Sugar Daddy

“Angelo sent me an e-mail yesterday,” I said to my friend Ryd (a Singaporean version of Captain Jack Sparrow combined with Road Runner) as we boarded the bus.

“Reallllly? What did he say?” Side note: Singaporeans over emphasize the word “really” every time.

“For some reason he thought I was back in California and insinuated meeting up.”

“Reallllly?”

“Ya, can you believe that?” Meanwhile, Ryd and I were looking for a place to sit on the overly crowded bus. I continued, “He told me he might be getting a divorce in six months.”

“Realllllly?”

“Stop doing that! Yes, so I told him not to contact me again. I don’t want to be involved. If he’s getting a divorce it has to be because they can’t make it work, not about me.” Just as I was about to sit down, the bus took off. The jolt of the bus flung my head into the edge of an overhead compartment. Thump! I grabbed my head in pain.

“Don’t worry she’s all right,” Ryd exclaimed to the unaware passengers. “That was so loud! You ok lah?”

“Ya, I think so…What was I saying?”

The next morning I awoke with a migraine. I had a mild concussion. Two weeks thereafter were spent in bed. Suddenly fear started to consume me. My family and friends back home weren’t near to comfort me. I missed the familiar, love…I missed love.

I began to think, “Should I go back home? Should I e-mail Angelo? Why am I really in Singapore? What if my brain is swelling? What if I need a brain operation like my grandmother did from hitting her head in the shower?…then die right after! What if the California quake hits while I am here and a freeway overpass smothers my family in the car? What if there is no God!? What if, what if!”

So what did I do? I made a hair appointment. Bye-bye red, hello blonde...well strawberry blonde. Blonde was what I had been the majority of my life. Blonde was familiar, it was me.

Next, I logged back into my dating account on Singapore Expats. I needed to date…and date to forget.

In my inbox was a message from Henry. Profile: mid forties—hmmm, British—guaranteed wit, advertising—anything other than financing is a plus, divorced—fantastic I’m in!

We met at Villa Bali. Located in the outskirts of the skyscrapers and nestled amongst the lush green foliage. There were no walls to block out the humid air, just a roof overhead for the occasional monsoon. The sound of the wild birds, trickling water fountains, and Balinese soundtrack provided a romantic ambiance.

The host escorted me to where Henry was sitting. He wore a silk collared shirt from Thailand and khaki pants, cigar in mouth. He rose to welcome me and kissed me on the cheek. A bottle of white wine was brought to the table and the stories began. We talked about old cars, art, and travel. Things were going great. Good enough for round two: dinner at his place.

We met at Cold Storage at Takashimaya. With shopping cart in hand, we went through the grocery store as he picked out the ingredients for the evening’s dinner—seared scallops with a bunch of overly elaborate shrubbery. The sound of his cowboy boots left an echo behind his step. The pitter-patter of my heels tried to keep up with the long strides of this 6’1 bloke. I felt like a child trying to keep up with her father.

Once at Henry’s place, I was introduced to his maid, Malaya. It’s common for Singaporeans to have a live-in maid. Usually they are from the Philippines or Indonesia and work to send money back home to their families. Maids require around $800 a month and in some cases, are hired with "additional” services for the man of the household. So it wasn’t a romantic evening alone with Henry…it was an evening with Henry and Malaya.

Henry handed Malaya the groceries. She laid out the ingredients, washed the basil, and cut the onions.

“Natasha, why don’t you chop the garlic?” Henry asked. Wait a minute, he wasn’t really cooking me a meal, he was orchestrating a meal!

All I knew about chopping was to curve your fingertips inward so you don’t cut off a finger. Malaya watched me and began to giggle as I chopped. I gave her a look.

“You do all wrong see. Silly girl.” She eyed me up and down distastefully then took the knife from my hand and cut the garlic herself.

On that note, I waited in the dinning room at a long grandiose table in front of two overstuffed cherry wood bookshelves.

“Here you go my lady,” Henry said as he handed me a glass of red Cab. “Malaya? Can you light the candles?”

Henry went back into the kitchen to toss the scallops in a pan. Malaya lit the centerpiece candles and all fifteen others sporadically placed around the room. This time she did not look me in the eye. I could sense she was holding her tongue.

Presenting the finished product, Henry served me and Malaya poured us more wine. At that rate, I was sure I was going to be read a bedtime story and tucked into bed later. That’d be nice.

Breaking the awkward silence I started with, “I like this statue in the corner over there…looks very rustic.”

“That was actually made by the Ijaw people in Nigeria. We, uh—my wife at the time, came across it at one of their villages while passing through, we had to have it.”

Henry went on to talk about his life’s adventures. He had done it all. Now he wanted someone to “retire” with it seemed.

“It’s a small country here. I run into my ex all the time, aside from handing off the kids on the weekends. You can even take a trail all the way from Hort Park to Vivo City, I will show you sometime.”

