"Willie Mongin has guts when he spoke out against disallowing bikini-wearing at swimming pools," says Jessica

"Some quarters would like to see our beaches filled with women attired in black robes frolicking in the water,"  Jessica says, leaning back in her wingback chair. "Willie Mongin, Puchak Borneo MP,  doesn't belong to those parochial-minded people. I bet some fuckers here don't even know that there're nude resorts in Thailand and even in Bali."  

A spark twinkles in Jessica's eyes. "No, no, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying nude camps should be allowed here but merely pointing out the difference in mentality between the different tourism authorities."

"You visited Singapore last month. Does that country allow bikinis?"

"Don't know. I was at East Coast Beach, showing off my boobs! No one stared at me with goo-goo eyes."

"Can I see some pictures?"

"My pleasure." Jessica shows me her photo gallery in her cell phone. "That will cost you another tray of lady's drinks!"

"Where did you stay?" I take a glug of my Asahi beer.

"Fullerton Hotel. Five-star, regular room, siphoned my wallet by SING 700 per night." The bombshell points to a photo. "That's Anderson Bridge, hotel's in the background. Right in the middle of all heritage attractions." She tosses her gaze at the bartender. "Mike, lady's drink, another tray. Make it applejack this time."

"You've been to a nude camp?"

"They're called naturist camps in Thailand." The nightclub's number one hostess throws her head back and titters, "Seven out of ten couples at nude camps are grannies and grandpas Expect to see few nubile virgins and virile studs." Jessica winks one purple mascaraed eye. "Better burn your money in Hot Legs Nightclub!"

How to spot a horny woman and take one home, according to Jessica and Wati of Hot Legs Niteclub

“Who’s that new GRO talking with Mamasan Lulu?” asks Chow Kah. “Pretty face but dressed like an officer worker. Must be boring to have her as company.” Mid-thirties and well-heeled, my drinking buddy is wearing black loafers with tassels on them, a bluish polo shirt hanging out of his gray slacks, and a thick gold watch that gleams like soft butter on his wrist.

Seated beside Chow Kah, Jessica is dropping crushed ice cubes into glasses with a pair of thongs. Braless, her cleavage is peeping out of her strap top and her long legs are encumbered by a brief pair of shorts.

“Don’t judge an apple by its outer skin,” I say, leaning back on the velvety settee.

“It’s true,” Hussein grunts, both hands resting on his beer belly. “Last month, a girl who wears a tudong started working in my office. Weeks later, her character was revealed. She’s got four boyfriends, keeps four separate handphones for each boyfriend.” The middle-aged playboy’s eyes are two mahogany marbles that are almost lost behind the puffy pouches that buttress them.

Wati adjusts her the strap of her brown top. “Exterior clothes are not important, it’s the lingerie that reveals a girl's sexuality." Her 36-34-38 figure is packed in her five-feet-seven frame, and her smooth hands with slender fingers ending in long varnished nails are  resting on Hussein’s lap.

I toss my gaze from Wati’s face to Jessica chewing her thumbnail, her legs on the sofa. “Like how?” I ask, swivelling my eyes back to Wati’s bronzed shoulders kissed by loose strands of silky cinnamon-colour, down a curvy figure that always drives patrons wild.

“If she loves to wear sexy panty and bras, she's highly sexed. If they’re plain white or plain black, she's as cold as frozen meat.” Wati picks a stick of satay from a platter and feeds Hussein.

“Has your theory been tested?” I ask.

“From my experience with spa girls, it’s true,” Hussein says, chewing a chunk of chicken meat. “When a spa girl undresses and she’s in sexy undergarments, I know I’m in for a good time. If she’s wearing plain white bra and panty, I know it’s wham-bam, thank you-maam.”

“Yes, girls who wear sexy panty’re easier to sleep with," Wati says.

“I also heard about this theory before,” Chow Kah says. “But what an experience I had testing it.” He slides sideways to entwine an arm around Jessica’s waist and they become a pair of Siamese twins.

“Share the story.” I take a sip of my Singapore Sling.

