“What a blunder I had last week,” sighs Chow Kah. He takes a long swig from his San Miguel beer-filled mug. He, Hussein and I are taking a breather after belting out six consecutive rock 'n rolls with GROs Wati and Jessica. The padded walls of the the VIP Room now ring with gossip and shop talk and confessions, both true and concocted.
“What went wrong?” asks 36-24-38-inch Jessica, seated beside him. Her arm is draped over his shoulder. She breathes heavily, having blasted with force into the mike moments ago. As she inhales, her half-exposed breasts rise as high as Mt Kinabalu; when the sex kitten exhales, they morph into Gunung Tahan – but still big enough to stir desire in any normal hot-blooded bloke.
“I’m listening, friend,” Hussein coaxes him. “Bad day in the office?”
Chow Kah lifts a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wipes his mouth. “I was in a five-star hotel spa in Bukit Bintang. The captain beckoned a group of the China, Vietnamese and Indonesian ladies for me to choose. They lined up in a row. I took a Vietnamese with big boobs. After the massage, it was time for special service. When she undressed, my heart sank. My manhood almost failed to rise to the occasion; she was almost flat chested. What the heck...She was wearing push-up bras. Cheh!”
“Sometimes, what you see is not what you get,” says Hussein. He pops open a can of Bintang Beer. Wati takes a piece of tissue and wipes the top of the beer can for him.
She chips in: “My 65-year-old atuk (grandpa) had a similar bad experience. He angkat one awek Thai (Thai girl) in an urut batin centre. Then discovered her breasts were artificial. Hard like rubber. Kasihan my atuk, main pun tak sedap, he told me.”
“Breast implants are easy to spot in the raw, “ I say, sipping my water melon juice. “There are scars underneath the breasts near the armpits.”
Chow Kah scratches his head with his forefinger. “But how do you spot fake breasts when looking at a girl fully clothed?” His lecherous sight plunges like daggers into Jessica’s cleavage. He longs to be a baby again.
“Let me give some tips”, says Jessica. “Everyone, look at my breasts.” She raises her arms above her head. Then she stretches them behind her back. “See? They change shape when I move my arms, rite? Fake breast remain the same shape.”
“In a spa, you can’t ask gurls lined for you to mirror to do those exercises, can you?” Chow Kah cracks a watermelon seed between his nicotine-stained teeth.
Jesssica continues: “There are other signs. Usually fake breasts are high up. They are usually round, very round. Natural breasts have sloped curves at the top. Also, observe whether the breasts are far apart. If the cleavage is broad, the breasts are fake.”
“I see..." Chow Kah nods his head, spits out the kuachi shells on the floor.
“Wati, yours are real ah?” Hussein asks. He tries to fondle her breasts but she, as a purveyor of sensuality but not sex, gently pushes his groping hands away. “Ling, jangan lah... (Darling, don't...)” She winks and smiles at him and shakes her breasts which wobble like jelly. “Ling, see? My nehneh are original.”
"Ah, today, I learned a new word -- nehneh." Hussein nods in appreciation. (Pixs of models for illustration only)
/end
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