I was in a foreign land and following a complete stranger home. There were infinite scenarios that could have penned out, of which a vast majority would include robbery or having to buy my penis back from eBay.

But at that point in time, coaxed with an ample visual appreciation of cleavage and a luring promise of an orgasmic romp between the sheets – and maybe a couple by the bathroom sink-, I couldn’t think of anything that would sway my decision to hop into that cab with her; even if it meant being robbed at gun-point.

When we finally got back to her place it was an awkward bout of trying not to trip over the front door, whilst complimenting the lack of lighting and still trying to sustain a decent erection. If there was an award for multi-tasking, I would be giving my acceptance speech right now.

When we finally got down to making out over the sprawling bed sheets, the alcohol started kicking in so badly that for brief moment I found myself looking up at the ceiling and wondering where I was. Then the cruel reality of inebriation kicked in.

No matter how she had her tongue run down my groin or whether she was lying naked over me with her breast inches from my face, I couldn’t be aroused. Periodically, I would reach out to cop a feel but that was a mandatory reflex of bedroom etiquette rather than it was a desire.

I was limp. So limp that I could have well been on extended years of estrogen medication. All I needed was a robe and some feather caps and I would have qualified as a eunuch.

Then it finally got to her, the lack of blood rush on my part, the futile tease on hers and the looming reality that sex was beyond possibility. She got up, slipped on her blouse and in a dramatic turn of events, said,

She: “Okay, bye bye.”

I was being chased out of the house. This was truly amazing. I was actually being chased out of the house because fucking was beyond my limits. I might be out of touch here or it might be a cultural difference, because usually it is okay to sleep through the night and then fuck in the morning.

And I knew for a fuck that she was actually serious because her face was scarred with pissness and she started flinging my stuff at me. I was drunk and slowly trying to reconciliate the panoramic event that was unfolding.

Then she ushered me to the door and when I finally got out, I still had no idea what the fuck just happened. Next I know, I was standing in the streets, drunk, had no idea where the fuck I was, it was 8am in the morning and I was lost in a foreign country. I cannot even begin to describe the absurdity of it.

When I finally got back to the hotel, I was actually pretty amused by the whole debacle. LB got up from the rackus I was making.

LB: “Dude where the fuck did you go?”
Me: “You cannot believe what just happened to me.”

This is the worst day in Macau, ever. And I no longer love being me.

The Macau Story - Pt 2

When they suggested that we have dim sum for breakfast, I celebrated the suggestion with a furtive punch to the air. It only made sense that we indulge in staple routines of the average locals and a shrimp dumpling over some tea sounded as good a morning perk as a courtesy morning tug between my thighs.

TT did the ordering since none of us were particularly picky over food, so long as it came warm and with a saucer of chilli padi. How can a morning dim sum ever stretch my expectations you ask? Right across the spectrum, I’ll tell you that.

When the dishes started being served, it took me by such surprise that I wondered if we had accidentally walked into a wedding banquet instead. Right before us lay a formidable cast of steamed garoupa, scallops, huge portions of meat, shark fins soup and tons of other dishes that it looked more like we were planning to have lunch through to supper at the same table.

Let me remind you again that this is breakfast. I had neither a huge appetite nor was I entirely sobered from the previous night of wild gallivanting. I've had many pleasantries in life; models, race-queens, ass rims and Pizza Hut deliveries, but never have I had shark’s fins for breakfast.

And mind you, this isn’t your stale grade mock fins, but this was so fresh, you could probably taste the legs of some surfer it chomped off in it's fins.

Me: “Ermm, is there Ha Gao (shrimp dumpling) coming?”
TT: “Oh, I didn't order any. Do you want?”

This was amazing. We had woken up for breakfast, walked 10mins to the restaurant for dim sum and yet there wasn’t a single authentic dim sum dish on the table. I very probably ordered what was to be the cheapest dish on the table, or for the holiday at least.

TT: “Later if you guys want dessert, there is this very famous herbal jelly stall. It’s very good, one cup is about HK$250.”

I nearly choked on the prawns.

