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I come to, my head fucking pounding; I’m still drunk, but at least I’m in my bed. A bed. That’s a relief. How I got there, I have no clue. It’s probably something like 6:00 in the morning. I’ve got no idea why or how I wake up so early, especially since my first meeting isn’t until 9am.
Lying in bed next to me, sound asleep, is the naked body of a smoking hot chick. I lift the covers further for a more detailed inspection. Holy shit. Nice. Still alive? Nice. She is amazingly proportioned, quite curvy for an Asian chick. Clearly surgically enhanced, but what the fuck do I care? I poke the ass to see if the rest rolls over. Damn, I want its autograph.
Now for the life of me, I have no recollection of where the fuck she came from, where I met her, and how she ended up in my hotel room. More importantly, I have no clue if she is a professional or not. I reach over and grab a tit, a fucking awesome tit. Okay, this might be a little creepy, but fuck it.
But she is definitely hot. “Is she a whore?” I ask myself. We were out with some legit girls for a while, but then again, this is Singapore. I remember being out with a bunch of clients and colleagues. We went to karaoke; there were some pretty good looking chicks there. I remember being the big hit, owning “It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones. I must’ve hooked up with one of those chicks. I am the man. This discourse continues in my head. “She’s probably legit, maybe a junior client, or an analyst from the Singapore office,” I tell myself hopefully.
Having exhausted my capacity to debate further with myself, I pull back the covers again and give her a gentle tap on the ass. Nothing happens. She doesn’t even budge. So I go back for the double tap, this time a little bit harder. Again, nothing happens. So finally, I wind up and come down with the full-out spank. Instantaneously, she jumps up – wide awake – and immediately starts blowing me.
I’m getting the best blowjob I’ve ever had. Not the best blowjob you’ve ever had, the best blowjob I’ve ever had.
At this point, I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t care. She finishes, “Ok. I go shower now.” Not sure how I should play this. I’m hung over and some chick who just gave me the best head ever, who I still think might be a client, just talked to me in Tarzan English.
I do my best to go back to sleep.
The next thing I know, she’s dressed in Jen Aniston’s sluttiest Brad-aren’t-you-jealous-of-this-shit dress and lucite heels, looming over me. Okay, how do I play this? “Okay, hon, you have to go, I have to go, give me your business card and we’ll hook up again next time I’m in town.” I knew it wouldn’t work, but I try.
“You pay me money; everybody pay; you owe me 200 Sing dollars. Nobody fuck for free.” What a profound statement; nobody fuck for free. I think back to everyone I can ever remember fucking, especially my wife. But then again, my wife’s probably more expensive than 10,000 hookers and still never gives heart-felt head, at least not to me.
“What? Are you crazy? Nobody fuck for free,” she reiterates in increasingly broken English as she gets more and more ‘street.’ “Nobody fuck for free.”
I know the drill. “I paid Mama-san last night, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. It’s already taken care of.” Good one, and not for lack of experience. Of course, the events of the previous evening weren’t coming back to me, but it’s worth a shot. That fails immediately; she’s no rookie.
Having failed with my romantic approach, I get out of bed and scrounge around for my wallet. No cash. I find my pants from last night. No cash. My suit jacket. No cash. Only a few credit card receipts that look like they’ve been signed by Stephen Hawking’s anus.
Bottom line, I have no fucking cash anywhere. Now, the last thing I am going to do is the reverse walk of shame with some Love Monkey down to the nearest cash machine.
Before I can even start to pitch a layaway plan, she grabs the phone and presses ‘0′. “I call hotel security,” she says while holding the phone out like a gun. “Or, you come with me to ATM machine and pay me S$200. Okay fuck, you pay me S$200. No one fuck for free. You pay S$200.”
My survival instincts immediately take over. I leap across, slam the phone down, and drag her (did I mention it’s the hottest piece of ass I’ve ever had?) over to the closet. I pull out the hotel laundry bag, shake it open and hand it to the whore. I then pull her over to the mini-bar, open it up, and start stuffing the bag as she holds it open. 2 Diet Cokes, 2 Heinekens, 2 bottles of Pellegrino. Boom. A handful of the airplane-sized Grey Goose and Bacardi bottles and then some. I pause for only a matter of seconds before I hear, “No. No. $200. More. More.” Next go the Pringles, M&Ms, and Twizzlers. “More” she barks. Fucking greedy bitch. In go the Oreos, Junior Mints, and the mini Jim Beam.
I reach up to the countertop – the ½ bottle of cabernet sauvignon, the Jack Daniels, the pistachios, the Toblerone. And the fucking Moet.
Finally. She looks into the bag, surveying her loot. “Stop. Now, too much.” She then reaches in and pulls out the Pringles and the Toblerone, pauses for a few seconds, and then pulls out the mini Bacardi, sets them back down on the countertop in a lady-like fashion and says, “Okay this is fair.”
And then just like that, she goes off on her way, stuffed laundry bag of loot over her shoulder like some kind of Singapore-Ritz-Carlton-Santa-Claus-whore prancing along in her 4” lucite hooves, marching to the drumbeat of the damned.
I shower, suit up, and head downstairs for day 2 of our Asian investor conference, and then successfully try to forget all about the experience.
It really wasn’t until two weeks later, my secretary hands me my expenses and reminds me the mini bar is not covered under T&E. The mini-bar bill? $198 Sing. I owe her 2 bucks.
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