There are basically two kinds of girls in VietNam. One is a prostitute and the other a poster girl for Acme Chastity Belts. The top is a tight fitting knee length blouse, slit on either side from the waist. Baggy legged slacks fit snug in the derriere. The women augment their seduction with an innate, delusion-inducing look that is all thunder and no lightning that leaves the foreign male with the feeling of an impending inevitability of getting laid at any moment.
These beguiling, unattainable little kittens only added to feelings of puzzlement. The bar hookers would see a new face and probe for possible business. After they realized the latest cash cow gave no milk, they relaxed — or gave up.
One particularly attractive independent contractor mired in a bad spell of business complained one night. I lent an ear but declined to mention that maybe her sitting alone at the end of the bar picking her nose so deeply I had fears her face may cave in had something to do with her lack of success.
All members of an opposite sex can be divided into two categories: they are either a Yes or a No. Dropping her bottom line to, say, ten bucks would score her two to four tricks a night with the horny toads passing through town — good money in a country where 40 to 60 dollars a month is the going rate for a real job. One night, as she approached, I readied myself for her bid. Instead, she took my empty bottle, wiped the table, and looked at me like it was my fault she was, ugh, working in a bar.
Another equally unappealing tart and a real broad was particularly forthright. Market value — 20 bucks plus hotel. She waddled up to a guy and fired her opening salvo. He turned the tables and undercut her, a seat sale as it were.
