I’m in my car and neon lights flash outside my window. Names of bars, clubs, and spas scream out into the night. I scan the interestingly named establishments—Marinara, Metallica, Stardust—trying to find the best place for my purpose. I’m here to be a guest, to be related with—I’m here to pay someone to talk and keep me company.
I’m driving along Quezon Avenue, ready to partake in all the mystery and allure that this area is famous for. The entrances to the establishments are dark, opaque—an invitation to step in and plumb the secrets of what they have to offer. Eventually, I find a bar that looks good, and the doorman gives me a reasonable price.
I’m going in.
To Quezon Avenue, and beyond
The industry is a side of the Philippines you won’t see in travel guides—our dirty little secret. Beneath our claims of being one of Asia’s predominantly Catholic countries lies a rawer, edgier version of our famous hospitality. The “bar and KTV” is a place never wanting of patronage, with online forums filled with members discussing the merits of each bar, each girl. There are websites, aimed towards the “whorist,” describing the do’s and don’ts, the plusses and minuses of the Philippine sex scene.
The bars one can find are quite varied, relates Nash*, a student who went to Olongapo for his immersion, to interact with the prostitutes. “We went to two bars, one ran by Americans and another ran by Filipinos,” he shares. “In their bar, the Americans can do what they want,” he says, telling stories of the girls having sex with the American clients right then and there, and of seeing an old American man being jacked off in the corner. However, he says, the working conditions are better. “It was well-lit, air-conditioned, and the patrons gave a lot of money,” he said.
This was in stark contrast to the next bar they visited. “The floor was practically earth already, and the girls did more than just dance,” he says. “They performed stunts with their vaginas, like serving ice and smoking cigarettes.”
With these in mind I enter the club.
The Aquarium
Two women in skimpy dresses, asking me if I already knew a floor manager, immediately meet me. I answer no, and they usher me into the club, telling me to wait for the manager they’d send. I slink into a seat, taking everything in. The main floor is small, with a few tables occupied by some middle-aged guys with their arms around younger women in short dresses, cut strategically to reveal ample cleavage. On stage, a bored looking girl in short shorts and fishnet stockings is dancing to Shania Twain’s “From this Moment.” I am soon approached by a middle aged woman who introduces herself as the manager. I tell her, simply, “Magtetable po kami (We’re getting a table).”
We were to avail of the services of one of the club’s women—a “guest relations officer.” Besides the company, I’m paying for a chance—to chat, maybe to flirt, or maybe, if I get lucky (and have enough cash), the opportunity to leave the bar and go to a nearby motel. I am brought to a small window, where I can take my pick of the girls available. They’re lined up on couches, in dresses intended to show off as much skin as possible—they can’t see me, but I can see all of them. This area is called “The Aquarium.” The manager asks me what kind of girl I want to talk to, so she can give me a recommendation.
After telling her that I just want to talk, I scan the girls, and eventually make my choice, telling the manager the number of the girl I want to spend the hour with, Number Twelve. She says I’ve made a good choice, and goes to fetch her.
When Nash went to Olongapo, he was able to experience something similar. “She was younger than me,” he notes, “and very shy. She didn’t talk until we convinced her.”
Their conversation was sad, about why she was working there and why she couldn’t leave. “Some of them are lured there by the promise of work as waitresses or cashiers,” Nash relates. “But then they’re asked to strip.” Some of the girls have to do this to pay off debts to their employers, so even if they would rather not dance on stage, they have to, in order to earn money.
Girl Number Twelve arrives and is introduced to me. I introduce myself, we give each other the customary beso-beso and are ushered into a room where things are more private, one of fifty such rooms in the establishment.
We’re given some beers and a remote control for the karaoke machine in the room. She sits down next to me, and we begin talking.
“Aside from the company, I’m paying for a chance—to chat, maybe to flirt”
Talk is cheap
I’m suffering from flashbacks of awkward and failed conversations as I attempt to strike up a conversation with her. After a few uninteresting comments from me about how cold the room is, she picks up the conversation by asking me why I was there. I gave her the story I had practiced—I just broke up with my girlfriend and had time to kill before going to a party.
From then, the conversation is easy. She says she understands, since she also had just broken up with her boyfriend. We talk about things that we didn’t like about relationships; we talk about how hard it was to let go. I start opening up a bit, becoming less conscious, becoming genuinely engaged in the conversation.
Our talk ranged far and fearlessly. When talking about an accident I had been in, she listens with rapt attention and asks questions with a heartbreakingly childlike innocence: “Why what happened? Why is that?” When she talks about her tattoos, she is excited and animated, laughing with every account. She is a far cry from the jaded, cynical person that I expected to talk to.
I ask her about the guys she meets in the bar, if she’s ever been in a relationship with them. She says no, saying, “eh kung macho dancer ka, gusto mo ba na may makilala ka sa ganito (If you’re a macho dancer, would you want anyone to know you like this)?”
There’s no regret or sadness in her voice, just plain reality and honesty. Did her boyfriend know where she worked? “Oo. Hindi naman ako plastic. Tao naman tayo lahat, diba (Yes. I’m not pretentious. We’re all humans, right)?” she says, with the same cold reality.
I nod and take a swig of beer. She’s nineteen years old. Her name, she says, is Aliya.
Reality bites
After a while, Aliya suddenly asks me if I’m familiar with the system of the club. She tells me that if I extend even a minute past my one hour with her, I’ll be charged for the full hour. We call the waiter and inform him that I’m billing out. When the bill comes back, I pay the money, get the receipt, and she leaves the room. I’m never seeing her again.
Over the course of the evening, it was pretty easy to forget where I was. For a while, I felt like I was back at a high school soiree, talking to a pretty girl I’d just met, but without the awkwardness. The quick and easy nature of the transaction was a harsh reminder of what really happened—it was just that, a transaction.
“It’s sad because as these women keep selling their bodies, and they become more and more used to it,” says Anton*, a Development Studies major. “They become less and less of a person until eventually, they’re just commodities.” And as I walk away from the room onto the main floor, I catch a glimpse of the “Aquarium,” and I know what he’s talking about.
Some people may offer a different view, though. Anton says that some girls claim to do it because they enjoy it. This is a claim similar to that of porn stars, who feel like what they do is empowering. “Do what you can to get the money,” he says simply.
Nash vehemently disagrees with this point. “It’s like the deepest form of exploitation,” he says, paraphrasing his philosophy class. “You’re becoming less and less of a human and you don’t even know it.”
As I leave the club, I don’t know what to think. On one hand, I’ve just had the most comfortable conversation with someone I just met, ever. On the other hand, I’ll never see her again, unless I’m willing to shell out some more cash. I’ve experienced a poignant and beautiful human interaction, yet I still can’t shake the feeling that I had just completed an arrangement. Did I meet and talk to a pretty girl named Aliya, or did I just avail of the services of Girl Number Twelve?
I exit the club’s hazy atmosphere, and go back out into the glitzy neon light. As I push the remainder of the smoke away from my eyes, I don’t think I see things any more clearly.
*Names have been changed upon request.
