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Melissa: Torrid Island Mistress
By Marshall Gibson
Copyright 2012, Marshall Gibson
Cover by Moira Nelligar
This novel is a work of ‘faction’—a mixture of fact with just enough fiction to protect the… guilty, written as a coming of age documentary from a Filipina point of view with a romantic angle
More Barely Legal
This book shall attempt to recount the details of seven trips I made to the Philippine Islands over the course of three years, whereby I initiated and maintained an extra-marital relationship with a particular Filipina, of whom I was greatly smitten by. I choose to use the word relationship in order to describe the bond between us, as opposed to the more typical word of affair, as this more accurately conveys to the reader the true depth of the bond we shared. This woman, by any definition, could never be described as the typical mistress. Without question, she is much more. For lack of a better term, this woman is my second wife.
As you read this discourse, I am sure that you are able to readily discern something quite significant about me – I am quite partial to the polygamist way of life. I believe that a man, by right of nature, should be allowed the opportunity to have more than one wife. It is rather pointless to disguise such facts or to dress them up as something else for the sake of political correctness. I have no interest in writing an apology for my beliefs, nor do I intend spending time in condemning others for theirs. Adult readers can presumably reach their own moral judgments without reassurance from the author.
But placing moral objections aside, it is my hope that the words that fill the following pages will serve as an open confession of sorts regarding my relations with this particular Filipina outside of my formal marriage. And in addition, I hope that this volume of work may serve as a testament to that remarkable relationship with this particular Filipina, and the absolutely genuine bond we shared. It is my hope that the candid discourse of this narrative may serve as a testament to these very special women.
And finally, before I begin this story, a few words of caution are in order. Despite my obvious fervor and enthusiasm in my relationship with this other woman, I am in no way suggesting that anyone should follow in my footsteps. Both my wife and Melissa exhibited exceptional courage and grace to actually make their personal acquaintance in July of 2003. It is my hope that the candid discourse of this narrative may serve as a testament to these very special women.
While this narrative is based on actual events, a considerable degree of creative license was used in the compiling of this narrative. As a result, certain aspects of the story have been somewhat fictionalized for the sake of creating dramatic interest.
If you cannot inspire a woman with love of you,
fill her above the brim with love for herself;
all that runs over will be yours.
– Charles Caleb Colton
Her name was Melissa. But her family and friends called her Meleng for short. I liked to call her Missy. She was a beautiful and spirited Filipina from Balibago, north of Manila in Pampanga province. And for more than two years she had stolen my heart away.
When I first met her by chance (as everything that happens in life is by chance, isn’t it?) on that unexceptional day in March of 2003, I was not “looking” for love, or any sort of extra-marital relationship. Because if I had been out actually “looking for love,” then this event never would have happened in the first place. – which presents an intriguing and perplexing irony to contemplate.
When a person sets out with a specific intention of finding something as fleeting and ephemeral as romantic love, it is then that a person’s chances for achieving success at such an endeavor are the most dubious and improbable. For only by simple fortuity and chance does the vivacious arousal of what may subsequently flourish into genuine and sincere love then transpire amidst two people. More simply put, true love occurs by accident, not by design, or so I most assuredly believe.
An inextricable question then arises – should we then always be looking for love if we don’t want or desire it in the first place?
For whatever the true nature of love may actually be, it is what I soon felt following my chance encounters with a seemingly unexceptional Filipina named Melissa. There was no stirring moment of the proverbial love-at-first-sight that occurred between us. It was a felicity that prospered over the ensuing weeks and months, although there was a profound moment upon my mind when I first set my eyes upon her. But this was far from a moment of love, but rather a moment merely of enchantment.
In deference to Poe, I believe it was her eyes. Yes, it was these. She had the eyes much akin to a tiger’s. They were dark, mysterious eyes with a unique and exotic shape to them which intrinsically brought to mind the impression of a tiger’s eyes, which held a deep, alluring, and almost hypnotic beauty to them. Upon seeing her, most would readily agree that this was Melissa’s most striking and attractive feature. Her eyes could project a surreptitious gaze from across the room that could enrapture any man’s heart, and more.
