My room at Kokomo’s was only guaranteed for two nights. When on the second day I asked my hostess if anything had opened up, she said I had one more night, which I took to mean one additional night, but by which she meant one remaining night. So on Sunday morning I was packing while Kokomo’s was preparing their Pool Party & Dance Contest only a few feet from my soon-to-be-ex-room. Euro Tour made room, so I loaded my luggage in a trike and walked back to Kokomo’s for the party.

This contest represented a significant opportunity for the competitors – their barfine for the night was prepaid, plus they enjoyed free food, lots of liquor, carefree frolicking with friends in the pool, and a shot at a P5000 grand prize, matched by an individual who wanted to elect his own winner. So if a girl managed to run the table, she could possibly go home early with P11000 or more for a few hours of convivially strutting her stuff. More likely a lot of prize money would be spread around, so spirits were high.

Perhaps a dozen lads had each paid P5000 to be judges, thereby ensuring that lots of private parts would be rubbed in their faces over the course of the afternoon. We punters paid P1500 (plus a P700 option to add unlimited imported drinks) for an all-you-can-eat buffet, all-you-can-drink local drinks, and an eyeful of pulchritude showing off - a fine way to while away an afternoon, and a good scouting expedition. I made mental note of my favorites and their workplaces. Also struck up a conversation with a gregarious expat, and later hit the seamier end of Fields with him, discussing the way things are and the way things were.

I schemed to pursue my favorite contestant before she was untimely plucked. But the gods did not smile on my plan, for they demonstrated their wrath by dispatching a storm, and it caused the power to fail whilst I performed my ablutions. I reckoned I might save time by shaving in the dark, instead spending the following hour trying to staunch the bleeding. The nearby supermarket and pharmacy could not produce ancient standby Stypstik, rather trying to persuade me to grind up antifungal tablets to pack the wound.

All this distraction seemed like a sign from somewhere, so I elected to slow down and smell the roses. It was probably 11 before I pulled in, and the object of my desire was nowhere in sight. Asking around, I learned she hadn’t been in - mamasan explained that too much tequila that afternoon had taken its toll, and the poor girl had exercised her contestant card to beg off for the evening.

I was disappointed, but also distracted by another cutie I’d spied at the contest. How to pull this off? Surely tonight’s gratification would preclude the possibility of connecting tomorrow with the apple of my eye.

Even as I pondered this conundrum, who should appear but Apple herself. Someone told her my intentions, so she sidled over to both apologize for her headache and promise to sing a different tune tomorrow. We chatted briefly; I thanked her and bid her au revoir (they love it when you talk dirty.)

“You’re not leaving?”
“Without you, there’s nothing for me here.”
“Choose another girl!”
“You really wouldn’t mind if I chose, say, your friend there?”
“No, she my friend! It’s okay!” as she waved Cutie down.

Cutie nearly bounded from the stage, so pleased was she to be chosen; this was shaping up as a particularly good payday for her, and a regular bonanza for me. She fairly bubbled with enthusiasm for the next few hours.

I don’t need to tell you that gusto is where it’s at, and we couldn’t have done much better. I let her go early – she’d had a long day, what with the contest and all – and besides, I thought it wise to get some semblance of rest for my much-anticipated last night in town. I slept well and well pleased with myself for having my cake and eating it too.


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