You meet some interesting characters in the uber-sleazy city of Angeles, Philippines. After a night on the sauce I met a ‘local’ expat who had taken his licks in the city following way too many JD & cokes and some ill-advised trysts with women of negotiable affection. After agreeing that his actual name would not be used, he consented to his raciest anecdote being published. This is Alan Smithee’s story.
City of Angels (with dirty souls)
Vegas is renowned as the city of sin, but it’s bush league compared to Angeles. Like there’s no comparison whatsoever. Angeles might be the only city in the world where johns are outnumbered by hookers at a rate of around 3-1. I’ve lived in the Philippines long enough to get divorced twice, but not long enough to have given up on future ex-wife #3.
I’m what ex-wives #1 and 2 might call a ‘whoremonger’, if they knew that word in English. It’s always been a weakness of mine, and moving to the whore capital of the world didn’t help the situation. I’ve spent the equivalent of South America’s GDP on whoring. I account for around 2% of the Philippines’ economy.
I have a friend who lives in Angeles, and I occasionally visit because I like cheap drinks and I really like hookers. There’s something undoubtedly satisfying about sex that will not eventually lead to abortions, raked faces and my favourite sweaters being cut up and thrown off second-floor balconies.
Unexpected genital developments
I stopped checking for penises a while ago, but the first time I took a trap back to an hourly-rate hotel, I don’t know whether I was genuinely unaware of the Kinder Surprise between her legs, or if I simply didn’t care. Given how drunk I was: bit of column A, bit of column B.
Suspicions were arisen when she unrobed and there was a distinct lack of secondary sexual characteristics, and stoked further still when she had a curious aversion to revealing her genitals. After a few tentative queries as to whether I might have been averse to unexpected developments south of the border (I affirmed indifference on this point), panties were removed and penises revealed. I was in for a penny in for a pound at this point, and so just went with it.
After some of the most debauched sexual congress I’d ever had up to that point (I’ve topped it several times over since then), we exited the top-rate boudoir and hit the streets. My gender-ambiguous new friend advised me that she was increasing her rate by 50%, which was the second most surprising development of the evening. More as a point of pride than anything else (curious, since pride had exited the building long ago), I argued the toss.
As we debated the finer points of impromptu profiteering, I became aware of a police cruiser across the street. It would probably have been unwise for them to become aware of my haggling with a transgender hooker after the fact.
A little light police corruption
“If you don’t pay, I go to police,” offered my short-time companion.
“Go ahead,” I said, thinking that surely she wasn’t stupid enough to confess to a crime over 500 pesos.
She went to the police.
A bunch of Tagalog ensued – a language that remains more of a mystery to me than my poor life choices – and I declared my lack of understanding of said language. The policeman translated for me, explaining that I was to pay the concealed-carry lady her adjusted rate.
“What if I don’t?” I queried, doubling down on calling bluffs.
“We arrest you both and you go to jail, sir.”
“Well that sounds bad.”
Thus it was that my price-gouging ladyfriend got her money, and I got shafted (metaphorically speaking – our relationship was not sufficiently cemented for me to engage in no-strap-on pegging).
That taken care of, I was to find that the night had more surprises in store for me. At some point my phone had gone walkabout. This was highly unfortunate for several reasons, but the most pressing one was that it contained my friend’s address, and I had zero fucking clue where I was. I was well and truly up Shit Creek without a canoe, much less a paddle.
Fortunately, my new prostitution-sanctioning police friends offered to take me home. I had only the vaguest notion of where my friend’s place was, and described it to them as well as a thoroughly shitfaced foreigner could.
Thus commenced around an hour of driving around through identical-looking streets. I could have been in Buttfuck, Idaho for all I knew. I occupied my time by repeatedly searching my pockets for my phone. It didn’t turn up.
On the importance of mild dishonesty
Eventually they got me back. I was presented with a further problem: I very much felt it was in my and my friend’s interest for these slightly-corrupt police officers to remain ignorant of the precise location of his place. After some verbal legerdemain, I managed to have them drop me off a street over.
“There is the problem of gasoline, sir,” opined one of my police escorts. I can’t say I hadn’t been expecting this.
Luckily for Drunk Me, Sober Me had a certain amount of animal cunning. I had left all bank cards at home and, following the exploits of my usurious temporary lover, had no more than 300 pesos in my wallet.
I decided it was time to push my luck and offered them 100 pesos. This was met with a fair amount of consternation and bemusement. I had to give it to them – they’d just driven me around for an hour searching for the vaguest of addresses when they could have been out getting some real bribes, and I was genuinely grateful for them getting me back. I thus emptied my wallet of every last peso and thanked them profusely.
“Do you have your passport, sir?”
“It’s at my friend’s place,” I answered truthfully.
“What’s your name, sir?”
In a spate of drunken quick thinking I remain genuinely proud of, I gave my middle name and grandfather’s surname. They looked less than satisfied, but eventually drove off.
I did a bit of muddying the waters by walking off the wrong way, and took something of a circuitous route home.
My friend, legitimately worried at this point, was waiting up for me. He asked me what happened, and he was (and remains) a close enough friend that I recounted the whole, unvarnished truth about what had transpired. If he was disgusted by my sexual misadventures and use of police vehicles as de facto taxis, he kept it well hidden.
And here we are. I’d like to say that I learnt my lesson and never, ever engaged the services of women of the night ever again, but I’d be lying. It’s a lesson I still have to learn, if I’m being honest with you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to evince further indifference to the genital topography of possible women.
Alan Smithee has so far won the STI lottery, but it’s surely only a matter of time.