A possible long absence
Dear friend,
My sincerest apologies for the long absence and lack of posts. It has been a trying and busy time for me this past week, dealing with my mom and getting ready to travel abroad. I did manage to write some bits here and there, but I was unable to find a proper time and place to go online to actually post them… So that’s why you see, I have posted 2 entries in a day, they were really written out over the week.
I will continue to be busy spending whatever time I have left sorting my affairs in order, packing and accompanying my loved ones. Of course, I will do my best to continue writing whenever I get the time (or the internet connection), but it may be far and long in between.
I will continue writing when I reach the UK, but it will have to be after I have oriented myself with the place, and find a connection. But in the mean time, please take care. Though I do not know who you are, where you come from, or even why you have been so faithful in reading my blog, I like thinking of you as a far away friend that I will some day come to know, and thank you for your companionship and words of encouragement throughout all this while.
Your friend
Me
Lets talk...
Lets talk condoms
It was just in the papers today; there has been a never
rending debate on whether it is right for the government to be distributing
condoms for free to people; chiefly, known drug addicts and sex workers to
control the spread of HIV/AIDS. Naturally, there were those for it and against
it.
Someone then came out and said that the government can’t be
seen as promoting the use of condoms, because promoting safe sex is in a way,
still promoting sex. It’s like a parent giving his daughter a lecture on
abstinence then giving her a condom. The words and the action don’t fit. In the
same article, it was also mentioned that condoms control the spread of
HIV/AIDS, and in other countries around the world, the strategy of distributing
condoms have actually worked. The best way to prevent any sort of Sexually
Transmitted Disease (STD) is abstinence from sex all together, or with only 1
regular partner. But in this day and age, abstinence is hard (if not
impossible) to promote, since you can’t really go around poking your nose in
others business telling them how their sex life should be. The fact is,
pre-marital sex is more and more common, even in our Asian society, though it
is no where as open as in western countries. Our older generation are either oblivious
to this fact, or are just to shy to even acknowledge it.
At the heart of all this condom issue is just our Asian
culture; we are too shy, too embarrassed to talk sex openly. We say that sex
education should be left out of school and be thought at home, but at home,
parents are too shy and don’t even know how to breach the topic. How can you
start talking about condoms in public when we can’t even mention the words
‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ without that awkward look on our face? In the end, as with
so many of my peers when we were growing up, the only source of information you
get about sex if your best friend, with his limited knowledge and your dad’s
secret stash of porn. And both give you an incomplete and distorted view on
sex.
So when we fail to get even the birds and bees right, we
aren’t really fit to talk about safe pollination. In safe sex, we have to get
the ‘sex’ part straight before we start talking about the ‘safe’ part. For
those who have half a brain and still can’t resist playing with fire, they
would take precautions. But sadly, due to social taboo and just pure shyness,
many youngsters just go ahead with the sex, behind doors, but not use condoms,
simply because they are too embarrassed to be seen buying a condom.
Friends I know continue to practice unsafe sex, because the
guy is too shy to buy a condom (jerk) and the girl is too nice to insist on it
(silly). So when jerk and silly combine, you get a baby. The first time I
bought a condom, it was on a dare. My friend wanted to know how it looked like
and how it was supposed to be worn. So we went to the store, thickened our
skins and bought one. The lady behind the counter showed a funny expression,
but we just acted as if it was chewing gum, just of a different rubber. We
opened the packaged and toyed around with it, read the instructions and
unrolled it, with bursts of laughter. “ooooh, so that’s how you use it.” And
that was how learned about condoms.
But how many people out there in
Malaysia would do the same thing?
Being young, everyone wants to explore sex, and explore it they will, without
any precautions. Because the fact is, it’s a whole lot easier to get a room and
get it on with each other than it is to walk into a store and buy a packet of
condoms and risk being remembered or worse, recognized.
