After I left my crappy English teaching job in Seoul in January of 1997, I spent a few weeks in the Philippines. I had $10,000 saved and I was 28 years old, and was generally well-rested and ready for action after ten mostly boring months in Korea.
I spent a few days in Manilla, and then three days in Puerto Gallera, and then took a boat to Boracay. I found the Philippines beautiful but to me at that time it seemed inferior to Thailand; it was more expensive, I found the girls less attractive, and there was a dearth of hot female backpackers.
(There were, however, a lot of the grizzled, drunken old men that I did -- and still do -- find to be unnerving specters of what might be in my life.)
Someone I'd worked with in Thailand had recommended Angeles City, which is just a short bus ride from Manila, so I decided to spend my last two days there before catching a plane to Thailand.
What had formerly been a pretty raging party town was at that time nearly deserted following the eruption of Mount Pinatubo in 1991 and the subsequent pullout of the American Naval base there. It looked like some kind of crappy suburban red-light area -- I was reminded of the Airline Highway area outside of New Orleans -- with cheap strip-mall type architecture, a lot of litter, and fast-food joints. And of course, plenty of go-go bars.
There were a few grizzled old bleary-eyed degenerates wandering around, and me. And hundreds of little Filipino girls standing in bikinis in the doorways of the bars screaming "Hello! I love you! Boom boom!"
A lot of the girls had pretty faces -- although quite a few of them had bad skin -- but almost all of them also had these strange rolls of blubber around their middles, on otherwise nice bodies.
(I was a bit mystified by that and when I got back to Bangkok I met the teacher who had recommended Angeles, and asked him about it; he had lived there for a while and he said with authority, "The average country girl who goes to work there pretty much ends up living on ice cream, soda, and candy bars."
So I wandered around to a couple of go-go bars, where I was the only customer; a few girls approached me, and I wanly answered the usual questions about where I was from and whether I was looking for a girl. ("Maybe," was the answer to that one. While I generally was, Angeles wasn't doing much for my libido.)
But something strange was happening. Every time I told the girls where I was staying, they would get a wide-eyed look on their face and make excuses and leave.
Finally one of them said something like, "Mister, there's a white lady at that place!"
"A white lady?" I said, and then realized she meant a ghost.
I laughed. How awesome! I was staying in a haunted cheap hotel.
Finally, after enough San Miguel beer to fortify me, I saw a girl that I liked. She was a tiny thing, but she had enormous breasts. I mean, almost comically large, double Ds on a girl who couldn't have been more than five feet tall. They were real, too; this was back in the days before breast implants were common.
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| Not her, of course, but we're talking those kind of proportions. A reasonable likeness. |
"But there's a ghost where I'm staying," I said.
Her eyes widened, but she said, "I'm not afraid," and smooshed her enormous funbags against me.
We negotiated a price -- I don't remember what, somewhere between $20 and $50 I guess, typical SE Asian prices at that time -- and went back to my hotel.
As we walked up the dark drive and around the back to my hotel room she was visibly trembling and clutching my hand.
I turned on all the lights and she went in peering cautiously into the bathroom and into the wardrobe and under the bed to make sure that some hideous undead phantom monstrosity wasn't waiting there.
Nope, only me.
I later asked the guy who had recommended Angeles if he'd ever heard about any ghosts there, and he said he thought that a girl had gotten killed at that particular hotel. He didn't know any particular details though.
We got on the bed and made out a little, and finally I pulled her top up and unleashed her big brown monstrosities.
"I think I know what you want to do," she said.
I smiled.
We started. Then there was a loud clumping noise from somewhere in the hotel, and she just about jumped off the bed.
I laughed. "You think it's coming to get us?"
"It's not funny!" she said.
"Ooooooooooo!" I said. "White lady!"
We got through it, but just about every time there was some kind of creak or bump, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
After she'd cleaned the spooge off her chin and we'd napped a bit, I paid her and walked her out to the street, she seemed very relieved.
"I don't think there's a ghost there," she said.
"No?" I said. "I guess our love drove it away," I said.
"See you tomorrow?" she asked.
"Sure," I said.
And I did, and I bought her a few beers, but I didn't take her back to the haunted hotel.
Some one I know once recommended, any time you feel like getting a whore, go ahead and jack off and see if you still feel like it. That's good advice.
I went back to the haunted hotel early and slept soundly, without even a bad dream.
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