Fix by Edward Gunawan

Fix

fiction by Edward Gunawan

“Here,” the naked woman across from Ismael cooed, as she guided his hand from the small of her waist, past the silvery smooth of her belly, up to the mounds on her chest. She left him cupping her, squeezing gently as though telepathing a reassuring there you are, my boy. He stood rooted on the black-and-white tiled bathroom floor, transfixed. His hand unmoving, stuck on her body like glue. He watched her soaping him—his neck, the width of his shoulders, then the nooks and crannies between his arms and chest, before arriving at the unsightly lumps of his stomach. Water cascaded over him, washing away the warm suds off his body, steam rising, as though he was now in a dreamscape—where some other guys would act out their schoolboys' fantasies, mushing those breasts, pulling her hair, and pushing her to squat down in front of him, force-feeding his manhood. But Ismael's stayed coiled in the moist marsh of his pubic hair, a shy and scared dog’s tail tucked in between its hind legs.

After toweling him off, she led him to the adjoining room where he lay on the twin bed located in the middle of the room, faced down on his stomach, relieved to find cover for his naked body. The cool air in the room ravished his back as the warm oil from her fingers slid across his shoulders. He closed his eyes shut.

. . . . . .

Earlier that evening, before Ismael and the masseuse made their way into the room, they soaked in the hot tub where he had stripped to his boxer shorts as she scrubbed his arms with a hand towel. His making-small-talk questions, “How long have you been in the city?” or, “Have you ventured out to check out the sights?” were expertly turned into another series of questions from her: “So, what turns you on?” and “Am I your usual type?” Sensing an awkward lull in their stilted conversation, she pointed to a nearby clock to remind him that his time was running out. Moments before that, a parade of Thai women standing in front of them clasped their palms together, smiling, after they greeted the men with a cheery “sawatdee-kha.”

Before then, a middle-aged madame had clapped her hands twice and a throng of women from Uzbekistan filed in to meet them. This was repeated with a line-up of Indonesian women who greeted them “selamat malam” and a separate Chinese contingent with a "ni hao." Ismael would typically let his clients have their pick first, before watching them disappear into their individual rooms as he waited for them with a foot massage on the second floor. He would then drive them back to their hotels, where he imagined them calling their wives to say goodnight. “Rough day at the office. Tough customer. We had to wine and dine them before they sign the contract.” Tonight, however, his clients had insisted that he picked one out before them, “We’re onto you. You make us go first all the time!” For once, Ismael resented their rare display of consideration towards him. “Go on, pick one. Anyone,” his boss instructed. Ismael scanned the line of Thai women in front of him, before pointing at one of them. “Good choice,” the madame proudly announced, “She is a model in Bangkok.” The night was paid for by the company. Expenses for client acquisition were the official line items on the balance sheet. Later, the receipts would list out the names of fine wine or champagnes, in lieu of more intimate services rendered. This lavishly baroque interior decor was nothing like the gay bathhouse he had once visited when he was in Vancouver for a business conference. His boss was hospitalized with food poisoning, and Ismael managed to sneak out and slid into the dark passageways that reeked of chlorine and dried cum. It was his first time in a place like that, and even though he was already thirty-five years old, he had never been physical with anyone before—man or woman. Yet he waited in the steam room on his own as he listened in on the grunts and moans that echoed in the soggy darkness all around him. No, this building was not like that dark, dingy unnamed place at all. In fact, this establishment was a sprawling complex. The building rooftop displayed the name of the establishment GALAXY prominently. Easily mistaken as one of the hip boutique hotels, it sat directly across from one of Jakarta's largest churches. The first two floors of the building housed the nightclub, infamous for its weekend

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parties that ran from Thursday afternoons to Monday mornings. The third and fourth floors were private karaoke rooms. Some of his friends had disappeared for entire weekends here, pooling their money and getting a private room to rest and sleep, before heading out for another molly-binge on the dancefloor. There was even a restaurant on the fifth floor, conveniently open 24 hours so no one would ever need to step out of the building. On the sixth floor was the bar where the women from all around the world would greet their clients, while the seventh floor held the public bath facilities—the jacuzzi and sauna. The final two top floors were long corridors that led to private massage rooms, where Ismael was now in. All you needed was right here: Women, food, booze, and most definitely, drugs.