I will be the first to testify that buying a condom is an embarrassing business. You get this funny snigger or muted expression from the cashier (or is it just my head playing games?) and you wish the person behind you doesn’t notice what you are buying. “I’m a big boy now, so what if I am buying condoms?” you think to yourself defiantly. But it’s a necessary evil.
You want honey, you better be willing to go through the bee hive.
So should the government start giving out condoms? To the sex workers and addicts, a resounding YES. But to the public, perhaps not. Before we give out condoms, we should be teaching our kids what a condom is and why and when it should be used. But before we do that, we need to teach them what sex really is in the wholesome sense. We need to be frank with the fact that sex is a part of being human; for procreation, for bonding and enjoyment. Better to come clean and tell our kids all the things that sex is and isn’t then to just keep quiet. Because then they are going to start getting the wrong ideas about it, learning all the hot and steamy things and nothing more. If just information from friends and porn material is all we have to learn about sex, what would you get in the end? A whole generation who act
like porn stars in bed and thinking its perfectly normal.
So much for the nice weekend
Disappointment and frustration; the 2 emotions that are now
chiseling their way into my heart right now. I can practically hear my gloomy
little heart grumbling “Its not fair! Why now? Why me?”
So much for the trip up to Genting; weeks of anticipation crumble within the short period of a train ride.
We were all set to go. I had packed my bags, and so did she.
But things were not as I made them out to be. She had packed poorly, and it
became obvious to me that she had not recovered as well as I had hope. For a
two day weekend up in the hills, she had brought 2 dozens of sanitary napkins,
even though her menstrual hadn’t even started. She brought a Chinese bible,
even though she can read a drop of Mandarin, and packed countless other
miscellaneous things in small plastic bags. I went through her things and
repacked everything for her, which made her really upset.
She looked disoriented, haggard and just lost in her own line of thoughts. I actually started considered canceling the trip there and then, but I thought perhaps I was just overreacting. We rode on my motorbike to the train station and took the train to the church, where there were people waiting to pick us up. But it was in the train hat I realize with crystal clarity that my mother was still unable to function properly, let alone be allowed to socialize with complete strangers.
The train was a little crowded. She was clinging on to the
support bars, but her expression was vacant, lost and sad all at the same time.
Her eyes were rolling again, maybe due to the side effects of the medicine. She
started behaving strangely; praying out loud for thing that happened 5 years
back, writing invisible words into the air and motioning her hands, palms together like a Buddhist monk. I knew the people around were all starting. She was attracting all the wrong sorts of attention to her. She started speaking to me in a mix of mandarin and Cantonese to me again, despite the fact that she is barely fluent in either. All this happened in the train ride.
To tell you the truth, I was embarrassed. But she was my
mother, and I could not deny her. So with skin as thick as a crocodile, I
endured the embarrassment of m y mothers strange antics. But I face a difficult
choice ahead of me. Should I or should I not continue with this trip? It was a
church retreat. They had a guest speaker coming all the way in from Australia,
and it was really a time for the members to get to know each other in a more
holiday’ish setting; something I had been looking forward to. It was also the
one chance I had to go on holiday with my mother, and perhaps as a springboard
for her to re-enter society by socializing with people other than her sons.
But I had other things to consider now. In her current
state, she was unable to function. She would not be able to socialize and
participate in the activities planned out for the weekend. If I brought her
along, it would only serve to highlight her condition to everyone. Knowing
people, you cannot expect everyone to be so supportive and kind. People love to
talk and gossip, and news of a mentally ill person amongst them would only
spread like wildfire on that hilltop. Other than myself, I had my mother’s
dignity to consider. I know she always wants to be seen as normal. Though I am
sure some of them are aware that my mother has a mental illness, none of them
have actually witnessed such a case before; and hearing of something and seeing
it for yourself is two very very different things. A church they may be, but
they are humans too. I will not be so naïve as to thing that everyone will
understand what I am going through, or why my mother acts the way she does.