Yet, despite her natural beauty and captivating eyes, the feelings of love between did not grow until sometime later, while were apart on opposite sides of the globe from each other. And as in the same way that I grew to love my wife (who is Filipina as well) the sense of affection and warmth developed over time and at a great distance apart.
And such is the nature of love, I believe.
When I met Melissa for the first time in March 2003, I had already been traveling to the Philippines over the prior six years. In 1997 I had made my first journey to the archipelago, and by 2003 I had made a total of seven trips, several of which were for a month or more. So in March 2003, I was very familiar and experienced with the Philippines.
Over the last six years, I had traveled around many islands of the Philippines, including Luzon, Hundred Islands, Cebu, Palawan, Panay, Mindoro, and my favorite island, Boracay. It should be pointed out here, that I never traveled for the military or other employer, as is the manner by which most Americans find themselves in this tropical archipelago. So every trip that I ever made to the Philippines was done on my own effort and money. And along the way, I had met a wonderful and sincere lady from Baguio, named Freda. In 1998 I had invited her to the United States, and in June of that year she moved to my country where we lived together in my brother’s basement. In December of that same year we were joined in marriage, and established ourselves in our own apartment six months later.
I worked in the prosperous field of telecommunications which was strong and thriving at the time. And my wife also gainfully employed as a lab manager at an expanding biotech company. So in the course of one year, I went from living humbly in my brother’s basement to being happily married and living independently. And it was my many trips to the Philippines that had proven to play a role in my personal advancement.
And over the four years that I had been married, my wife and I had bought a house of our own in Maryland, and had saved up some twenty-thousand dollars in the bank through judicious management of our finances. We were a happily married and prosperous couple, gainfully employed with a burgeoning sum of money in the bank and in our retirement funds. Who on earth would want to give that up?
Through the course of my travels through the Philippines, I had utilized a vast array of resources from the internet to conduct meticulous research regarding the islands. This included accounts by other travelers written by other travelers like myself who posted their stories on their personal websites or blogs, information from travelers available in message boards and other online forums. One of these online forums was called AC2, and it was focused on the activities and affairs surrounding the scene in Angeles City, particularly as they related to foreign travelers and the expat community. It was a very extensive forum with some ten different message boards covering a wide range of topics related to living in Angeles City in particular, as well as the Philippines in general.
I had become a member of the forum in the Spring of 2001, and made a few friends very quickly. In January 2003, one of the friends I had made on the AC2 forum organized a “party of sorts for board members residing living in the Baltimore-Washington areas of Maryland and Virginia. The informal social gathering would convene at a local sports bar in Springfield, Virginia.
So on a cold afternoon in January of 2003, I drove from my house in Maryland to the rather inconspicuous sports bar situated off of the capital beltway in Northern Virginia. I walked into the relaxed and unpretentious establishment and shook off the winter cold, then found located the group of gentlemen I had traveled to meet. They were a nice group of individuals, consisting of five middle-aged fellows and a younger guy named Jimmy, who had actually organized this casual gathering between us. So here we all were, seven guys socializing together who share nary a thing but one in common between them, and that one thing being the Philippines.
I took a seat amidst the rather unlikely gathering of experienced travelers and bought a round of drinks for everyone, and a couple plates of appetizers to share, so as to properly ingratiate myself with my new friends.
We passed the time sharing stories of our assorted adventures through the Asian archipelago. It was phenomenal to hear so many different accounts of personal experiences in the various islands. We also snapped a great many photos between us, almost as proof of the seemingly far-fetched claims we made as we regaled and amused each other with our entertaining narratives. I enjoyed myself immensely.
At a certain point, Jimmy mentioned to me that he and two others in our party were planning a trip to our favorite islands in mid-March, and invited me to join them. They were tentatively intending to visit Manila, Angeles, Puerto Galera, and possibly Subic Bay over their three week stay in the islands.
