Butterfly Goes To Gigolo Bar

I must applaud the ingenuity of entrepreneurship of the men, who wrestle everyday for a piece of the nightlife dollar. Who would have thought there would be a lucrative market in subjecting men to parade on stage for the fancy of women.

Male host clubs have been on a prominent rise, whilst still strategically hidden from the mainstream pubs. And if you are thinking a club filled with menopaused women who come here as a catharsis to years of tolerating infidelity, aging beer bellies and flaccid dicks, then you are gravely mistaken.

It’s a peculiar myriad of female clientele. One of early 30's women with too much time and hairspray and another of young China KTV hostesses who come in throngs after their working shift, all so just to throw their money back on men. Now that’s what you call sustaining the economy.

Now why would any women want to pay men for company and drinks? It is because the shift in dynamics of power is an insatiable gratification that isn’t gender biased. It is because for every feminist, closet or pronounced, tipping men is sociologically and psychologically empowering – and endearing for some. It is because it is a novelty. And it is because going against norms is something inexplicably human.

There is a paradigm shift in social structures and the birth of the liberal independent woman is giving rise to alternative entertainment. Singing hostesses are no longer the sole realm of men. Women now crave for a catered source of entertainment, even if it means having men strut around with excessive foundation and hair wax, waiting to do anything for their fancy – in return for a tip.

When we got there last Thursday, the place was already packed with people; men, women and gays. All we lacked were some Ladyboys and this could have passed off as Orchard Towers. The good thing was that there were pockets of women who were under 25 years of age, tucked to one side of the club, whilst the other more matured women packed the front.

The draw, as with any male host clubs – I prefer the derogatory term Gigolo bars – are the male hosts themselves. Yet, for this one, they hardly looked impressive, so much so that I was beginning to miss the foundation laced face, gravity defying hairstyles and yesterday’s fashion clad Thai boys.

Me: “They don’t look very tall to me.”

That was from 15 metres away and 3 glasses of cognac down the throat. The moment their set ended and they had to walk round for a mandatory meet and greet session with the patrons, I was left eating my words.

The first 3 guys that came by felt like they were on stilts, or that I was auditioning for the role of Frodo Baggins in a Lord of The Rings extension encore, called, The return of the Male Host giants.

They were at least 1.85m tall, dressed in finely pressed suits and belts that made my Gucci look like a discount. Either way, nothing they wore could save them from their attempt to converse in English, which if they wore a T-Shirt, would have qualified them as refugees. Either way, I went to sit at the back to avoid straining my neck with every handshake.

It’s a dream job, if you have a penis, able to sing decently, hold your liquor well, enjoy groping women and can remember to smile when you get tipped.

The great thing was, some of these guys sucked at it, which is always enjoyable to me when I get to laugh at people.

There were a couple of the guys who were so horrible at singing, they actually got booed and had to apologise. They were so bad, even the deaf would have jeered at them. I was the only person enjoying it because for a brief moment, I believed that Communism was dead.

This other guy had on a pair of sunglasses all night, and this may I remind you was in a dimly lit club, illuminated largely by a stage that looked like it was designed in the 60’s by a blind carpenter. I don’t know what it is with people who wear shades in clubs, because unless it is for hiding your constricted iris, there is nothing cool about wearing it – unless you are Stevie Wonder.

It really is a matter of chance for these guys, because some of them who were luckier, got ‘booked’ by the young Chinese KTV hostesses, whilst the others got stuck with female clients that looked like they were going to see dick for the first time in 30 odd years.

There was one guy who just sat quietly with a lady who had such a huge mole on the face, it was like a squirrel shat on her face permanently. If I had more passion for humanitarian aid, I would have petitioned for someone to pass him a dagger to slit his wrist – or her mole.

In general, as it got later and the younger women started strolling in, it became clear that there was a two prong approach to milking these joints. Women come for the men, and men come for the women who are there for the men. It is a vicious cycle if you ask me.

The thing is, there isn’t a point in trying to understand why women patronize these places – some even patriotically. The best way to digest this, isn’t about conceptualizing the rise of the feminist dollar, nor is it about giggling at the apparent absurdity of KTV women throwing hundreds back at men. If you are a man, it’s really all about waiting for your sugar mummy to roll in.