Many are ignorant and presumptuous when it comes to psychiatry. Many do not
even know what schizophrenia really is. They watch “Me, myself and Irene” and
they think they know what is it about. “Oh, yes, I saw that once on TV.” And
when they don’t understand it, they fear it, and they dislike it, and
ultimately, distant themselves from it. In the end, they learn nothing of this
illness, remain ignorant to the fact that thousands of others suffer from it,
and just conveniently label them ‘crazy’.
When we arrived at our stop, I sat her down at a Burger
King. I asked her if she was fit to go. And despite her assurances that she was
ok, her body language told me otherwise. She looked more like she was suffering
from a nervous breakdown than about to go holidaying. It was then that I
decided not to go. I gave a phone call to my awaiting friend, apologized and
told them I was unable to make it,.
The trip back home was no better. I continued to be
embarrassed by her antics. I tried controlling her, telling her not to do this
and that, but it was no use. I was angry at her, though I knew I shouldn’t be.
All I could think about was my missed opportunity of having a good time this
weekend. They say mental illness is more and more common these days. So why is
it that I have never seen any other son bringing their ill mother around town?
How come I have come across so little people who share the same problems that I
do? Many try to show that they understand what I am going through, as if they
would know how it felt like dealing with mental illness in the family.
But the pain of it is different from other kinds of
illnesses. It is unlike a persons battle with a physically disease; one you
heal, the battle is won. But in mental illness, the battle is never over. There
is no such thing as victory over it. There is no such thing as an operation to
cure it once and for all. You do not get to rejoice that your loved one is
finally free of it. You best hope is to contain it, and enjoy the times that it
does not show up. You have no scars to show, but only the one in your heart It
feels like the same wound being cut over and over again, before it gets the
chance to heal. It is a prolonged and agonizing torture, to feel the same hurt
and frustration over and over again. There is hardly any rejoicing to do when
things are ok, because you wonder when it may happen again, and you wonder
where you will find the strength from the next time.
My only consolation was when this friend of mine, whom I
sometimes like to consider a sister, sent me a message, saying that she thinks
that I am doing the right thing in taking care of my mother, and that I was
very thoughtful. It did make me feel better, and reaffirmed me a little on the
decision that I had just made.
It is hard. And I think that it is for this reason that so
many patients with mental illness end up in mental homes, with no family to
visit or care for them. People would rather just pay someone to take these
problems off their hands. The patient becomes an outcast in his or her own
family. It is a fate I do not want for my own mother. We tried that once, and
it did not work out; she suffered in there, and we lived in guilt that we had
just washed our hands clean of our responsibility as children.
So instead of sitting in a hilltop resort this weekend, I
have resign myself to watching cartons on Sunday morning, and praying everyday
that my mother quickly recovers so that this recurring nightmare finally comes
to an end for now.
Understanding my father
I don't think I will ever understand my father's choices.
Last month, he sounded as if he had something he was reluctant to tell us. I now know what that is.
For reasons only known to himself, my father has reunited with his wife, this one being the one he recently split up with a few months ago. This is also the marriage I consider a complete farce, since in my eyes, there is no relationship there, only dominance and submission. He went for an eye operation recently, and is now staying at her place again, with his her son.
I will never understand why my father would even want to go into back into a relationship that is fully dominated by her, consider she has almost no regard for his welfare. She is a totally selfish person, who cares more about herself and her son than my father. Surely even my father has eyes to see that. The son, at age 16 has a car to drive, courtesy of the mother, while my father continues to take the bus. How can a wife and mother be so mixed up in her priorities? Actually, she is not. She knows what she doing exactly, and she is taking care of the person that matters to her, and in that list, my father perhaps ranks the lowest.
And now, my father wants to take my bike to ride to and from work. I promised the bike to my girlfriends younger brother, since he is starting college soon. But now that my father has requested for it, I find myself unable to refuse him.My mother is totally against it. She did pay for it. My brother is not getting involved. But I find it absolutely ridiculous, since I know that his wife has a spare car lying around, driven by a step son who doesnt even have a drivers license for crying out loud. But as a son, I do not think I can refuse his request. I related this to my brother, and he said that I should give priority to my own flesh and blood, instead of others. I know that my girlfriends brother would be disappointed at me for backtracking on my word, and so, my heart longs to say these words to my father.