Without a doubt, this rather amiable summons to partake in journey to my beloved archipelago together as a group was indeed very tempting. And while I wanted to eagerly accept this invitation immediately, I hesitated in doing so. Unlike those who were at this gathering who were single and could travel the world on a mere whim, I was the only married man among them, and could not join with their endeavor on the spot. But without any question I definitely desired to go with them. I would have to, however, sell the idea to my wife, so to speak. Such is the circumstances of the married man.
I assured them of my strong interest in joining with them in the Philippines, but explained of my obligations to my wife and marriage, to which everyone understood. Jimmy said that he hoped I would be able to be part of this group in March.
Before we adjourned our party, we informally christened ourselves as the AC2 East Coast Crew. And the inaugural journey to the Philippine Islands by this newly formed fraternity would be in March of 2003. I mark the dubious occasion as the proverbial cross-roads in my life which subsequently led me along a very different path from where I was heading before.
So upon successfully selling the idea to my wife of taking an impromptu trip to the Philippines, I began preparing for my upcoming journey.
My approach in planning my itinerary was to have comprehensive agenda that would cover as wide an array of activities and interests as possible during the short span of time with which I had available. My highest priority for the trip was to pay a visit to my wife’s family. Everything else I planned was going to essentially be, in my wife’s mind, merely an ancillary bonus for me. My secondary priority was to join up for at least a token meeting with Jimmy and the other members at our party in Angeles City. Third, I was interested in getting in some scuba diving at Subic Bay. Particularly in finally diving the sunken battleship New York in the harbor at Subic Bay. The ship had been sunk during the Japanese invasion in 1941, immediately following Yamamoto’s surprise air-strike on the US Navy at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. The once proud battlecruiser now lay at the bottom of the channel between the historic harbor and the open ocean, laying one her port side at a relatively shallow depth of thirty meters. (For you non-metric folks, that’s about one-hundred feet.) From the time I had become a certified diver, this was one of the sites I had always wanted to visit.
To accomplish my set of goals, I planned out a provisional itinerary for my travels that would include my wife’s home of Baguio, the expat-centric Angeles City, the historic Subic Bay, and the scuba diver’s paradise of Puerto Galera. The duration of this trip would be just two weeks, so it was a rather busy schedule that I knew could be easily disrupted by any number of unexpected surprises. There is a well understood maxim held by experienced travelers in the Philippines which states that nothing ever goes to plan there. The most valuable quality a traveler can posses is, in a single word, patience. I was told this by a long-time expatriate who owned a successful restaurant for more than ten years. I have that advice to hold particularly true. And while I expected this ambitious schedule to be hectic and exhausting at best, I was confident I would be able to keep to it. By personal experience, I understood that most of the delays and disruptions in the Philippines revolved around transportation, and I had been very careful with regard to the practicality of my transportation when I planned my schedule. It was a formidable itinerary to accomplish, but I was excited to undertake such an ambitious schedule.
To fund this busy agenda, I had managed to put aside nearly one-thousand dollars for my traveling expenses once I arrived in the Philippines. At least three-hundred of that sum would go to my in-laws in Baguio. The family lived comfortably on around one hundred and fifty dollars per month, so the three-hundred dollars would easily fulfill their basic requirements and more for at least two months. In addition to the direct financial support, I was also bringing over a suitcase full of clothes, school supplies, toys, tools and kitchen utensils. It was only by providing such material support for my wife’s family that I was granted her all-important stamp of approval to my make my trip.
So on March 14 of 2003 my wife accompanied me to Reagan National Airport where I checked into my flight to Detroit on Northeast Airlines. She lectured me about being good while in her country, knowing full well the myriad of distractions and dangers that could cause me to become entangled with serious problems or tempt me with infidelity. I had made one trip previously in 1999 where I had traveled solo without my wife at my side to watch out for me. This would be my second trip by myself. I welcomed her advice, knowing that very unfortunate things can certainly happen in the Philippines if someone isn’t careful. I know from scuba diving, it is essential to employ redundant layers of safety to avoid any accidents. The same idea holds true when visiting the Philippines. It is essential to have layers of safety to avoid any unfortunate circumstances, and my wife was re-affirming those important layers of safety in my mind. When it was finally time to board my flight to Detroit, I gave my wife a long, grateful embrace before turning to walk through the security portal.