Chow Kah’s small eyes hop-scotch from face to face in the KTV room.    “Last time, I was a dating a colleague. She stays alone with her father, her mother had passed away. I went to her condo to see what kind of lingerie she wears. I pretended I wanted to smoke and went to the balcony. To my excitement, I saw a silk, lacy leopard-spot panty with matching brasserie and another hot set of frilly undergarments hanging to dry. Full steam ahead I went to court her. One evening after watching a movie, I drove her to Titiwangsa, stopped in the car park.” The veteran night-clubber’s shoulders slump as he continues. “We chatted and I leaned forward to kiss her. She slapped me. I was so embarrassed and apologized profusely."

“Tough luck, end of friendship?” Jessica asks, decanting red wine into Chow Kah’s glass.

Chow Kah fills his mouth with crushed ice and red wine, and chews while he studies my face. He takes a big swallow. “Lucky, we remained as friends. Couple weeks later, I cooked up an excuse to go to her condo again to double-check what I had seen earlier.” He puts his glass down and points to it for a re-fill.  “This time, I saw plain bras and panty hanging in the balcony. I couldn’t resist asking her about the sexy lingerie. ‘Sorry, are those undergarments yours?’ I asked her. Why you ask, she replied. Weeks ago, I remember having seen frilly panties? I told her. She explained that those frilly panties belong to her 80-year old grandmother. Sometimes she visits her family. That day, the crone was sleeping in her room, that’s why I didn’t see her.” The philanderer casts his gaze about the furniture. “Where’s the song menu?

“Now I remember.” Eyes squinted in thought, Wati puts a finger to her chin. “The Journal of Psychohealth published the first documented case of a 20-year-old Bangaldesh married woman who’s oversexed. She and her husband had sex five or six times in the early days of their marriage. A year later, he couldn’t continue the rigor, so she divorced him. Year 2020, Volume 2, Issue 1.” The hottie hunches her shoulders in a giggle. “Why don’t you contact the journal to get to know her?”

“Cheh!” Chow Kah makes a face. “Too far, Bangla girls are not my taste, too. Any other local sources?” Jessica slides the menu from the bottom rack of the coffee table, places it on her darling’s lap, who delivers a quick peck on her cheek. “Thanks, dear.”

“There’s Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous Malaysia.” Wati grabs her handphone from the coffee table and fiddles with it.  “Try your luck there, become a member, and hook up with over-sexed women. But these're people trying to cure their sex addiction, not seeking sex, so your shenanigan may backfire.” The Indonesian bombshell springs to her feet, takes a step forward and shows her handphone to Chow Kah. “Look, here’s their website. Good luck!”

https://slaamalaysia.wordpress.com/

Hussein lifts a gnarled finger. “I want that website's address, too.” His eyes brighten with enthusiasm. 

Wati stares at him with her eyes hot, her teeth tight together, her lips parted a little.

/end.

“You can’t spot a pervert or a kinky sicko a foot away,” says Mummy Lulu. “Sheesh, I never knew he was that kind.”

Mummy Lulu lifts her penciled eyebrows. “You heard of David Carradine?” She picks up a Menglembu groundnut from a two-tiered plastic platter, cracks the brittle skin and tosses the seeds into her mouth.  The first tier of the platter overflows with Menglembu roasted groundnuts; the second, Shandong roasted groundnuts.  

I shift my weight on the upholstered bench. “Yeah, the Kung Fu TV series actor.” A waitress brings me my Asahi Super Dry, opens the bottle and departs. “Why suddenly you talk about David Carradine?” I fill my glass with beer. “Died in a Bangkok hotel, fifteen years ago.”

Mummy Lulu and I are tucked in a booth halfway between the door of Hot Legs Niteclub and the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms in back. It is Happy Hours and Mike, the mustachioed-cum-bearded bartender, is whistling while polishing mugs with a terry cloth.

The mama-san swigs her Schnapps, her jigging throat reminding me of a turkey’s wattle. “I was planning a trip to Bangkok. Jessica told me to avoid the Swissotel Nai Lert Park Hotel coz David died there.” She replaces the empty shot glass in the silver tray crammed with five other full glasses. “Might be haunted by his ghost, Jessica said.”  Mummy takes a swallow. “Wow, these nuts are still crunchy after being kept for so long. How’s the Shandong?”

“No worries, the hotel closed five years back.” I tackle a Shangdong groundnut. “Good stuff, I can hear crock crock in my ears. But Menglembu has a milder burnt aroma. Pagoda brand?”