"As a son, I will give you the motorbike to use now that you have requested it. It is something I do out of love and as a filial son. I do this at the cost of breaking a promise I made to someone else, who is also dear to me. I find it hard to accept that you would rather ask this of me that to stand up to your wife and ask for what should rightfully be yours in a normal marriage and household. I have to make the difficult and painful choice of depriving a college going boy of his only means of transportation, while your step son happily drives around in a car which was meant for you, without a license with the only intention of showing off and looking cool to his friends. This is the difference between real family love and that which is fake. As painful as it might be, I will make this sacrifice for you, because you are my father. Please remember that when you start to consider who your family is."
Just an updated with a side dish of random thoughts
This weekend, I will be going up to Genting Highlands with my mother.
Its a hilltop resort, famous for the only legal gambling casino in Mlalaysia, as well as a world holiday resort. Just about everyone I know has gone there, everyone except me.
But we won't be going there for gambling, the opposite in fact. It's a church retreat organised by the church I have been attending. They asked me to go with my mother, and even told me I did not have to pay. So, its going to be the first time I'm going up Genting and the first time I am going on holiday (albeit a mini one) alone with my mother.
Tomorrow is also the last day of work for me at my present working place. I told my boss I was leaving early to get ready to leave for the UK. I haven't even packed, and I am totally clueless as to what to bring, or not to bring. Should I pack lots of socks? Do I bring disposable underwear? Toothpaste?
Time does indeed fly when you are not watching. It felt just like a while ago that I was just walking to this office, just days after finishing my last exams. Next thing you know, I'm two weeks away from flying off to the other side of the world, where I will stay in a strange land for 3 months and spend RM30,000 that I don't have, all in the name of a piece of certificate.
I did loose my thumb drive last week, and with it, all my important and personal items.. But I guess there was a flip side to it. I did not ask for it, but my boss gave me his old laptop, an old IBM laptop from 6 years ago to use. Now, 6 years old might not sound too bad, but if you live in the IT age, then you would know that a 6 year old laptop is as young as a dinosaur on a wheelchair. After a lot of tweaking here and there, I managed to get it in decent shape, and at least I have a computer of my own to do my blogging without the worry of someone staring over my shoulder on our home desktop. Plus, since he practically gave it to me, I can bring it along with me to the UK! So as long as the people in the UK know what a LAN cable is, I think I should be able to continue blogging. But I guess I'll only know when I get there.
My plan to get a digital camera before leaving has yet to materialize. I think I do have enough cash to buy a cheap, but I now find myself hesitating. After all, I won't die without one, and perhaps that money could be used for other purposes. For a while, getting it seemed like the single most important purpose of working these few months. But now that I'm at that point, I'm thinking perhaps getting a camera isn't all that matters in the world after all. Anyway, I did read somewhere that taking pictures is our human way of trying avoid mortality, as if capturing a picture is in a way preserving ourselves in time because there will never be another moment like this, and we will never be the same as we are not. I guess that was one of the reasons I want a camera so badly. But pictures also give a chronology of our lives, from the time we are born to the days before we die...... How many people tell you that when they want to get a camera eh? :-p Perhaps I have become too obsessed.
In other news, my mother seems to be improving somewhat, though just marginally. She has stopped trying to limp around, and the her aggression is now close to none. The only thing left is that she still talks a lot of nonsense, like talking to strangers and insisting that our housemate's girlfriend calls her mother. I gave her her house key today, and told her that it was a symbol of trust in her. It means that I will go home today believing that she is right there waiting for me.
I've had a case of writers block recently; can't seem to write any meaningful post, except the occasional blaberring here and there. I think the lack of inspiration has something to do with being trapped in the office for prolonged periods of time. As nice as the air conditioning is, it gives you nothing to write about except on how many times you've had to pee today. Barking at dogs and fiasco's in the petrol station make my life interesting! But surfing the internet all day with loads of free time has given me a lot of time to think and my mind has wondered here and there; from issues of the divine to the downright dirty (OK, I confess!), which really has no business in a work setting. But what can I say, I'm human too.