My flight to Detroit International Airport on Northwest Airlines was less than an hour long. During the first thirty minutes of the flight, all the passengers were required to remain seated with their seatbelts buckled in accordance with the Federal Aviation Administrations regulations for flights going in and out of Reagan Airport. Subsequently, this meant the everyone had to stay in their seats for the entire duration of the flight, since the initial approach and descent into Detroit began just thirty minutes after we departed from Reagan.
As I walked through the jet-way in Detroit, I enjoyed the experience of entering the newly opened terminal for Northwest Airlines. The facility was among the most modern airport terminals in the world, and represented a vast improvement relative to the old Detroit terminal for Northwest, which was built back in the early sixties. My arrival gate happened to be at the far-end of this very extensive terminal, so I boarded the tram which traversed the length of the impressive complex from two-stories above the main terminal floor.
The gate for my international flight to the city of Nagoya in Japan was located in the central section of the enormous terminal. I only had to wait some thirty minutes until
The gate agent announced the boarding call, so my lay-over in Detroit was, to my good fortune, quite brief.
The flight between Detroit and Nagoya was nearly twelve hours long, but rather uneventful. I had become accustomed to flying such long-haul journeys, and passed my time in relative comfort, sleeping at least four hours of the journey. Nonetheless, I was eager for the opportunity to get out of my coach seat stretch my legs upon arriving for my lay-over in Nagoya. Fortunately, it was only an hour-long layover to refuel the plane for its final leg into Manila. So as I waited in the departure area, full of the typical duty-free and other touristy gift shops, I was eager to get on my way to my final destination. And when the time finally came to board the 747 airliner, I dreaded having to take my place in the cramped confines of the seat in coach.
Finally arriving in Manila after ten o’clock in the evening local time, I walked through the jet-way, the familiar and ever-present smell of Manila increasingly filling my nostrils as I progressed through the tunnel to the terminal. Like being in a herd of cattle, I followed the other arriving passengers along through the hallways of the arrival terminal until finally reaching the fast-growing lines for immigration. After passing through immigration, I claimed my suitcase, which my wife and I had packed full of gifts for her family, from the motley collection of baggage on the moving carousel. I was quickly cleared by customs, and then exchanged two hundred dollars before exiting the relative sanctuary of the airport and into the chaotic fray of taxi drivers and transportation punters waiting outside. Drawing upon the full extent of my negotiation skills which I had developed through the course of my many trips to the country, I managed to secure a taxi ride into the district of Ermita for a reasonable P100.
I directed the driver to take me to the Frendy Hotel on Mabini Street, passing along the busy night scene along Roxas Blvd running along the Manila harbor. Upon arriving at the Frendy, I registered for the least expensive room available, then climbed the three flights of narrow stairs to up to the fourth floor, retiring to my appointed accommodations. Following such a long and thoroughly exhausting series of flights, I was virtually comatose with fatigue, and I slept soundly, despite the cacophony of the traffic noise, until seven o’clock the morning.
Feeling somewhat refreshed from my sleep deficit and jet-lag, the pervasive chorus of noise coming from busy Mabini Street below, I showered and dressed, then headed downstairs to have a light breakfast. My flight to Baguio would depart later that morning from the domestic airport terminal at nine o’clock, and I was eager to catch it. Missing it would have thrown my very tight schedule off from the very beginning, ruining the rest of my planned itinerary.
After checking out of the hotel, I took a taxi to the domestic terminal in Paranaque. I secured my boarding pass for my passage to Baguio, paid the required terminal fee, passed through security, then entered the terminal to await boarding.
The flight on Asian Spirit to Loakan Airport in the mountains of northern Luzon was delayed for more than an hour, but the passengers were finally called to begin boarding at ten o’clock.
