For someone who used to bar-hop during those wretched years
spent in KL, returning to KK was a far cry from my former life. While I was in
KL, guzzling down alcoholic drinks during weekdays pretty much summed it up.
The normal practice would be partying from the early evening and staggered back
home the next day after. The security people down my apartment complex had
gotten used to our ‘itineraries’. Having
our carpark space next to their security post was, as far as the tenant’s
information goes, of course more than sufficient.
After returning to Sabah for good, that was middle of 2010,
I finally resolved myself as a born again novice when it comes to clubbing
scene. Gone were the days of staggering
home with mussed up hair and make-up, walking barefoot with shoes toed off, lying
in abandoned inside the car and no more binge-drinking taking precedent to a much abused whole year
round body. No more passing out hugging
the toilet bowl. If you ask me now whether I’d still be able to withstand the onslaught
of alcohol in my system, I seriously
doubt it. To be exact, I’ve been sober for nearly two and a half years now. Well, to begin with, I’m not an alcoholic junkie.
I drank a lot, but luckily I wasn’t hooked on it 24/7. I didn’t suffer from
withdrawal syndrome and I am perfectly calm and nonchalant when I walk by the
wine corner at supermarkets. I do enjoy wine. I drink it while at home or
picnics or during family gatherings. I
was a binge-drinker. That much I admit.
In all fairness, nightlife in KK is not one we can call
boring. In the city centre, there are a
number of watering holes to sink yourself into, to spend a chunk of your monthly wages
off. To call forth your Twitter/Facebook
friends for the catching-up and socializing in the flesh. I remember one time back in late 2010. After
attending an event at Le Meridien Hotel, my friends practically frog-marched me
to BED, where people from every walk of life in KK congregate. At a relatively cheap cover charge, anyone
can squeeze themselves in. But of course, drinks prices in this establishment are
not cheap! One thing for sure, this club
is always jam packed, especially during weekends. The locals, the tourist, the immigrants, the
hookers – all converged into one. From
the moment I stepped inside, the familiar tobacco fumes practically gave me
cardiac arrest. Jostling with sweaty bodies, toes got stepped on, boobs getting
grazed with various peoples’ anatomies (and some louts copping a feel at my
bottoms) while on stage, some mad Filipino band shrieking and gyrating in
skimpy attires over the too loud music you could hardly hear the vocals and
there I was, feeling out of place and too old compared with the rest. I
had the sensation of being trapped in the tunnel of mayhem.
Half an hour inside, my tops got sloshed with icy drink by
an overly hyped guy, who was dancing and totting his glass drink high up his
head (If appeared like a man gotten his nuts kicked all the way to Timbuktu is
what we can call dancing at all) and a guy next to our table kept on coming to
ours with his ‘let’s clink our glasses together’ phrases. The other girls were beginning to turn the
other cheeks and proceeded to dance with no care and I was left dealing with
the bore. I said: excuse me but please,
enough with your ‘aramai ti’ cheers. Leave
us alone, we’re not interested. Red
faced, he never attempted to approach us again. I looked at the bar top counter
located in the center of the cavernous room and several girls were trying to drug the
crowd to oblivion with their super-Shakira moves. On a closer inspection, it appeared that one
of them was a tranny in stripper’s heels, denim mini skirt and leopard print bra. While that irritating Sean
Kingston’s Fire Burning lyrics was
blasting about calling 911 because Shawty (whatever and whoever that is) is
burning, a young girl crouched on the bar top counter, skinny thighs splayed
apart, showing her not so flattering
panties while a man below held up a burning ciggy lighter up her gyrating crotch, the
crowds grew wild. It safe to say that that tranny in leopard print bra was
ousted!
In the remaining hours of the night, I tried to blend in. My
attempts on reviving my ‘party people coolness' were unsuccessful. In the end,
my bottoms remain glued on the stool and I was left looking at the people who
used to be the shadow of my former self. These days, I prefer to kick back and
relax with friends in laid back bar/lounge, preferably with some Irish bubbly or cocktails and have proper conversations without shouting and breaking my eardrums.
A simple teh tarik session with friends is a luxury that I never want to
forgo.
And that, have probably made me a boring woman? I draw the
line of being a recluse, by the way.