HK$250 for a herbal jelly? That’s almost SGD$50. What the fuck do they have in that herbal jelly that the $5 ones in Singapore don't? What is in that shit? The turtle’s golden penis?

Right there, I swore, that if any moron said, ‘that sounds like a great idea’, I was going to jab him in the eyes with my ivory chopsticks and then catch a sampan back to Singapore. As much as I am willing to immerge in extravagance, my conscience cannot reconcile the fact of paying S$50 for something that doesn’t even have alcohol in it.

Out itinerary was already cast in stone before we even begun to wonder what we were doing next. TT had it all sorted and it was created around several conceptual pillars stemming from principles like ‘debauchery’, ‘epicureanism’ and ‘salacity’, of which is very much what life should be judged on.

He took us to the spa and he sold me on the idea when I heard the words, ‘naked girls dancing on the balcony’. This was a very posh place and not your run of the mill fuck joint with disguising massage services. And it was great because other than having to share the huge hot pool with other naked men, there was a whole resting area with delectable amenities and services.

For one, there was free food and it was a decent variety of noodles to rice to finger food that will make a decent competitor to Crystal Jade Kitchen. There were internet services and private rooms to sleep in. The only thing I frowned on was their poor selection of movies.

Basically, there was a whole menu of body care services available, which ranged from foot reflexology to ear waxing cleaning to manicures to body scrubs. And you pay for whatever service you want. Hell, you could even select a category of model to fuck. I took a look at the prices and thought,

Me: “HK$149 for a foot reflexology. That’s $139 divided by 20. That is DAMN CHEAP.”

I caps ‘damn cheap’ because that was exactly how it exclaimed in my head. Then one ear wax cleaning, one thigh massage and one foot reflexology later, I realized it. Fuck! I had gotten the exchange rate wrong. It was supposed to be divided by 5, which meant that I was paying S$30 to some asshole to punch my feet for 20mins.

The best thing was the body scrub because it apparently came with an ass scrubbing service too and I had my ass scrubbed so hard, that I think I she scrubbed the shit out of my ass for the next month so I will effectively not need toilet paper in the near future.

Then the disco alarm rang and suddenly people started to get up and head towards the pool area, and if I wasn’t pre-informed on this, I would have thought everyone was going to attend a mass dance at the pool area. Then I got there and there were 4 girls dancing at the over-looking balcony. Then one of the guys turned to me,

He: “They are going to strip.”
Me: “Really? Do not fuck with me, I cannot take disappointment.”
He: “Bottom also.”
Me: “Okay, then I will stand here. There are two of them that I don’t really want to see naked.”

In honesty, these girls were decently hot. I went back to the resting area and the ear cleaning lady told me that there would be Korean and Taiwanese models later in the day. I smiled so hard, you would have thought I had botox malfunction on my cheeks.

I didn’t get to see any of them anyway because we left before they came on and I went into epileptic fit when I saw my bill because I had chalked up S$280 in all that little miscellaneous services. All that money and I didn’t even fuck anyone, or thing. If this was BKK, I could have perhaps bought an elephant.

We then took a cab down to Sands Casino and you would think that being one of the largest casinos in Macau that it would breach the language barrier in Macau. But, no. The cab that we were on had no idea what we were saying and the only Cantonese speaking ones amongst us didn’t know how to say Sands in Cantonese.

They guys started throwing up all sorts of variations and he kept coming back with different ones that it seemed like we were never going to make it there. It came to a point that I was convinced that we were going to end up in Disneyland.

This is where I begin to rant about how much I hate casinos because I am hugely impulsive and capable of wiping out my winnings in a single fell swoop and then follow up with another foolish hand and double my previous day’s losses.

I swear I didn’t want to gamble, but sitting there and watching one of the guys built his chips into the tens of thousands from a measly 200 bet, was a test of discipline and that is one subject I fail badly in, along with commitment and attention.

The good thing was that TT informed us that we were going to check out the local clubbing scene that night and he promised a night of carousal insanity, which immediately erased my displeasure of gambling. I am so easily statisfied sometimes it scares me.

And this is would be the story of the night I got slapped and chased out of a house…