Upon arriving in Baguio at the simple Loakan terminal, I was happily reunited with my wonderful Filipino family of in-laws. We took a cab the seven kilometers into Twon and then to the Barangay where they lived, passing by the many sights of the little alpine city nestled in mountain peaks of northern Luzon which had become so familiar to me. The taxi brought us all as far into the barangay as the crude roadway would allow, finally disembarking from the vehicle and walking the last few hundred meters to the house. I carried my luggage into my wife’s little bedroom and began settling in for the duration of my stay in Baguio.
It was almost one o’clock in the afternoon at this point, and it had been almost six hours since my last meal, which had been a light one at that, and some forty-eight hours since I had enjoyed something other than airline fare. So Freda’s sister Rose prepared a proper lunch for me. As she was busying herself in the kitchen, I took the opportunity to sit at the family table and talked with her about life in Baguio. She apprised me with all the current events in the neighborhood and the various goings-on with the family. I was encouraged to learn first-hand that everyone I cared about seemed to be doing relatively well.
The kids were all healthy and progressing along well in school. The last several rice harvests had been bountiful, providing a welcome financial return for the farming efforts. And my wife’s brother Paul had just become married and was living just around the corner in the adjacent barangay. Everybody was gainfully employed and doing well, which was a happy message to hear.
Following my lunch, Rose gave me a tour of their recently finished house, showing me the new television complete with cable service and a Samsung VCR. Over the last two months, my wife and I had been taping kids programs and sending the tapes to Rose here in the Philippines. The entire library of tapes we had sent were sitting neatly on a shelf beneath the television set. And in the cabinet below the TV sat Rose’s favorite new toy, which was a karaoke machine. In the Philippines, no household can be considered complete without this essential appliance, and after so many years of not being able to own one, they had managed to afford it.
At around four o’clock that afternoon, all the kids began arriving home from school. Everyone offered me a welcoming hello, then quickly disappeared to busy themselves with their homework or other chores around the house. My niece Amy asked if I had any dirty laundry, but since I had just arrived, there was none to be washed.
Feeling tired from my lingering jet-lag, I went to my wife’s old bedroom and lay down on the simple bed to relax. As pleasant memories of this room journeys before sifted through my mind, I drifted off to sleep for a pleasant afternoon nap. It felt good to be back again in the familiar comforts of Baguio.
I awoke after seven o’clock in the evening by Amy calling me to dinner from the door of the bedroom. Feeling noticeably refreshed from my nap, I joined the family downstairs at the family table outside and enjoyed their typical evening meal of rice and vegetables. We shared happy conversation together, and I shared what Freda and I were busy doing in the US, having recently moved into a new house we had bought.
After finishing my dinner, I retrieved from my luggage a collection of photographs Freda had given me to share with everyone. I handed out the several stacks of photos to different people so they could share them casually with each other.
After everyone had seen all of the pictures, I walked back upstairs and hauled out the large suitcase I had carried along with me which was stuffed with gifts and such for the family. Everyone gathered around the cozy living room as I unzipped the bag and began distributing freely its welcomed contents to the family.
The mood of the room became naturally euphoric as everyone received the varied assortment of gifts. Happy smiles greeted me as everyone received toys, candy, toblerone chocolate, clothes, school supplies, calculators, kitchen wares, and for the patriarch of the house, a sizeable bottle of Kentucky bourbon. The jovial atmosphere flourished until late that evening as we all shared the supply of chocolates, along with the occasional sip of the bourbon for the adults.
The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a neighborhood cock announcing the advent of the sunrise. I opened the bedroom window and looked out upon the impressive expanse of the fertile valley below, and breathed in the cool, fresh mountain air. I thought of my wife and where she was at that hour, likely at home for the evening, wishing that she could be with me as I enjoyed the natural scenery around me.
