My time in the Philippines left a permanent scar on my opinion of the whole goddamn population out there. It’s not a simple place. The women, they’re a beautiful, confusing, and dangerous mix of everything. Spanish, African, American. You see it in their eyes, their asses, their skin. They’re not one thing. They’re a hundred different kinds of trouble, all wrapped up in one perfect, brown package. And that’s what makes them special.
I got there a day before the boat. I remember walking around the city. It was a normal shithole, reminded me of Tijuana. The infrastructure was all beat to hell, the walls covered in a kind of desperate, self-taught art. The streets were dimpled with potholes, stray dogs wandering around like they owned the place, and the air was thick with that special Filipino perfume: a mix of cooking food, rotting trash, and quiet desperation.
Then I saw them. A caravan of old, beat-up Korean military buses, snaking down a zigzag road from the hills. They were packed to the gills with women, farmers’ daughters mostly, being shipped into Subic Bay for the main event. I looked out to the sea, and I could already see it. A big, huge, gray metal vessel, packed with over three thousand horny, lonely, and stupid American sailors, coming into the valley like a plague of locusts.
It was a sight to behold. The second that ship docked, the whole town lit up like a cheap Vegas casino. Every bar, every club, every dark little corner had a gimmick, a game, something to keep you there, to keep your money flowing. It was a game of endurance, and the house always wins.
There was this one bar, my favorite, where a woman had a special talent. She could insert a ping pong ball into her… female cannon, as I called it. You’d pay her five bucks, and she’d load up, squat down about five feet away from you, and take aim. Your mouth was the bullseye. The more you paid, the better her aim got. Sometimes, you didn’t even have to move. Poof. Right in the kisser. Another one would hit you on the cheek. But she’d adjust. Boom. Right in the mouth. You’d catch it, no hands, and then spit it back out for her to reload for the next poor bastard. You’d get a free beer for your trouble. I remember seeing myself under a blacklight later, my face and forehead covered in these little round marks from all the near misses. Good times.
Then there was the peso game. A young lady would be up on stage, and you’d stack your peso coins on the floor. If you stacked them high enough, she’d come down, look you in the eye, and squat over the stack, without touching. She’d go all the way down, and then, with some kind of reverse-kegel magic, she’d suck the whole goddamn stack right up into her. Then she’d walk over to a galvanized bucket in the corner, squat again, and you’d hear the tink, tink, tink of your money hitting the bottom of the pail.
No, there was never a donkey show. No bestiality, no guys swallowing swords. They didn’t need that cheap shit. The women were the main event. Gorgeous, beautiful, goddamn women.
But it was the pretty ones, the ones who knew they were a prime cut of meat, they were the ones you had to watch out for. They were running a factory. Up to a room for fifteen minutes, back down, grab the next guy, another fifteen minutes. They were pushing out some serious numbers. You didn’t want to be a part of that assembly line.
So what about the fat ones, the ugly ones? The owners were smart. They put them to work under the tables. You’d sit at a big, round table, put your money in the middle for drinks, and one of the less-desirable girls would be down there, under the tablecloth, giving a little “oral comfort” to all the guys at once. It was a game. If you could guess who was getting the real blowjob and who was just getting a handful of faked enthusiasm, you won. But either way, there was a woman under the table, touching a bunch of dicks at the same time. A real adult carnival.
They handed out condoms by the handful as you got off the boat, but it didn’t matter. Most of the guys were either too drunk or too stupid to use them. They’d pop, or the girl would whisper some sweet nothing in your ear, and you’d go in bareback because “she’s special.” I can’t even imagine the pregnancy rate in that valley.
Now, I’ve had my share of beautiful Filipina women, and I never paid for it. That’s not my style. But I remember the young guys, the ones getting their first taste of that brown vagina. The next thing you know, they’re bringing her home, setting her up as a good little Navy wife. You’d see them on base on payday, her, hot and beautiful, and him, some tall, skinny kid with an Adam’s apple and zits still on his neck, giving her the PIN to his bank account.
They know what they want. They know what they need. And they will take care of you. They were good, traditional women back then, in their own way. And there’s no shame in their game. They know exactly what they’re doing. Pussy for stability. Pussy for money. Pussy pays the bills. “You want to be in my life? You take care of me.” I heard that a hundred times.
And that was an evening in the Philippines.