Ex wife? Kids? Trail? This was serious. After dinner, he gave me a show-n-tell—more objects from around the globe and his daughters’ room. Twin beds, pink princess décor, and Barbie’s occupied the space.

“And this is my room” He plopped onto his oversized bed and motioned me to sit. “Here let me massage you.”

He placed his weathered hands on my shoulders.

Malaya popped her head into the doorway, “You need beverage?”

“No Malaya that’s all for now.”

Was I in the midst of a Sugar Daddy experience? Was Malaya listening outside the door?

“I must admit I have a weakness for strawberry blondes. What about you?” Henry inquired.

This is where my stutter kicked in. I either giggle in uncomfortable situations or stutter, especially in moments of vulnerability.

“My weakness? Well, I, ummm, I-I tend to be with men that—uh-uh, well…”

“ Mmmmhmmm? That what?”

“That, uh, well…”

Angelo crossed my mind. I felt so comfortable with him. He was so easy to talk to, why was this moment with Henry so difficult for me?

I continued, “That-that hurt me and—“

“Ohhhhh I see…”

All of a sudden, Henry dug his thumbs into my back and bit the side of my neck “True Blood” style.

“Ouch! What are you doing?”

“You like to be hurt? Tied up perhaps? I have some handcuffs…”

“What? No! I meant that I unintentionally am attracted to men that hurt me, like leave me, or aren’t available, the wrong—I better go, I’ve got work in the morning.”

After that evening Henry offered to take me out to dinner up until the day I left Singapore. But I wasn’t looking for a Sugar Daddy, S&M, or a territorial live-in maid. Although I loved being wined and dined, I didn’t want to be taken care of, or feel naive to life’s lessons being a few decades his junior. I wanted to experience life with someone who saw the world with fresh eyes as I did, someone who hadn’t done it all. Someone—who am I kidding, it was Angelo I wanted.

Like Angelo had said, “Suddenly I’m alive! The world looks different to me now. You are Chekhov’s Natalya Petrovna! With you I have that child-like excitement of not being able to wait.” That’s what I wanted, to feel alive inside.

Just Dance

When in doubt, just dance. Being an international business hub, Singapore brings in DJs from all over the world for the suits to party hard. The thing about Los Angeles is that people don’t go out to dance, they go out to stand in a club and do the Paris Hilton—just look hot.

My favorite place to dance is Zouk. On Wednesday evenings, it is Mambo night, where Asians jam to 90’s music and participate in synchronized dancing. Beware of getting slapped in the face by their robo moves. Preferably, Saturday is the night to go when their guest DJs spin, like Bennie Benassi or Bob Sinclar.

One night at Zouk, a local radio station was holding an event, “Singapore’s Top 21 Hottest Men.” Splendid, now I could see what my options were. 21 metro men stood on Zouk’s stage and showcased their talents and identical hair. One man’s talent was pouring a drink…need I say more? When the men were eliminated to the top 10, the radio host asked 10 single ladies to come up on stage. My friends pushed me into the bright lights. There I was, on stage, my red hair shimmering, and all eyes on my blue eyes. Yes, I was single, white, and now apparently a part of a circus act. In order to narrow the top 10 to the top 3, the women had to play musical chairs—with the men being the chairs. Who’d a thunk I’d be scurrying around trying to sit on an Asian man’s lap for the sake of time?

Come the third round I couldn’t find a lap. “Oh so sorry you loose!! Heheh haha,” The Anime laughter of the radio host echoed through the club as I ushered myself off stage in embarrassment.

I went outside to get a breathe of second hand smoke and was approached by “hottest man in Singapore” number 3.

“Wazz up?” Number 3 sounded like Joey from “Friends,” with limited conversation skills. The throbbing beat of the club started to begin and I excused myself.

There are three black boxes in the club you can dance-your-heart-out on. Two of the boxes are usually full with ladyboys or people who are “rollin” (yes there are those who do drugs in Singapore despite the death penalties). The third box is the Ladies Only box…real ladies. My box. Once you plant yourself and two friends on the box you must occupy the 3x3 space with your dance moves at all times in order to guarantee space as the dance floor floods with people.

Dressed down in my tennis shoes, hair up in a ponytail, I was liberated from LA vanity. The lights flickered across the smokey air to the beat and I started to get lost in the moment. A moment where time seemed non-existent, where things were peaceful and free where I felt—“Hey, Hey, HEY! Wanna dance?” yelled Number 3. He motioned to me to get off the box and join him. “No, I need room to dance”—wait was I turning down a man? He continued to stand there for twenty minutes until he finally gave up. Did I not need a male specimen? Maybe all I needed was good music to dance to to remain satisfied!

At 3AM, as I exited the club I heard, “Excuse me, miss! Miss! You forgot this!” I turned around and the Anime radio host handed me my musical chair participation gift…a blowup penis. Like I was saying…who needs a man?