the habits of old friends. part 1 of 2

I have an old friend from my previous job; in the name of anonymity I’ll call him old john (OJ). Although married with 2 lovely children, OJ, is a restless person. He’s one of those guys who’s personal nature still has him up at 5AM looking for his next drink, and then off to work and meetings all day from 7:30AM. I first met OJ as an outside consultant on a development project in the Philippines, and after a harsh day of work he suggested a drink, 8 hours later I found myself trying to pay off a three thousand dollar bar tab at a local brothel with the mamasan yelling in my ear about the 4 girls OJ ran off with, the winners of his kissing competition. I trust I’ve painted a somewhat revealing picture of my friend old john.

After settling in this relatively new and continuously morphing city, it didn’t take long for OJ to give me a call. Citing proximity (of Hong Kong and Dubai), he was planning on visiting me on his way flying somewhere else. I thought it would be best to get through as much work as possible before he arrived and totally screwed up my schedule with late nights and no lunches, until I got that dreaded phone call from OJ from his hotel room.

Exhausted but still looking forward to seeing an old friend we agreed to meet up for dinner and a couple of drinks at sho chos. Little did I know that 80s night would bring about a horrible set of flashbacks in OJ and he would spend the night drinking vodka and singing the Romantics, talking in your sleep over and over and over and over.

It must have been the argument with the bartender or the trashy talk with the group of girlfriends, but at some point in the evening the drunken decision was made to visit a lovely little brothel called love. An exchange with the cab driver and a declaration of our intentions: pretty women, good prices and more drinks had us zooming along the beach road.

Stepping in front of Dubai’s number one freestanding nightclub, Cyclone, OJ pays off the cabbie and swings me by the neck telling me of the great times that await us inside. Drunk and incoherently agreeing, I move with the swagger of an expat on holiday.

I couldn’t tell you much of what was happening inside except that it was madness. Darkness took over and I found myself trying to scan the place just to make sure I don’t bump into anyone. However, the place was all about bumping into people, girls walking around looking for tonight’s john, guys walking around looking for a grope and a companion for the night or the load. I wasn’t surprised to see so many girls, but more surprised to see so many beautiful girls, all sorts of hair colors and all sorts of hues of skin. Whatever your fancy was, you’d find it there.
Like a child in a candy store, OJ ran around checking out the girls, feeling up asses, holding hands and negotiating. Bringing three girls back to the bar where I was standing, he’s giving me winks and nods about taking these three back with us. My exhaustion could not argue back with him as more drinks started to flow for our new companions. Contrary to what you may think, although I sometimes find myself in the company of hookers, I’m not too into the hooking. As more drinks were taken, I found our company growing with some more girls and OJ enjoyed being the center of their attention, which I didn’t particularly mind. It was also because of exhaustion and hunger (I forgot to mention the food being total shit at sho chos) that I didn’t really mind when we decided to leave.

Making our way outside cyclone, we’ve got the three girls following us talking to each other in their mother tongue and snickering. I had no idea what they were saying, but it was late, I was hungry and I just assumed that OJ was in for a busy night of foursomes. OJ talks to one of the girls, gives her some money, winks and takes two of them by hand. He turns to me and tells me that he’s already covered the girls, and that I have been allotted one to care for me for the rest of the night.

My reluctance to accept OJ’s “gracious” gift was met with staunch refusal from him along with a set of horrible glares from the girls as though they weren’t good enough for me. Not that I’m sure they cared but still I’m sure it doesn’t do much for your turning tricks confidence when someone doesn’t think you’re good enough to do the job. I just don’t like sleeping with hookers, never have and never will, but John has a different viewpoint on the whole situation, he doesn’t pay them for sex, he pays them to leave.

In my weakened drunken state and in no mood to argue, they threw me into a cab with Irena, a lovely brunette from somewhere in Russia. My plan was to drive off a bit, drop her off wherever she wants to go and then go home.

To Be Continued…