“Yep.” Mummy Lulu grabs a handful of Shangdong groundnuts and drops them in front of her. She sits upright and starts to crack the nuts. “You know in what condition was David found?” The vertical lines between the funky lady’s brows deepen. “Inside a closet, hands tied above his head, cords tied around his neck and genitals. He was wearing fishnet stockings and a dark wig. A piece of woman’s lingerie was also found on his bed.” The mama-san spreads her mottled hands, their fingers varnished fire-engine red, her mouth dropping open. “What the fuck was he doing with those clothes? His embarrassed family invented a theory that David was possibly murdered by the Thai mafia and—by extension— dressed up in those clothes by his killers. Baloney.” Big, horsey reveal themselves as Mummy chomps on the seeds with a firm clamp of her jaw. “His ex-wives Gail Jensen and Marina Anderson later revealed that David had a history of performing kinky sex acts, and had often bought sex toys. Shosana Arazy, the owner of his regular sex store, confirmed that David had several back orders which had not been collected. This man had sick tastes, and very likely died from  autoerotic asphyxia gone wrong.”

“Never judge an apple by its outer skin. Inside, may have worms.”

Mummy Lulu suddenly hacks, picks up a shot glass and upends it, draining it dry. “You kinky, Ewe?” She delivers a few slaps to her chest with a flat palm. “Ahem, ahem.”

“Straight as a ruler. Why you ask?” I study the mama-san’s face, almost counting the number of wrinkles on her forehead. “What about you?”

“On its fringes, but I harbour a must-do kinky fantasy though.”

“BDSM?”

“I fantasize performing autoerotic asphyxia on a partner by smothering my gnarled, shaved pussy on him. I’d love to sit on his face until he near-suffocates to death. And that man must be a writer—not any other profession.”

“Eeeeeek!” The muscles in my throat convulse several times before I’m able to speak. “What’re you implying?” I jolt upright in my seat. “Mother of God, that act's risky. In the USA, about 500 deaths are reportedly yearly because of autoerotic asphyxia gone awry.” I gesture towards the bartender with a jerk of my head. Why don’t you try Mike? It may be ticklish, though.”

Mummy Lulu fist-bumps me with a grin, and my grin matches hers.

/end

“Virgin hair in high demand in China,” says Kyaw of Hot Legs Niteclub

Big yellow teeth glistens behind Mummy Lulu’s thick red lips. “Hi, Chow Kah!” She approaches his table in the KTV hall with a curvy lass in tow and stops a few feet away. “I’ve a surprise for you! My latest hostess! Ta-ta!” The mama-san gestures with an open palm to the average-height hostess who tosses a shy glance at Chow Kah and looks away. “Her name’s Kyaw, new Yangon talent.”  The crone hands a one-page menu over to Chow Kah. “Try her company for tonight?”  The night-clubber points to a spot on the menu and hands it back. “Sorry, but Jessica’s on leave today and tomorrow. You did not book a KTV room, so Hussein’s not coming?”

Chow Kah grasps the arms of the chair lightly. “He’s attending a business conference in Jakarta. Asked me to convey his affectionate regards to Wati.” Eyes bugging wide, he sweeps his gaze from Kyaw’s face to her sandaled feet with appropriate stops along the way. “How’s your English, Kyaw?”

Kyaw twinkles her eyes at Chow Kah. “I graduated from Hinthada University in tourism studies.” Her English is excellent and Chow Kah twinkles his eyes back at her.

Mummy Lulu palms the small of Kyaw’s back, directing her to the wingback chair next to Chow Kah. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she adds with a nod, “Dagon Lager beer, right?” Her eyes shift sideways to Kyaw. “And a super-garland and big tray of tequila for your new-found girlfriend!”

Kyaw drops her butt on the wingback chair, and smoothes her long tresses over her shoulders. Her cheekbones can cut glass and the right side of her face is tinted bluish by the neon sign of a Carlsberg advertisement a cigarette-stub’s throw away.   

Chow Kah leans sideways. “Gee, you’ve such beautiful hair.”

“Virgin hair is in high demand in China.” The crimson slash of Kyaw’s lips tug at Chow Kah’s eyes. “That’s why I take good care of my hair, may bring in money.”