The perfect Worker
The Perfect Worker
1 Bob Smith, my assistant programmer, can always be found
2 hard at work in his cubicle. Bob works independently, without
3 wasting company time talking to colleagues. Bob never
4 thinks twice about assisting fellow employees, and he always
5 finishes given assignments on time. Often he takes extended
6 measures to complete his work, sometimes skipping coffee
7 breaks. Bob is a dedicated individual who has absolutely no
8 vanity in spite of his high accomplishments and profound
9 knowledge in his field. I firmly believe that Bob can be
10 classed as a high-caliber employee, the type which cannot be
11 dispensed with. Consequently, I duly recommend that Bob be
12 promoted to executive management, and a proposal will be
13 executed as soon as possible.
Addendum:
That idiot was standing over my shoulder while I wrote the report
sent to you earlier today. Kindly re-read only the odd numbered
lines.
Powered by ScribeFire.
Mother's day
For some reason, I can’t seem to remember spending any of the past Mother’s day with my mother. So this was the first.
Just as sudden as she left, she came back 2 days later. But if felt more like my mother had left, and someone else resembling her had returned. She was in a relapse again. All the symptoms returned; erratic, aggressive, argumentative and without any sense of the presents. She was talking a lot of nonsense, harping on issues ranging from a year ago to a decade ago. It felt like a familiar nightmare had just returned.
As expected, my brother was very hostile towards her and intimidated her physically and emotionally. She went on and on again about not needing medication, of how all the doctors and her friends were really against her. Worst of all was, she was limping again. She insisted that there was a shard of glass in her left leg, that would travel to her heart and kill her. That was always a sure sign to me that she was totally delusional.
She cried a lot and shouted a lot. I tried talking to her like how I have been the past 2 months. These past 2 months has been some of the best times I have spend with my mother. We went for long walks out in the part, dinner just she and I, exercise sessions and chatting in the play ground. She and I were able to connect on a level, like a mother and son, and I was really happy. But the person standing in front of me now was not the one I had countless conversations with recently. Just like that, for some reason, she was back to that ‘bad’ mom again the one that could never even listen to or finish a proper sentence. It was useless, and I lost my temper one too many times trying to reason again.
So it was back to square one again, and we had to pressure her to take her medication, since she was resisting. I knew that it was an accumulation of all the stress and anger she had been bottling for the past 2 months. My brother required her to cook 2 meals a day for our house mate and himself. I was seldom home, so I only took meals at home once in a while. He ordered her around, making her iron his cloths, and the only times he spoke to her was on what to cook the next day. To put it not so nicely, my brother was and remains a jerk. But he was to ignorant to see that. When she came back on Wednesday, my brother wanted nothing more that to just stay away from her. He even had the cheek to ask me to bring her along to where I was going, so that he was free to go pursue his own activities. It is his way of escaping. My brother has always found his comfort in friends more than in family.
But she did gradually improve, and her aggression tone down considerably, though she remains sad. On Mother’s day, I brought her to church with me. The weeks before, she had refused to go to church. She wanted only to go to service and leave so to avoid having to talk to anyone. I was worried, since she was still talking a lot of nonsense, and she was still a bit scruffy looking; she never cares much for her hygiene during these relapses. I think sadness was probably written on my face. Unlike my usual self, I avoided having too much conversation, because I knew she would want to leave, and I was feeling down myself. I brought her to a nice restaurant to eat; it was the least I could do for her for mothers day. But it was no happy affair. We ate in silence and just went home.
