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Photo by Troy Holden

When in Rome, do the Romans. Or something.

You won’t find many brothels in China; love for money is a legal no-no. But no worries, you won’t need to.

I expected to land on a dirt runway, live with farmers and frolic through rice fields. For some reason *cough* Hollywood*cough* I couldn’t help but associate westernization with modernization, and expected China to lack both. Truth is, China is as modern as it gets. This is good news for someone who navigates new countries with his privates: cosmopolitan women are far more likely to end up in bed with me.

I’d found an apartment already, and for a few days my only companions were the pretty receptionist, jetlag and a hard bed. By the fifth day it was high time for a drink.

I hit the bars as soon as I could walk, and followed the pretty lights in the sky until I stumbled upon a massive, modern club called Tang. Two bottles of Jack Daniels made me a table of friends – even managed to attract another Arab. An hour of serious drinking had me ready for company, and the bar was full of it.

There must’ve been four women to every man in this place; mostly Asian, most stunning, and all staring at me.

Yes?

A steaming dumpling caught my eye, and flashed me the peace sign, along with a fantastic smile. A minute later she walked up to my table and started chatting away in broken but coherent English, asking all the right questions and leading the conversation in a direction I thought I’d have to take care of myself. Independent women rock my socks.

‘It’s time we go somewhere louder,’ screamed my Arab friend.

He was insane, surely, but it seemed like the right night for it. We packed our things and head out, but a tiny Chinese hang tugged at my shirt; my hot spring-roll had reservations.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I don’t want to move until I’m sure you want me.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Do you like me? And are you OK with the price?’

‘What price?’ I was a bit shocked; only a complete dunce would miss a critical bit of information like this.

‘When I saw you first, I told you 800.’

‘You never said anything of the sort.’

‘No, I told you with my hand from before.’

Not a peace sign after all; the Chinese have developed an ingenious way of counting and communicating numbers on one hand, but let’s not get distracted here.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re lovely, but that’s not the kind of night I was looking for.’

‘If you change your mind, I’ll make it 650.’ That’s just under a hundred US, for a slice of Asian heaven.

Perhaps someday I’ll start paying for sex. Some night, with the right combination of alcohol, loneliness and lighting I might just give in and let my money flirt in my stead; it certainly seems to do a better job these days. But not that night.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. Have a great evening.’

My own evening was shot to hell of course; self esteem gets a square kick in the balls when you realize your wallet was doing the talking all along. Thank heavens for Jack.

I skipped the new plan and head back home to sleep it all off – the indignation, not the whiskey – but paused in the large lobby. The building I lived in was still under construction, and they’d just added the largest crystal chandelier I’d ever set eyes on; a monster of an art piece that I just couldn’t stop staring at.

‘Do you need a massage?’

‘Excuse me?’

It was Irene, the receptionist who’d been my lifeline for the first couple of days. She’s a beautiful twenty-something local girl with a real knack for customer-service.

‘You give massages?’

She laughed – I loved her laugh. ‘No sir, but the spa is just about to close. My friend works there and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind squeezing you in.’

‘I kind of just want to watch TV tonight; I’d rather be in my room.’

‘We can arrange for it in your room.’

‘Wow, um, thanks?’

‘Well, you look very upset, and it’s my job to make sure you’re happy.’

‘Marry me Irene.’

‘That’s a yes to the massage then?’

I went up home in a significantly better mood. Some 20 minutes later a beautiful girl – complete with little heart-shaped spa tag around her waist – knocks on my door, furnishes my bed with towels, and starts pushing away all the shame and indignity one oily stroke at a time. Life was good.

And it got better.

Around 1AM my door knocks, and the masseuse gets up to answer. It’s Irene in a miniskirt, here to pick up her friend.

‘Feeling better?’

‘Immeasurably.’

‘What was upsetting you?’

‘I got my first taste of Chinese working girls tonight. Thought I’d met a charmer, but instead I was apparently paying for it. She wasted my mood and my entire evening.’

‘In other words you’ve been here for almost a week and still haven’t gotten lucky?’

‘Something like that.’

‘We can fix that.’

Time froze. My blood froze. Other parts of me got very hot. She said something in Chinese and then the two girls slowly tugged, rubbed and kicked out every single concern I’d ever had, along with my heart and soul. Twice.

‘I need a favor from you,’ I said.

‘More?’ Irene was giggling.

‘God no – well maybe – but first I need you both to get up, and go to the drawer. There are two black Time Out Beirut t-shirts there; that’s the magazine I write for. It’s important that you wear them and I photograph you; the editors will never believe me otherwise.’

‘Just make sure you hide our faces; and I’ll grab the t-shirts.’

She helped herself to my drawer, then helped her friend into the t-shirt. She did this very slowly.

‘I love you. Both. Forever. Marry me?’

She giggled again, ‘Welcome to China.’