A dent of puzzlement appears between Chow Kah’s eyes. “Huh? Perverts in China clamour for, err, pubic hair from a virgin?” He makes a face. “Yuks, some  sort of a fetish?

“Noooo….” Kyaw blasts out a giggle. “Hair from the head!’

“Oh, head hair only from a virgin?  I see. Hair from a married woman or a divorcee is worthless?”

A waiter brings the beer and tequila. “Oops, sorry, I forget the opener.”  Plastering a sheepish smile on his mahogany-coloured face, he scratches the back of his head. “I’ll be back.”

“Never mind about the opener,” Kyaw says and the waiter departs. One by one, she picks up the bottles and prises their caps off using her teeth under the shocked gaze of Chow Kah, his mouth agape.

“We, Myanmar girls have strong teeth!” Kyaw chuckles and pours beer into Chow Kah’s mug. She says, “By virgin hair, I mean hair that hasn't been permed, or dyed, or treated to any chemical in a salon. In short, natural hair.”  The coffee-skinned babe sets the mug in front of Chow Kah, picks up a shot glass and sniffs its content. “One hundred centimetres of waist-length virgin hair fetches USD100-200 per kg. They’re used for making wigs and hair extensions. Only hair from Myanmar girls. Hair from other foreign girls fetch lower prices. Cheers!” She takes a swig of her tequila and a grimace wrinkles her nose.

Chow Kah blinks. “Why? I mean, why Myanmar girls?”

A waitress arrives and collars Kyaw with a big garland. “Our hair is the softest in Asia.” Kyaw picks up the chit and shoves it inside a metal container. “You been to Myanmar?”

The foam has died down in his mug and Chow Kah takes a sip of his beer. “May go in the future.”

“Tell you something about our hair culture. Some women cut their hair and donate them to temples.” Kyaw tosses another shot glass of tequila down her throat. “A few even shave themselves bald!  These temples will sell the hair to agents. They end up in hair trading centres based in Meiktila. After cleaning and conditioning, they’re sold to wig factories in China.”

“Err, what about hair from other part of the body?”

“Don’t think dirty, darling.” A sly smile flitters around Kyaw’s lips and dies. “They’re different from head hair. Demand for our hair is so great that hair falls are also collected from combs in salons. But fetch lower prices since they’ve to be untangled first.” The Yangon babe crosses her legs and sucks in an inhale, expanding her bosom.  “Do you know there’re long hair competitions in Myanmar? Some of the contestants have hair reaching to the calves.” She exhales and her chest returns to normal. 

“Gee…I wouldn’t want my wife to have such long hair!”

“Oh, why?”

“An over long-haired woman reminds me a pontianak.” Chow Kah mocks a shudder. “Pour white powder on her face and hair and what does she look like? A female ghoul.” The randy night-clubber stretches an arm to hold Kyaw’s hand. “Hair that falls around the shoulders is fine with me”

Kyaw leans towards Chow Kah and circles her fingers around his gnarled paw. “The University of Western Ontario conducted a study which found that men perceive women with long hair to be more attractive.” She pauses, grating her lips with an impish smile. “You find me attractive, darling?”

 “Do women find balding man attractive?”

“Ooooh, bald man are sexy!” Kyaw throws her head back and laughs. “Compared to blokes with thinning or thick hair, a baldie is regarded as more masculine, more dominant and more confident. This was the conclusion of a study done by the University of Pennsylvania. Results were published in Social Psychological and Personality Science.” She blows wisps of bangs from her bright round eyes. “You see, I’m more than just a pretty face, darling—” her lips quirk sideways “— I'm also well-read. Ahem.”

“I see! Drum roll! Ta-ta!” Chow Kah bares his crooked teeth in a grin. “From today, I needn’t wear my toupee!” He yanks off his wig and drops it on his lap. Revealed is short spiky hair and a large bald spot on the crown of his head. “Bah! Should have known about that university’s study earlier.”

“Oh Mother of God!” Kyaw jerks her head back. “You look, err, you look…” She twists her mouth into a moue of disgust.

Colour glows on Chow Kah’s cheeks. “Look what?”

