Nampitcha!

He was chinky-eyed, wearing glasses that made him look nerdy and more appealing. While we were cuddling afterwards, I found out he loved kissing—long, deep, passionate. In between he kept tracing his finger over my eyebrows and the bridge of my nose—I couldn’t help but smile when he did that.

“I like your eyes sir,” he said.

What did he just call me? I pretended I didn’t understand what he said and went, “Huh?”

“I like your eyes sir,” he repeated. Yup, he actually called me ‘sir’. I should have recognized red flag number one.

He kept insisting, “You have very handsome eyes. They’re kinda chinky.”

“Wha—? Of course not,” I retorted with a laugh. He had taken off his glasses and placed it on top of the bedside locker before we went at it, so he had to be pulling my leg. But what for? Unfortunately red flag number two also went unnoticed.

A while later he said, “You look like you’re in a good line of work.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You look like you have a decent job,” he clarified. “You know? You don’t look like someone who is tambay sa kanto, hahaha.”

That was the third red flag that I didn’t recognize.

After chatting for a while I said, “Okay, time to wash up.” It was already past 12:30am, and I had work in a few hours. As he was arranging his towel around his waist, he suddenly looked up as if an important thought struck him. “What?” I asked. He was wrestling with himself; in the end, he said it anyway: “Hey, maybe you have some extra income and you want to invest or something,” his words tumbling over each other in a rush before he could lose his nerve.

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech to a halt.

What.

The.

Fuck?!

“I’m sorry…?” I pretended once again.

And he asked me once more, this time with less stammering. I don’t remember much the full details because they sounded irrelevant to me, but I heard stuff like: “not some pyramid scheme,” “added income” and “only if you’re interested.”

Good lord, I was being given an honest-to-goodness sales pitch inside a bathhouse right after hot and heavy sex. A sales pitch, for cryin’ out loud! Are times really that hard? It took all of my will power to keep a smile plastered on my face, but I folded my hands in front of me. “Ahhh… nah,” I said and stood up to usher him out of my room.

He tried one last attempt. “Okay, so you’re not interested,” he conceded. “But maybe you have friends whom you can refer?”

I wanted to end this as quickly as possible. “Okay, I’ll ask them.”

“But it’s going to be awkward if I get in touch with them without your endorsement,” he said. Oh boy, he wasn’t going to fade out quietly.

“Look,” I said, more firmly, “I’m not interested, even to recommend.” And I took his arm and led him to the door. If he still insists, I’m going to take off the gloves.

“Oh, okay. Thank you sir,” he said on the way out. Sir, he said again. That should have tipped me off from the start.

* * * * *

On my way home I wondered, do I look like the Mother Teresa of the Bathhouses? Which gave me an idea: what if I actually come up with an Order of The Bathhouse Acolytes, or OBA? Our mission: to bring comfort to the sexually needy. And instead of Spiritual Exercises like the Jesuits, we’ll have the Sexual Exercises—an updated, M2M version of the Kama Sutra.

Who will want to join?