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?

Safety First

The one thing about Singapore I wish the rest of the world would incorporate is its safe environment due to its harsh punishments. Men, more likely than women here, are the ones who need to be aware of their surroundings (specifically from pick pocketing trannies). At 2AM, I can go for an early “morning” run and not worry about drive-by shootings. Freely I can walk around with cleavage up to my nose, skirt just below my tush, a shimmy in my step—all without any whistles, kissy noises or “Damn baby, let me get some of that.” This is liberation! I can be the slut I’ve always wanted without being treated like one. Although, you will be stared at as if you are an alien, but that’s only because the Singapore men are used to seeing “A” cups or implants on ladyboys. This is a country where porn is banned for heaven’s sake…yet prostitution is allowed. And, according to one of my taxi drivers, Chin Swee, Singapore men aren’t sexual.

“We are so busy going to work we don’t think about sex. Last time I had sex with my wife was three weeks ago. And I no jack-off since.” Whoa TMI buddy, TMI… “A lot of times the prostitutes come into cab and offer sex for us, but oh no no no. I no do.”

Coming to “the safest place in the world,” I was naïve to “low crime doesn’t mean no crime.”

Like the time I was trying to find the right bus stop in the scorching heat and humidity. My jeans stuck to my thighs like tar and feathers. My brain felt as fried as a churro. As I read my map, a pink car pulled up to the curb.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where the hospital is?” The Malay man shouted from his cotton candy mobile. I went up to the car and immediately felt sympathetic. The hospital? Is he in pain? Pink. Someone else he knew in pain? Pink. Someone dying? Pink. I didn’t even question the fact that since he has a car he must know his way around the country. But, then again, the taxi drivers who are required to live here their whole lives end up taking directions from passengers and don’t even know how to work their GPSs’.

I showed him my map and he looked at it blankly. Horns honked as oncoming traffic started to back up behind his. “Do you mind helping me? I can take you where you need to go?” The shimmering glitter in the pink paint must have hypnotized me because I got in that car with no hesitation. I mean come on; it’s a pink car and an Asian man. Can’t get any less threatening than that.

His dashboard was covered in white faux fur. Shiny disco balls hung from his rearview mirror and a Louis Vouton Kleenex box sat next to the gear stick.

“Gum?” He offered while he popped the cap off one of his six bottles of smuggled gum.

“Thank you…so I think if you turn up here and head straight you should be able—who’s in the hospital?”

“Oh. I don’t really need to go to the hospital. I just thought you were cute.” He said while grinning eagerly at me. My brain cells quickly regrouped and I started to look for an escape route. Locked doors, on the highway—I was doomed! I decided to play it cool and told him where to drop me off. Meanwhile, he went on and on about Twilight.

“If you want, we can watch Twilight together in my car. I have this great system and—hey I should get your number.” He pulled up to my security gate, I gave him my fake digits, and fleeted untouched. When I become a mother I will say to my child, “Never take rides from strangers, even if it’s a pink car.”

In a taxi ride, a ride that I pay for, I still can feel threatened.

“Oh you smell very nice…men must lovvvvee you….yes they love you.” Taxi man number 32 said while eyeing me through the rearview mirror. I laughed uncomfortably.

“Ayyyeeee youuu. You have boyfriend?”

“No.” Doh! Why I didn’t lie and say I’m engaged is beyond me at this point.

“You call me if you want taxi, I pick you up. But superman needs to wear trousers so he isn’t naked and not fly around. Need to give me time, more than 30 min.” Where was the kryptonite when I needed it?

“You hungry? Let me take you out. Here I take you to Hawker center right here. You want?”

Hawker center for our first date? As tempting as that was, I told him that I was in a hurry for work and remained silent the rest of the ride while clenching the door handle.

“But what’s going to happen to you? It’s Singapore, the safest place in the world!” said my roommate, Mark, in regards to leaving me at a McDonalds as I was out of my mind drunk yelling to the clerk, “Where’s my order? Ohhh you served them first? Why because they are white? Because they are a couple?!” Clearly being single in Singapore was turning me into a bitter drunk and racist towards my own race. How I got home, who knew? Since the majority believes in karma, cab drivers will generally take care of you and get you home safely if you are pissed as a sailor. They will even return your iphone if you leave it in their car. However, some will take advantage of you feeling safe.

Drenched from being thrown into a pool at a party on Sentosa, an island off an island, I hailed a cab. The free flow of wine put everything in slow motion as I got into the cab. I wrung the water out of my dress as the cab driver took off. I looked up to enjoy the scenery only to find Mr. Cabbie starring at me instead of the road. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” he moaned while eyeing my body like a vulture. One moan would have been ok, but it happened at every stoplight. Being in my state of mind I found it amusing. We reached my destination and I took out my wallet to pay, but Mr. Cabbie waved his hand that it was not necessary. Woohooo! Free taxi ride! Wait, does this make me a prostitute? Or a victim?