“Cruel truth here.” Kyaw’s delicate shoulders become as stiff as her smile. “The study said bald men only look more masculine, more dominant, but, unfortunately, not more attractive.” Her smile morphs into a pitiful laugh.  

“What the heck!” The bubble of his erstwhile pride broken, Chow Kah’s voice takes on a saw-edge as he replaces his toupee. “I know I look terrible.” His eyes hopscotch beyond Kyaw to Mummy Lulu standing several feet away. The mama-san is laughing like an ape, her sinewy shoulders shaking uncontrollably in her bodycon dress.

“Cheer up, darling.” Kyaw waggles her thin arched brows. “A fat wallet’s more important than not having hair.”  

/end

Hot Legs Niteclub clique Wati and Hussein play voyeurs in a forest park

The wind is tickling the leaves of the canopy as Wati and Hussein trudge along a trail in the Sungei Pertak Recreational Forest. A romantic spot—waterfalls, fish sanctuary, Selangor River Dam lookout point, camping site—for a night-clubber to spend personal time with his favourite hostess.

Tweet! Teeet! Tweet! Teeet!

Wati’s gaze rises skyward. “Look! A crow!” She points to the top of a great banyan tree whose trunk is hardly more than a mass of interlocked roots.

A tight dress shirt wraps her ample chest, with the shirt tails tied in a knot around her flat stomach.    

Belly hanging over his belt. Hussein whips his binoculars out from his knapsack and looks up with it. “No, no.   It’s a magpie, not a crow. A black magpie.” He is wearing an oversize T-shirt, extra wide, and unlaced Timberland hiking boots.

They hear water gurgling over a rocky stretch of the river running parallel to the trail. Wati stops abruptly in her tracks and shoots Hussein a quick sideward gaze. “Goodness, looks like a woman bathing.”  She points to a spot beyond the bushes.

“Got people staying here?”

“Could be Orang Asli, could be squatters.”

Wati and Hussein edge closer to the river bank and stoop behind some  undergrowth. Hussein uses his binoculars to focus on the figure.

The back of the woman is facing them. Long hair flows from her head to her hip. Her big, round buttocks send a tingling sensation to Hussein’s loins.

“Your handphone got camera with zoom function?”

“Nope.”

“Why?” Piak! Wati hits a mosquito landing on her luscious thigh but misses.

I’d love to be a mosquito and land on her thigh, Hussein fantasizes. “I want to take pictures. Squat down, darling, otherwise she may see us.”

Wati hunkers down. Her jorts are so tight that a clit forms at the crotch.

“I'll just enjoy the eye candy.” With bulging eyes, Hussein peers through the binoculars.

The bather starts to turn around.

Wowie zowie, going to get a gander of her boobs, Hussein concludes but, the next instant, he does a double take, lips slashing downward in disappointment.  “Celaka! It’s just a Sikh man, not a babe.”

A giggle escapes from Wati’s throat. “Better chance of seeing boobs in a nightclub than in a forest, dear.”

 /end

Bars/clubs in KL with hot oh-la-la foreign hostesses

President Club 

Lot 14080, Jalan Kuchai Lama.
Kuala Lumpur
010-289 7933
Thais, Viets, Pinoy PR ladies.
 
Red Velvet Club
J-0G-05, 06, & 08
Solaris Mont Kiara
Kuala Lumpur
019-220 7111
All Thai PRs, with live band.
 
Mexico Lounge
2-2A Medan Imbi
Kuala Lumpur
016-516 1516
Mostly Thais, PRC and Vietnamese
 

Domain Club
1st Floor, Scott's Garden
Jalan Klang Lama
Kuala Lumpur
010-393 8064
 
Ceo Cafe & Restaurant
Lot 5-0-4 Jalan 3/109F 

Taman Danau Desa
Kuala Lumpur
010-238 8144
No flowers but stickers cost RM100 to RM300.
All hostesses are on the first floor.
 
Meridien Club
No 20 & 22, Jalan Puteri 1/4
Bandar Puteri Puchong

017-627 1079
Lots of Vietnamese hostesses, with live band
 

/end

Cronies of Hot Legs Niteclub make toasts on New Year' s Eve

 

Half-strangled by a bow-tie, Papa-san Yap -- owner of Hot Legs Niteclub -- croaks, “He who loves not women, wine, and song. He will be a fool his whole life long. Hence, I like to make a  toast to naughty nightclubs where good men belong!”

