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Twenty years old indonesian in Malaysia

Ismail Escort in Kuala Lumpur

Ismail Escort in Kuala Lumpur

I lean back in the high-backed chair in my study, while my cat Stumpy curls at my feet. Earlier, in a restaurant in Chinatown, I chatted separately with Ismail, a twenty-eight- year-old factory supervisor from Bolton Industrial Estate, and Ah Lek, a thirty-year-old hawker of Alor Road, on their experiences in red-light districts. I switch on my MP4 player and listen to the recording of their recollections, and my imagination churns up colourful images.

Ismail strides to a row of shophouses on Thamipillai Road. Bamboo blinds partially conceal the entrances to the brothels in the shophouses. But the touts hanging around indicate the vice dens are open for business. Another block of shophouses across the drag is taken up by massage centres, coffee shops, hardware stores, a dangdut lounge and more brothels.

He approaches the nearest vice den, and a tout pushes a folding iron-door open for him to enter. Behind him the door closes, and he walks up a flight of steps to the first floor. The air is stale. Ismail speculates that the windows have not been opened for years. In the front section, four prostitutes, aged over forty, are seated at the doorways of their rooms. The pimp, a grey-haired Chinese in shorts and a short-sleeved floral shirt, gesticulates with his hands and tells him the prices. ‘That woman’s fifty. This one’s sixty – two way. Over there, that woman’s forty...’ Not only they are fat and ugly, they’re old enough to be his mother. He takes a sweeping glance and walks to the back. The quality of the flesh again repels him.

He pops into the next brothel and surveys the merchandise. Though there is an improvement, he goes away, enters the next cathouse until all the dozen or more establishments are surveyed.

Ismail proceeds to Padang Road, goes into a brothel through the front door, and skirts a rotting particle-board partition in a corridor. He ambles down the passageway. On both sides are rooms occupied by hookers.


Indonesian girl in Kuala Lumpur

Indonesian girl in Kuala Lumpur

Boss, got Indonesian awek (girls). Pretty and young, a pimp says. ‘Just arrived two days ago.’ The flesh-peddler leads him from room to room, hard-selling him on the friendly and accommodating services rendered by his sex workers.

A brown, petite girl in her twenties, wearing short hair, jorts and a green-collared t-shirt is settled in the second room, its air-conditioner purring like the engine of a motorboat. Ismail considers her the prettiest among the bunch.

He pays 70 ringgit upfront to the pimp and enters the room. An area in one corner, about four feet square, is set off by a cement partition about two feet high on one side and six inches on the other, and has a tap. Within minutes, Ismail’s face is scrunched up with pleasure.

Suddenly, a loud banging comes from the door. ‘Police! Police! Run! Quick!’

Ismail and her partner spring from the bed. The prostitute jumps into her skirt and yanks her t-shirt over her head. Carrying her panties and brassiere in one hand, she unlatches the door and scuttles away. Ismail removes his condom, puts on his clothes and sandals and finally bolts out of the room.

He dashes along the corridor to the front door. It is locked! He scuttles to the back. The back door is also locked! An Indian man, in the process of buttoning his shirt, scurries from another room and joins him. Bloody hell, the pimp and the prostitutes ran away, leaving them locked!

The Indian man shouts through a crack between the door. ‘Open the door, Bang (Brother)! Open the door!’ Both men hammer the iron door with their fists.

From outside, a voice yells, ‘Be patient! Be patient!’ The lock turns from the outside and the split iron-door is pushed open. ‘I didn’t know both of you were still in the room,’ the pimp says. ‘I thought you’d run out through the front.’ He locks the door again and the party flees.


The Escort Girl Journey

The Escort Girl Journey

Ismail shuffles to his motorcycle parked outside a coffee-shop but his feet feel odd. He looks down and notices he is wearing the wrong pair of slippers because the sex worker took his by mistake.

Five evenings later, Ismail returns to the same brothel on Padang Road. Luck is with him as the same prostitute is there. The girl and Ismail exchange slippers, and he spends thirty minutes of libidinous indulgence with her.

Ismail’s lust controls his mind again after a week. He goes to Thamipillai Road to inspect the dens of iniquity, hoping to procure a newcomer. As he is drifting from one brothel to another, a dark-skinned man accosts him.

‘I’ve two part-timers. Interested?’ The man has a receding hairline, and is attired in a short-sleeved batik shirt.

Ismail stops in his tracks. ‘Where? Can I see them first?’ He and the hustler are standing on the covered walkway outside a video games arcade.

‘Go inside the convenience store at the end of this block. The two girls working there are part-timers. They need urgent money. The tall girl wearing blue tudung (head covering) is one hundred. Her name’s Hamidah. The short girl who dons a red hair band is called Siti. Her price is hundred and twenty. You’ve half an hour to play.’

‘What about room?’

‘They use Fook Loke Hotel opposite. Get a room there, you have to pay for it first. She’ll come over.’

Ismail goes into the convenience store where two girls are sitting at the counter. He browses the chocolates and biscuits on the rack near the counter, occasionally throwing glances at the two workers. The girl wearing a tudung has a long face and thin lips. The short girl is endowed with full lips and a nose with a rounded nose ridge and tip. He finds her cute.

He picks up a bar of Cadbury chocolate. While paying at the counter, he scrutinizes their name badges: ‘Hamidah’ and ‘Siti’.


What about money?

What about money?

Ismail returns to the dark-skinned man, still standing where he left him. ‘I’ll take Siti,’ he says.

‘Okay, pay me the money. Go get a room and wait. I’ll bring the girl over.’

Having sealed the transaction, Ismail waits in a room in Fook Loke Hotel. It costs him RM30 for an hour. Sitting on the bed, he looks at his watch. Why is the girl taking such an awfully long time? His one-hour rental expires and he goes to look for the man in batik shirt but the hustler is no longer around.

Ismail goes to the convenience store. Siti is seated at the cash register, while Hamidah is arranging boxes in the store, its door left ajar.

‘Hello, why didn’t you come to my hotel room?’ Ismail’s voice is serious but subdued.

‘What room? What hotel?’ Siti glowers at him, raising her voice. ‘I don’t know what’re you talking about!’

‘What about my money? Your friend paid you, hasn’t he?’

‘What money?’ Her eyes narrowed, her tone is challenging. ‘What friend?’

Reality sinks in, and Ismail walks away, his nostrils flaring.

After finishing his supper of bak kut teh (pork rib soup) on Raja Laut Road, Ah Lek wanders in the direction of a former cinema. His watch shows 11 pm, and he is keen to sample the street hookers in the area.

After a hundred metres, he nears a chocolate-coloured woman on the pedestrian walkway. She is wearing pants and a top with a pattern of multi-coloured splotches of paint no doubt bright once, but now faded to orange, yellow and blue ghosts of what they must have been.

As he passes her, she smiles and asks in Malay, ‘You want young girl?’

She appears to be in her early forties.

Stopping in his tracks, Ah Lek considers for a moment. ‘How much? And I need to see her first.’


Twenty years old indonesian in Malaysia Twenty years old indonesian in Malaysia Twenty years old indonesian in Malaysia Twenty years old indonesian in Malaysia


A brown, petite girl in her twenties, wearing short hair, jorts and a green-collared t-shirt is settled in the second room, its air-conditioner purring like the engine of a motorboat. Ismail considers her the prettiest among the bunch.


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