At times like this, it really pays to have a friend. I felt the need to talk to a friend, but I didn’t really have any private time of my own. All of my time these few weeks has been spend either working, with my girlfriend, or with my mother. As I watched her from behind during service, I felt a pang of sadness going through my heart again. Things were not well for my mother, on Mother’s day of all days. I know the rest of the congregation would probably stare at her peculiar behaviour, but would be too polite to ask or say anything in front of us. My only consolation in church was that people seemed to constantly praise me for bringing my mother along with me to church. They tell me they can really see that I love and care for her very much. Though it may be selfish to say this, but it made me feel better; to feel notice, appreciated and complemented for my efforts. For so many years, I suffer in silence, shouldering the burden of caring for my mother, as I do now, not telling more than I need to others. For some reason, some part of me always wants to share my struggles and emotions with others, while another side always holds back, ever conscious, ever putting on a brave front to others.
In 2 weeks I will be leaving and traveling to the other side of the world, where I would stay for the next 4 months. I worry over what is going to happen while I am away.
Where oh where has my mommy gone?
I'm not even sure just how to write it anymore.
For reasons only known to her, my mother left again, on Monday, taking her medication with her.
My brother gave me a call, all angry and fired up. She had left the keys in the post box, took some of her cloths along with the medication. Left no note and didn't bring her phone with her. "She's going to get it when she comes back. I don't care anymore, once she comes back, I'm going to take her straight for an injection." were the angry words of my brother. I was not angry, just upset, and really sad.
I really thought that she had put it all behind her and finally settle down, but she became more and more restless over the pass few weeks. Mainly, her complains were about my brother not treating her very well. For all his eagerness for us to stay together previously, in the end, it was my brother who spoke to her the least, ignored her the most, and ordered her around the most frequently.
To save on expense, he decided that since my mother didn’t do anything, she would cook for their lunch and dinner. He worked nearby, so he and our house mate would come home everyday for lunch. I only ate at home a couple of times per week. She felt pressure to cook up a reasonable meal twice a day, especially since my brothers friend, who was renting with us, would be eating to. What more, my brother was call her lazy whenever she was lying down not doing anything. The only times he seemed interested in talking to her was when he wanted her to make something for him to eat (which was often) and when he wanted to tell her what to cook for tomorrow.
He spends most of his time with his buddies from church, and refuses to go out with my mother, or take her anywhere, except when its to the supermarket. He gets upset when she expresses her concerns or worry; he gets angry when she asks him to not come home late, or not to play so much games. He gets angry when she talks about her thoughts on taking medication, on her wish to one day be free of any sort of medication. When I wasn’t around, my mother tried talking to him about him about her not taking the medication; perhaps she was just upset or restless, but my brother told her right off, saying if she doesn’t comply, she can leave right away.
I am not sure why my brother resorts to such threats to easily, but it made her feel very uncomfortable, and confided it to me that night.
So far a guy who has been on my back, accusing me of not putting family over my love life, my brother hasn’t really been a shining example. He has said in the past that I didn’t care much for the family, and seldom called just to say hie, while I would call my girlfriend multiple times a day. So ever since my mother moved in with her, I made it a point to spend time with her as much as I can. When I wasn’t spending time with my girlfriend or working, I was spending it with my mother. I brought her out for dinner, long evening walks and exercise sessions and sometimes just chatting in the living room. It was then that I found out my brother hardly spoke to my mother like a normal person, more like just a servant girl to be ordered around.
After speaking to my brother, my mother called from the bus station. Unlike last times, she was in no way in a relapse or disoriented. She knew what she was doing this time. She called to tell me she was going up north, and the key was in the post box. She didn’t know when she wanted to come back. I told her “Just go and do what you need to there and quickly come home.” This was not another episode of mental relapse. This was my mother, in her own self, unable to find peace at home. I asked her “Why are you going off? Aren’t you and I supposed to go up Genting next weekend?” She and I were going on a church retreat up a mountain resort next week, something she had been looking forward to. It was her reply that really got me so sad. She told me “I want to go, but I don’t know how I am going to take it once we come back, since you will be leaving soon after than. I don’t know what I am going to do for 3 months without you.”
She had said that before, and though I tried convincing her that 3 months was a short time, she still felt that she wouldn’t be able to take it staying with my brother alone.