 

Mummy Lulu says: “Here’s too many reasons for drinking; and one has just entered my head; if a man doesn't drink when he's living; how the hell can he drink when he's dead! So come carefree to Hot Legs Niteclub.” 

Chow Kah toasts, hefting his Martini glass, “Here’s to alcohol, which often makes one see double, and feel single.”

“Hear! Hear!” hoots Jessica. “Alcohol may be a man’s worst enemy, but Lord Buddha says love your enemy.” 

Hussein cheers, lifting his glass high,  “Here's to women, the source of a man’s bliss, There's a taste of heaven for him in her kiss." 

Perched on a stool, Wati sneers, “Here's to those who love us well; Those who don't can go to Hell!"

/end

“Omigosh!” gasps Mummy Lulu. “The anthem of the Malayan Communist Party sounds like a love song!”

"Holy cow!” I grunt at my smart phone, held in front of me. “Why’re you wearing a Communist uniform?” I lean back in my chair and cross my legs.

Mummy Lulu and I are in the middle of a video call.

“I borrowed it for Hot Legs’New Year’s Eve costume party. Now trying it out while pottering around my garden.”  Mummy Lulu squints as she steps out of the shade of a tree into the sunlight.  “You know, you should change the music in your book trailer ‘Burma Road Driver, Resistance Fighter.' ”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrU4fJIEBJk

I rest the elbow of my phone arm on the arm of the chair.  “Oh, why?”

“I stumbled upon the anthem of the Malayan Communist Party on YouTube, sounds like a romantic song.”  The muscles shift in Mummy Lulu’s wrinkled throat.  “Use this song in your book trailer instead. Info about the MCP is hard to come by, always suppressed.” The moving background behind Mummy Lulu freezes as she plops on a garden chair.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQy-9-tbiP0

“But-history-is-history.” I spit the words out with emphasis, my voice turning to serious.  “No matter how much they’re hated by certain quarters, they fought against the Japanese.”

“Yup, accept them as part of Malaya’s history.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bo4QXyRglkU

“Go tell that to certain quarters who regard the MCP—despite having surrendered and disbanded in 1989—like the bogeyman.”

Mummy Lulu’s voice rises above the soft chirping of birds. “Now, I called to ask whether you’re coming to our party.”

“He who misses it is a fool!”

Wrinkles fan from the corners of Mummy Lulu’s lips, creased in a grin. “Your fancy dress?”

A chuckle rumbles from my throat. “I wanna be on the same page as you. Mao Zedong’s jacket and a one-star cap.  See you, bye.”

/end

Hot KTVs in KL with gorgeous hostesses! Warning: pricey!

Palace Eight

8^th Floor, Wisma MPL

Jalan Raja Chulan

KL

Tel: 03-2022 1088

(Stunning hostesses but bar-fine is difficult unless the mama-san knows you.) 

Paragon Club

Ground Floor

Menara PGRM

Jalan Pudu Ulu

KL

Tel: 019-729 9963

(Budget RM800 for a big room (three hours) and another RM800 per hostess as three-hour booking fee. Bar-fine is RM1,500, if you’re lucky.)

“Perform the sex ritual on Mount Kemukus to become rich and successful,” advises Wati of Hot Legs Niteclub

I snatch a fork to lance at a few French fries from a platter. “Going back home for Christmas?” I ask Wati, lodging the fries in my mouth.  

Seated before me, Wati pins her gaze on me, her sooty lashes fluttering. “Yes, back to Java for one week.” She shifts in her chair, a shimmer of satin straining against full breasts while she adjusts a strap of her slip dress.  Deep copper hair falls over her shoulders like a horse’s mane.

Wati and I are dawdling over snacks and drinks about her regular customer Hussein—married with four wives—and his attempts to win her affection.  Wide mirrors, glistening bottles, paintings of nude couples, row after row of polished glasses, a paunchy half-bald barman, a line of office workers latched at the counter—all these things constitute the scene before us.

I munch on the fries. “Which city?”  The crunch echoes in my ears.