. . . . . .

The Thai woman instructed him to turn around. As he did so, he covered his crotch with the wet towel from his shower earlier. She chuckled, before peeling it off and straddling on top of him, pouring warm oil on her own body. She whimpered soft—like a cat purring, before sliding and gliding herself onto him. He wondered how many times she had done this, and whether she had enjoyed it. He wondered what circumstances led her to this trade. But who was he to judge? Wasn’t he the same as her? Weren’t we all the same? Selling ourselves in one way or another. He resented his colleagues who would use their family to justify all the things they did— burning forests, polluting oceans, bribing government officers, and "entertaining" them with prostitutes to sweeten the deal. All in the name of putting food on the table, getting their kids to school. He had no family himself. Both of his parents had just passed away the year before, three months apart from each other. And he had never married. He couldn't bring himself to, despite his mother's persistent request to fulfil his obligations as the only child. The woman on top of him moaned again, more audibly this time. Ismael held his breath. The woman shimmied down his tail, still neatly tucked in between his hind legs. “I—I just want to have a massage tonight, OK,” Ismael said, as he pushed her

away.

“You sure?”

Ismael nodded and closed his eyes once again. The woman complied as she rubbed her palms on his stomach and chest. A few minutes later, her soft moans returned, and he could feel her teasing his nipples, in another effort to arouse him. He wondered why she had been so insistent. Wouldn’t it be better if she didn’t have to have sex with him? So, he assured her. “You know, I would still tip you the same.” “OK,” she replied, “But why?” “Why?” Ismael asked in response. “You don’t like me?” “I’m—I’m just tired tonight. Really.” She unsaddled from him, drawing herself into a ball, whispering, “Am I... ugly?” “No, not at all,” Ismael said. “Then,” she shot back, “Why?” “ Look, I’m tired OK. Told you earlier.” A sudden recognition flashed across the woman’s face, “Is there a girlfriend?” “No,” Ismael laughed. “Wife?” “Definitely not.” She looked straight at him, before lobbing a “Do you like men?” which rendered Ismael speechless. He wished he knew the answer to that himself. But he knew better not to disclose his confusion to anyone, much less a sex worker who would talk amongst themselves. His colleagues and clients might find out. He shook his head instead. The woman, satisfied for a brief moment with Ismael’s answer, pushed him back down to lie on his back as she continued her massage. Ismael lay there, contemplating a graceful exit out of the room. But this was why he was in this room, wasn’t it? While it was true that his clients had made him choose somebody, he also could have stayed out in the hot tub. He entered this room because he wanted to be with a woman. To prove he was not gay if he had just tried it. He wished more than ever that he could be the man his father wished for. “Is this broken?” the woman mocked as she poked his sleeping bird. A little stab of panic struck at the tenderest spot of Ismael’s stomach.

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What if it was indeed broken? It would so easy, wouldn’t it? If only it was broken, he need not have to try to get it up and screw the woman in front of him. If only it was broken, he would have the perfect excuse to never be married to a woman and have children. His parents would not be disappointed. His colleagues would sympathize, and he would not have to beat himself for being so unlike those slim and muscular blond surfers he watched on his laptop. If only it was broken... He surprised himself and the woman when he collapsed into long sobs, just like he did in that dark steamy gay sauna room—alone. But this time, the woman reached out to hold him. “Hey... it's all right,” the woman said, as she gently cradled him, “I’m just kidding.” Without a word, he clung onto her, letting himself weep into her bosom until the phone in the corner of the room rang.

“Want me to stay longer?” she asked. Ismael rubbed his eyes and shook his head. She leaned across the bed to pick up the phone, reporting to the person on the other line that they were indeed finished. She donned a robe and caressed Ismael’s face. “Take your time,” she said before slipping out of the room. After lying on the bed for a few more minutes, Ismael showered and got dressed before getting pats from the boisterous group of men waiting for him at the car park. “That’s my man!” they cheered.

. . . . . .

Back in his own room a couple hours later, Ismael extracted the grainy video from the last-played menu bar of his laptop, as he did almost every night before he slept. To his relief, he found himself swelling and he pumped himself to a furious finish. Ismael then wiped the trail of white stream across his navel away, before rolling over to turn the bedside table lamp off—heavy with the knowledge that there was nothing to fix because nothing was broken.

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