Rose prepared a shower for me, consisting of a five-gallon bucket of steaming hot water and a large, secondary wash basin, to allow me to take a customary bucket shower. I shaved, brushed my teeth, and then put on some fresh clothes. Rose prepared my favorite breakfast of fried eggs and bacon, which my wife had coached her how to make for me. After breakfast, I walked down the mountain to the pathways running through the valley below to the main road. I boarded a jeepney bound for the Magsaysay market, where I disembarked and headed for Burnham Park. I walked through the perfectly sculpted and cultivated gardens of the park, watching with familiar fondness all of the little rowboats out in the water of the central lake. This spot in the Philippines had always been among my favorite places to visit in Baguio, and I enjoyed thoroughly the pleasant opportunity to return to it whenever I was in the islands. It was a considerable distance to get here, but I always made a point of making the journey.
Over the next several days, I reacquainted myself with the familiar environs of Baguio along with the friendly and curious neighbors of the barangay. My routine was simple and predictable as I passed the days in this indigenously Filipino city. In the mornings after breakfast I would enjoy my brisk walk through Burnham Park and along the heavily commercial Session Road in the center of Baguio, stopping by the market or the grocery store to buy food for the family. In the afternoons I spent time with my brother-in-law Paul and his wife Olive and newly born daughter Ruby.
On one particular evening I took my two brothers-in-law out to a place called The Music Box, where a well-rehearsed band performed. After a couple of hours watching the band perform two sets of their cover tunes, we took a jeepney to Bowkawken Rd., where we disembarked at a Filipino show disco. There we watched a variety of Filipinas dancing displaying themselves in bikinis. After an hour of watching the entertaining exhibition by the pretty ladies, we hopped aboard another jeepney and headed for home, concluding our enjoyable guys-night-out.
When Saturday morning had arrived, I packed my bag and made my goodbyes to the family. My father-in-law and brother my in-law Oscar accompanied me to the Loakan airport where I checked-in for my flight to Manila. We exchanged our final farewells when it was time for me to board the unpretentious Fokker-50 aircraft, then walked to the boarding gate and to the airplane.
In Manila, I took a taxi into the Ermita district where I stepped out at the Swagman Hotel. I went inside to the travel desk of the busy expat friendly establishment and secured a ticket for the bus service to Angeles City. It was over two hours before the next bus was scheduled to depart for Angeles, so I left my luggage under the watchful eye of the front desk, and took a seat at the little Aussie styled pub in the back and ordering a Victoria Bitters to pass some time. A television was airing CNN World News with reports on the much hyped US invasion of Iraq. I didn’t spend long in the pub, as the atmosphere was becoming decidedly anti-American at the news. I finished my beer and let myself outside, walking into the sultry afternoon heat of Manila.
I took a walk up Flores Ave. to J. Bocobo street and over to the Robinson’s Department Store. I sat down to some lunch at one of the fast-food restaurants available, welcoming the familiar smells and tastes of a hamburger and fries. Then I passed my time touring about the different shops and stores.
I stopped by a display for a nearby residential subdivision being developed, and the home models available to buy. I picked up some literature and spoke with the representative who was eager to speak with a potential foreign buyer. My wife and I had discussed the possibility of moving ourselves to the Philippines and were interested in available subdivisions and what housing options were available.
As I returned to the Swagman, I encountered a little music bar called Jap Lac which was opened for business. Having another forty-five minutes to kill, I stepped inside to take a look at the place and have a drink, welcoming the refreshing coolness of the air-conditioning. I sat at the bar and watched as the ladies danced listlessly on the stage in their bikinis to tired pop-metal songs. I was very unimpressed by the place, and growing uncomfortable in the thoroughly seedy environment. After drinking only half of my San Miguel, I paid my meager tab and walked back outside and into the humid afternoon air.
I made my way to the Swagman hotel where the bus to Angeles was boarding. I acquired my luggage from the front desk and stowed it into the cargo hold of the bus, then settled into one of the available seats. The ride to Angeles was about three long in the late afternoon traffic along the North Super-Highway. The bus stopped along Fields Ave. near the busy intersection of MacArthur Boulevard, where I disembarked and walked the short distance to the Orchid Inn Hotel, taking an available deluxe room overlooking the swimming pool and central courtyard. This garden plaza nestled in the heart of the hotel complex was a peaceful oasis from the outside commotion of Angeles City.