“Yogyakarta.”  Wati tips her shot glass to her lips and a wince steals over her features. “Yuks! This Italian spirit is bitterer than I expected.”

“I haven’t been to Java. What’s it famous for?”

Wati gulps an unladylike swig of water and releases an exhale.  “Borobudur Temple, Mount Kemukus and Mount Bromo.” She flicks her gaze sideways to a waiter and back to me.

“Active volcanoes?”

“Bromo, yes, but Kemukus is known as Sex Mountain.” The waiter comes with a sterling pitcher in hand, replenishing Wati’s water glass. “Thanks, she says, awarding him with a smile. “Get me vodka.”

I put my fork down, my throat feeling tighter from the fries. “Sounds like a little-known tourist attraction.” A mouthful of Asahi beer washes the crumbs of fries down the hatch.

A grin spreads Wati’s scarlet lips, her white teeth twinkling as much as her eyes. “People go there for —” she leans forward, diffusing the smell of perfume, and her voice becomes sultry”—kongkek! And partner must not be your spouse. Do it seven times and you will get good luck and fortune. The ritual is called the Pon Festival.”

Surprise widens my eyes. “A brothel on a mountain?”

Wati jerks upright, her chin hefting up along with a flip of her eyelashes. “Hey, it’s a sacred mountain, there’s no whorehouse there.” She skewers me with a serious expression. “Here’s the legend. During the Majapahit era, there was a vassal kingdom called Demak. Prince Samodro of Demak fell in love with his stepmother Ontrowulan. They eloped to Mount Kemukus and lived there.  The sultan of Demak sent soldiers to kill them.  One day, or maybe at night, they were stabbed to death while in mid-coitus.” 

 “Mid-coitus?” My eyes become wider still. “You serious?”

Wati delivers a grim smile. “Yes, the couple were in the midst of fucking -- ahem, pardon my French -- when they were killed. With her dying breath, Ontrowulan uttered a benediction—or curse— that anyone who has sex with a stranger will be blessed with good luck and wealth.”  Her voice turns firm, matching the stern look in her eyes. “There’s a belief that the more sinful and the more shameful the act committed on the mountain the more powerful the blessing.” The same waiter delivers a shot glass of vodka, and Wati says, “Terima kasih.”

I upend my beer mug. “What’s on the mountain?” My fingers idly twiddle the empty mug in his hands.

“A shrine where the couple were buried, a sacred well and dozens of cottages offering rooms for rent. Of course, also plenty of stores and restaurants.”

 “The ritual?”

“First, the person—either a man or woman—prays at the grave of Samodro and Ontrowulan. Then, he washes himself with holy water in a jungle pool. It’s created by a spring, very clear and clean. Finally, he seeks out a stranger to have sex with her.  In ancient times, they would boom-boom behind the bushes. Now, there’re rooms for rent. For the blessing to work, they need to do it repeatedly once every thirty-five days for a total of seven times. Prostitutes operate discreetly to cater to men who can’t find partners. If the hooker gets a customer, she’s guaranteed a booking seven times. That’s the lure of soliciting in Mount Kemukus."

A thought strikes me and a grin tries to break free from my lips but fails. “If the guy is gay, can his partner be a man?”

Wati shakes her head. “Won’t work! The original lovers were straight.”

I lean back in my chair. “What kind of women take part in this ritual?”

“Kind?” Wati runs her fingers through one side of her hair.  “In terms of profession, many such women operate small businesses. They hope their business will prosper after the seven-time fling. In terms of marital status, some are married, but mostly they’re divorced or widowed. Some hope to meet and marry a rich man later on.”

“Where’s Mummy Lulu?” I sniff to savour the rose in Wati’s perfume. “I want to buy her a drink. Haven’t seen her till now.” My blood heats up a notch from the olfactory titillation.

Wati cocks her head, bold brows crimped in question. “You don’t know? She’s gone to Semarang, the jump-off point to Mount Kemukus. The mountain’s two hours’ drive away. She’ll be taking part in the Pon Festival to make Hot Legs Niteclub more successful!  Papa-san Yap sponsored her trip there.” Wati’s voice jumps an octave, edging to shrill.  “I’m so... excited! I’m sure if she can’t find a partner, she can get a gigolo easily.”

A husky laugh bubbles in my throat.  

 /end