In all honestly, I didn’t blame her. Her relationship with my brother was not balanced. My brother dominated her, and pushed her around, and she couldn’t take it. At times like this, I worry. He has all the potential signs of being an abusive partner, emotionally and at times, physically. He does it to my mother, who knows what will happen with his future wife.
I felt that I was spending one of the best times I have had with my mother. We talked about her youth days, about how I met my girlfriend, what it was like back when she was young, basically going down memory lane. I thought her how to play songs on the computer, and compile a list of her favourite songs with the title “Ma’s songs (please click here)” … it was to remind her how to turn on the songs.
I don’t think she deserves an injection when she gets back. Though it saddens me, I know that this time, she left knowing what she was up to. Again, my brother has shown that despite all his talk of family, he has no idea what is going on in my mothers heart.
Lonely nights in Geylang
Sorry for the absence, but things have been rather hectic, and somewhat interesting for the past few days.
Monday morning; Barely 10 minutes after walking into office, my boss calls for a snap meeting. “The boss is bored, and he is in one of his moods again”, my colleague tells me. Little could I anticipate what was about to happen. Don’t worry; you don’t have to sit down for this.
Another 10 later I walked out of the meeting. 24 hours later, I was driving with another colleague down to Singapore.
There are a lot of things I wanted to write about; of how it feels so different going there again, alone on a work trip instead of holiday; of how sterile Singapore feels; or how Malaysia seems to lag behind in so many ways compared to our brilliant neighbour; or how similar the local culture is to us.
But in the end, I decided to just cut it short and get to the juicy bit that is on everyone’s mind, all the time: sex.
Now, just for some background; Singapore is conservatively Asian. But surprisingly prostitution is legal there. More because the government wants to manage and regulate it, rather than pretend it doesn’t exist. Ask anyone who’s ever been to Singapore, and you would inevitably be pointed to one place: Geylang Road, the conclave of the Singaporean sex trade.
My colleague was going to stay with his brother, who lives there. So there was the question on where I would stay. Not wanting to “spoil” me at such a young and tender age, my colleague tried checking me into one of the hotels nearer to Jurong Island, which was out of town, and where most of the petrochemical companies were based. But there were only 2 hotels near to the place, and both were full. And so, the only affordable choice was to go to downtown Geylang and check into one of the hotels there. O
I was sent on my way with 500 Singaporean dollars on a cab. Upon arriving at Geylang, the place was buzzing with activity. I walked around, searching for the hotel I was to check into. There seemed to be 3 groups of people there; Foreigners, mainly Indian nationals, hanging around; Elderly men, some lining up at the nearest ATM, others sitting down for supper with women young enough to be their grand daughter. Then there was the prostitutes… the entire street filled with them, plying their trade without any worries.
I finally found the hotel I was looking for 2 alleys down. In the words of my colleague who tried preventing me from staying there, “The place is a f**k joint.” And I couldn’t say he was wrong. By all appearances, it was just a regular hotel. But the fact that numerous men and women seemed to be checking in and out suggested otherwise. “Shit, the hotel staff probably think I’m here for that too!” I thought to myself. But since I was to be my place of residence for the next 2 days, I just lived with it.
I wanted to see more of the place, and so after work, I took a walk down Geylang road, looking for dinner and some things to buy for the folks back home. If there is one other good thing about Geylang road, is the food. There were so much variety, and so many shops to choose from. At least that was something the prostitutes and shops had in common. There were all sorts of them at very reasonable prices; the food I mean.
As for the other kind of meat, well, there isn’t a short supply of variety either. I could see all sorts of girls; mainland china, Filipino, Indonesian and even Indian; short, tall, fat, skinny, petite, from the downright ugly to the absolutely stunning. Its hard not to look, when every corner you take, you see women dressed in their sexiest outfit, inviting you to spend a couple of hours with them. But sex was not only the thing they offered.