So much for liberation…

Not so Simple

Once I landed back in Singapore I turned on my magical light up Hello Kitty phone that I had shut-off before I left. “您有一则新的消息," it exclaimed, which basically translates to, "New message." It was a text from Jonathan seeing what I was up to, sent when I was in Bali. How about that? I had no idea he was trying to get a hold of me. I guess I wasn’t as desperate as I thought. It was best it worked out that way anyway. I wouldn’t be able to handle getting my heart broken again—especially in an exotic place like Bali.

Yes, I said again. “Simply Single in Singapore” was not so simple in the beginning. Three weeks after I got here, I met a man that changed me, Angelo. Our paths crossed in the MRT station at the Outram interchange. We happened to get on the same train, same time, on four different occasions. He didn’t dress like the other suits, but wore plaid shirts and khaki pants…or his fedora hat. The first time I talked to him felt as if we had talked before. Deep into his crystal blue eyes I could see loneliness and fear, along with my future. “Dear Lord, I’m going to be with this man,” I thought.

Angelo had been in Singapore for a year and missed home terribly. Being in the same state of mind we found ourselves in a “Lost in Translation” situation, although I wasn’t married to a photographer. Suddenly I had a new best friend. We understood each others odd humor and shared a similar interest in Rockabilly. Wanting to know everything about one another, we were either by each other’s side after work or talking hours on the phone...that’s right, Hello Kitty knew everything. I became inspired by our friendship and started my obsession with the ukulele….only to find out that he played as well. We prepared songs to sing to each other on our ukes. Oddly enough, we had both prepared the same song, “Sea of Love.” Our time had come when it needed to end and Angelo would leave to go back home…to my hometown in California. No surprise there, right?

From Angelo’s 20th story flat the shimmer of the skyline sparkled through the window and provided a romantic backdrop for our last evening. I sat uneasy in his Ikea love seat while he packed his bags and tried to find the right words to say. He began, “I have always felt strangely close to you. Maybe we had an awareness of a closeness that was pre-destined or something. I’m not sure how it works. I just liked you from the start.” He looked deep into my eyes, then looked away, “You deserve more than this." My lungs felt tight, my throat started to swell. He continued, "I can't promise you anything...you said that you’re used to being disappointed and I don't want to do that...but I can't promise you anything, you deserve more."

"You haven't promised me anything, it's ok," I said while turning the other way shedding a tear. "I just don't want to loose a friend."

“I don’t want to either. But I do want happiness for you, because I care about you and because I recognize who you are inside and I want you to have everything.”

“But I wont have you!” My voice cracked and my vision became blurred from the tears welling up in my eyes.

Guilt came over him and his eyes softened, “I bet you wished you never met me."

At this point, we both started to cry and held each other tightly.

5AM I walked him down to the taxi in silence and slipped a card into his luggage. “Read this when you get on the plane,” I said. He gazed out the back window of the taxi watching me turn into a tiny spec of his past as he was driven off to reality. There I was, alone, again.

“I love you,” words I have said to two men in my life. There was Marvin the retired Colombian soccer player turned student and Lance, the…retired British soccer player turned car salesman. Now those words were written in a card to Angelo, whom had no affiliation with soccer, aka football for you non American readers.

Who knew eight months would go by and I’d still feel tormented thinking about Angelo. We had occasional phone conversations, but I was always left empty. And the more we had in common, the more the universe put us in sync with thoughts of each other and emotions, the harder it was. Given the 27-mile radius of Singapore I found myself following his footprints. Everywhere I went had a memory. It didn’t help that I inherited the things he left behind. Put my head on a pillow—Angelo, wash my face with a washcloth—Angelo, eat beans in a can—Angelo (yes I took his beans).

Meeting Angelo was a blessing and a curse. He put me back in touch with my creativity. I started to draw and play music again. Hours were spent in the bomb shelter playing my ukulele and singing (yes there are bomb shelters in the condos in Singapore, also known as the maids courtiers—which provide great acoustics). Angelo also inspired me to write. Finally, I was alive again.

People come in and out of our lives to teach us a lesson. From Angelo I was reminded of my dreams. However, at the end of the day he is not here to take care of me when I’m sick, he is not here to have and to hold; he remains an unattained fantasy. Our paths crossed at the wrong time and I can only hope they will cross at the right time. Until then, I will just blog about the duds along the way.