I spent an hour settling into my new accommodations, grooming and bathing and changing into fresh attire. I took an inaugural walk through the town up to well-known Komomoz Restaurant where I had some dinner, sitting at the table constructed of a rough cut slab of natural wood with a collection of expats and foreign visitors. After eating, I felt it was high time to finally head out to the assortment of nightlife establishments along the much fabled Fields Avenue.
Setting foot onto Fields Avenue and experiencing it for the first time is a genuinely impressive and unforgettable experience to partake. The incredible sight of dozens of little bars covered with neon signs, with sumptuously dressed Asian ladies standing by the doors greeted me as I walked along the bustling sidewalks of this world-renowned district of leisurely diversions.
Ostensibly, I was here to fulfill three specific objectives delineated in my itinerary. The first was to meet again with Jimmy and the cadre of members from the AC2 message board. Secondly, was my plan to make a dive of the USS New York at the bottom of the harbor at Subic Bay, with Angeles City serving as the jumping off point for that excursion. Third, I was here to explore the potential for photographing models for a few adult websites that were offering money for images of nude ladies. If I produced a portfolio of suitably high quality, I could potentially cover the expenses of my current visit to the Philippines. Each of these objectives would be accomplished, at least in part, over the next several days. But as the unforeseen fortunes of providence would have it, other events would take place as well, which were not part of my originally planned itinerary.
I stepped into the Roadhouse bar situated near the corner of Raymond Street and Fields Avenue. I became immediately absorbed by the surprisingly classy atmosphere inside as I took a seat at the bar. I enjoyed a cold San Miguel as I allowed myself to become delightfully entranced by the line-up of lovely Filipinas gracefully performing their synchronized dance to routine to the invigorating beat of hard rock music. The dancers were attired in outfits that were much less revealing than the skimpy string bikinis usually worn by such entertainers. This concealment of each ladies’ alluring physique made them all the more beguiling and captivating.
I proceeded to survey the available ladies dancing on the stage, assessing each lady for the prospect of modeling for me. I began with the taller and most conspicuous ladies comprising the center of the line, and slowly surveyed my way to the ends.
And there she stood, Melissa, unassuming and deferential next to the other ladies, subjugated to dancing at the edge of the stage, merely by virtue of her diminutive size. The moment my scrutinizing gaze fell upon her eyes and face, I knew in an instant she was the lady I wanted to pose for me.
Her eyes were alluring and charming with their uniquely tiger-eye shape, which bestowed upon her lovely countenance a sublimely exotic, and curiously noble demeanor. I was simply entranced by them.
When she walked down from the stage with the other ladies, she carried herself with a noticeably exalted, lofty manner as she strode past me with indifference. All of the other ladies who were exiting from the stage were rather friendly, and said hello to me as they walked by my seat at the bar. As the new line-up of ladies assumed their position on the stage, I turned to the bartender and pointed out Melissa to her, and asked her to serve up a ladies drink for Melissa.
I took a seat along the wall and was soon joined by my chosen lady companion, holding a champagne flute of orange juice in her hand. We exchanged some pleasantries between us, then I asked Melissa if I could pay her barfine so she could come back with me to the hotel where I was staying. Initially, she readily agreed to accompany me to my room at the Orchid. But when I informed her of my sole interest in taking photos of her, she became ambivalent, and gradually changed her mind, ultimately refusing my offer. This was after she had craftily hoodwinked me out of three ladies drinks in the process of our discussion.
I raised a complaint to the manager, who promptly whisked Melissa to the back room behind a burgundy velvet curtain. A few minutes later, the manager approached me and offered to remove two of the three ladies drinks from my tab, which amounted to about six dollars. Even though I was working on a very limited budget, I found myself not so distressed over the amount of the money as I was at being insulted. But since the management had been forthright in addressing the situation on my behalf, so I ultimately paid my bill as it was and left the Roadhouse for another establishment.