In many of the restaurants, I could see aged men, sitting next to beautiful girls, just talking, chatting and having a meal. I could sense something; Maybe some of these old men are just horny old geezers, but it seemed to me that more than the sex, these old men with cash to spare were just looking for company, and a chance to feel young and wanted again, and what better way to do that than to have a beautiful young girl spending time with you, listening to you, chatting, and even sleeping with you, even if they were paid to do so. Maybe their spouse passed away, or maybe it was their marriage was dead.
Avoiding eye contact with these prostitutes sometimes proved to be difficult to me. For one, I generally give eye contact to people. I don’t believe in walking with you head tilted to the ground. I always walk watching what is in front, and I make eye contact with the people in front of me, even if its just for a while; but for some reason, my girlfriend always say I never watch where I’m going. Maybe its because I am perpetually knowing into chairs and tables. Secondly, the streets were narrow, and crowded with prostitutes and people passing by.
And on one occasion, after finally buying some presents for my girlfriend, I walked right into 3 rather attractive girls offering ‘massage’ services. Compared to the rest, these 3 seemed much more polished and less shabby. I wasn’t really ready for what happened next. There was eye contact, but I didn’t stop walking. As I passed, one girl gently clasped her hands around mine while another pulled my shirt at my chest saying “Come sir, massage.” I knew what they were, but I still could feel my face starting to flush with embarrassment; never have I ever been seduced so brazenly, what more by 3 women. Their hands felt soft and gentle. My brain froze, and I couldn’t think. But luckily, my legs continued walking, and I could feel them gradually letting go. You know that song Dory sings in Finding Nemo when the goggle drops deep into the ocean? Well, I was going “Just keep walking, just keep walking, just keep walking walking walking…..”
Quickly reaching back to my room, there was only one thing on my mind… a long cold shower to straighten out those ruffled feathers. I was planning on going for more walks around the area, to see more of the country, but now I was thinking perhaps I’d better just stay in the room and watch replays of Seinfield on TV. I bought a copy of Time magazine with some chips, sat in my room, with the TV volume up, and read the entire edition. Of course, there was the occasionally sound of couples coming in and out of the rooms. Poorly insulated, I could hear the next door TV, the sound of people showering, talking, silence (or not), then shower, then people walking out of the room about an hour later.
Gee.. I wonder what they were up to. But it sure wasn’t to check on the plumbing.
I will not pretend to be innocent and noble. But in a way, it is sad when someone is willing to give sex for money. Make not mistake about it; these girls are humans to, and I am sure at some level, they know that they is demeaning to themselves. But the chase for money, whether its for a better life or to buy that new Prada bag, has become so intense that these women offer their body to any man with enough cash.
Even more, its sadder when someone has to pay just to get someone to sit down and talk to them. I don’t know how many 60 year olds were there just wanting to get laid, but it seemed to me there were plenty of them that were more interested in just sitting down with their paid escorts, paying for dinner, just so the woman would stay and talk to them. I think it was by no coincidence that most of the men walking into the hotel with women were young guys, while the ones sitting one in the restaurant with their escorts were elderly men. The young pay for sex, the old pay for company; and if you asked me, I’d say the older men would probably pay more for an hour of conversation then young men would for legs spread wide.
Sex for procreation is miraculous & sacred; sex for bonding and intimacy is fulfilling & strengthening; sex for leisure is natural & enjoyable. But what do you say of sex for money? Which do you think lesser of; the promiscuous swinger or the prostitute? The swinger does it out of choice, but the prostitute may well do it out of desperation. But does that even matter? Would you think better of a prostitute who does it out of desperation than one who just wants more money for shopping?
Questions on morality are never easily answered. Many of us would readily condemn women who give sex for money and dirty old men that pay for it, but we fail to be so critical when our own lust and desires start to take over.
As I left Singapore, my mind wondered back to the couple in front of me the night earlier; an old man chatting animatedly to the pretty young lady holding his arm, listening attentively. Both with something to offer each other; one his money, the other her time and attention. Both seemed happy and walked away winners. How do you judge that?
