‘Bill Mayweather,’ he said. ‘He’s based in Dubai. Runs an investment fund for one of the sheiks. He’s on a percentage, and he’s worth millions. Do you want an introduction?’
‘You know him?’
‘Known him for years,’ said Robert. He sipped his champagne and smacked his lips. ‘We don’t do much business with him though. He has his favourites and it’s bloody difficult to get into his inner circle.’
‘I might be able to work some magic on him though,’ I said. I could feel my heart pounding. Handled the right way, the memory card that I’d taken from the Sandy Spring Hotel could be just the magic I’d need to persuade good old Bill to let me into his inner circle.
‘He’s immune,’ said Robert. ‘Always cuts a deal in his favour, takes no prisoners, that’s why the Arabs love him.’
I swirled my champagne around as I stared at Bill’s wife’s legs and her cute backside. I wanted to tell Robert what I’d done to her and what she’d done to me, but that was a secret best kept between me, her, and Bill. ‘I think I might have some leverage,’ I said.
‘Leverage?’ Robert chuckled. He gestured with his glass. ‘Bill’s wife, you mean?’
‘What?’ I turned to look at him, my mouth open.
‘Forget about it, everybody knows about her,’ said Robert.
‘They do?’
Robert nodded. ‘Everybody knows, but nobody says anything. It’s up to him, right? You make your own bed and you lie in it.’
I nodded, but my mind was whirling. How the hell did everyone know what had happened at the Sandy Spring Hotel? ‘I guess so,’ I said.
‘Beautiful. Sexy as hell.’
‘Thai,’ I said. ‘Thai-Chinese, probably.’
‘All the best ones are,’ he said, and I frowned, not understanding what he meant. He didn’t notice my confusion and carried on talking as he looked her up and down. ‘She used to work at Casanova’s, the bar in Nana Plaza,’he said. ‘One of the star turns, apparently.’
I almost choked. I knew the Casanova Bar. Knew of it, but had never been outside. The aggressive ladyboys with too much make-up and enormous silicon breasts meant that I tended to hurry by with my eyes averted. I’d never been a fan of ladyboys.
‘Bill met her about ten years ago, before she’d had anything done.
Basically, she was a guy with long hair back then.’ Robert chuckled and looked around to make sure that no one else could hear him. ‘He paid for the lot. Hormones for the skin, new breasts, plastic surgery on the face, collagen in the lips, and then finally…’ He made a snipping gesture with his right hand. ‘She had the chop. Or he had the chop. Had it done in Switzerland by one of the top surgeons in the world. Apparently it’s as good as the real thing, except for the old-lubrication problem.’
Lubrication? That’s right; that would explain the KY Jelly by the bed.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Robert, gripping my shoulder. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Anyway, there’s no leverage there. Everybody knows. It’s the secret that everyone knows and no one mentions. You make your own choices in life, don’t you?’
I nodded. Yes, that’s absolutely what we do. We make choices and we live with them.
‘She’s fit though, isn’t she?’ I nodded. Yes, she was fit.
‘I’m not sure I could ever give her one, though,’ said Robert, slapping me on the back. ‘Not knowing that she used to be a guy. What about you?
Could you give her one?’
‘Nah,’ I said.‘Never happen.’
‘There are those that say no one screws like a ladyboy,’ said Robert, gripping my shoulder. ‘They say no one knows what a guy wants better than another guy. What do you think? Think that’s true?’
‘Nah, I like girls,’ I said, but I was finding it difficult to speak. My mouth had gone bone dry. I drained my glass, but my throat was still dry.
‘Don’t we all?’ said Robert. ‘Still, each to his own. If Bill’s happy, that’s all that matters. Whatever rocks your boat, right?’
‘Right.’ And with that, Robert slapped me on the back again and went over to talk to Bill and his wife.
So, that was that. Any thoughts of using the memory card as leverage against Bill went straight out of the window. I was confused, though. Damn confused. The only thing that I could think about just then was that the most intense sexual experience of my life had been in a room with eight other men.
And here’s the thing, the thing that worries me most: I didn’t care. I really didn’t care. The fact that Bill’s wife was a transsexual didn’t worry me one little bit. I still watched and rewatched the video. I still visited the Craigslist website hoping that Bill would arrange a rematch. I still relived that night in the Sandy Spring Hotel-every moment, every position, every orgasm.
I spent so much time daydreaming that my work went downhill and Robert had me in for a chat to say that unless things turned around, he’d have to let me go. I didn’t give him the chance. I applied for a job with a broker in Bangkok and got it. It was half the salary and no accommodation allowance, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted to be in Bangkok, just in case Bill’s wife ever wanted to relive the experience.
And that’s why I’m here, sitting in Business Class and drinking this very reasonable champagne, heading back to the Land Of Smiles. I’m sure that one day, sooner or later, Bill’s wife is going to want to do it again, and when she does, I want to be there. And if she doesn’t…well, maybe I’ll swing by Casanova’s and see what’s on offer there.
EXPEDITIONS IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE
Emilio, Philippines and Singapore
Years ago, I occasionally made trekking expeditions to Sabah in East Malaysia, a more intriguing state than those on the peninsula itself. These expeditions involved a few days’ walk in a wilderness, usually with a mountain to scramble up. At the end of such a trip, I found myself in Kota Kinabalu, staying in a more elaborate hotel than I normally bothered with.
Down in the basement, near the car-park area in the nethermost region of this grand establishment, was what was euphemistically termed a “health centre”.
I had not patronised such an establishment before and was not quite sure what to expect. The room was poorly lit, the effect intended obviously being a sombre tranquillity or, perhaps, seductive gloom. It contained a mattress and a washbasin and not much else. I undressed, except for my underpants, then lay down, as only seemed sensible. Eventually a smallish woman appeared; because of the dark, I couldn’t make out anything about her looks other than her size. In due course, as I grew more accustomed to the dim lighting and as we grew acquainted with each other, I came to discover she was a Filipina, working overseas like so many others.
This masseuse was a woman of around thirty with longish hair. It was difficult to judge her features because of the sombre ambiance, but her manner appeared stern, perhaps the consequence of reserve or shyness. Nonetheless, she gave my near-naked body a good hard look, especially the middle zone, and indicated that I should remove my underpants, which she presumably found more offensive than my genitalia. She then abruptly offered me coffee or tea. Thereafter, reluctantly emitting a few gruff pleasantries, she began to massage me, working a little indifferently with oil over most of my torso and limbs. Conversation was limited, partly because of mutual miscommunication and partly because the manner of this particular Filipina (her name, she reluctantly conceded, was Concepcion) was initially very serious, as if she were a doctor confronted with a terminal case. She did not seem very sure of either me or herself. Her voice sounded low, almost gravelly. I could hardly see her, even when I looked back over my shoulders, lying as I was in the typical massage position, face down on the mattress.