Is Wendy beautiful?  I cannot say.  She wears a tiny orange singlet that covers part of her slim torso and a matching skirt that covers little more.  Comic book eyelashes, long coloured nails and a cosmetic disguise.  She sits at the bar of the dismal Boomerang playing Candy Crush.  She has no drink.  Khe Sanh is blaring in the background but she doesn’t know what it’s about and she doesn’t care.  Some silent, dull eyed ancient blokes around her sit up slightly as though they’ve heard the opening strains of the national anthem.

She’s usually here from around six.  If it’s quiet she’ll try the nightclub around the corner instead but she prefers it here.  The Lotus has too many girls; they have to fight over each guy.  Not at the Boomerang.  The Boomerang is easy, so long as it’s not too quiet.

Wendy has no interest in working at the hostess clubs.  She could never work for somebody else.  She chooses her customers for herself.  Any barang is okay; young, old, fat, whatever.  But no Asians.  Not even rich Chinese or tall Koreans.  Certainly no Cambodians or Vietnamese.  No Philipinos.  No Thais.  No Japanese.  She lists every East Asian country, ruling out the men from each.  What about Indians, then?  No.  Only barang.

Both Wendy’s parents were absent during her childhood so her grandmother took care of her.  At sixteen she took positions in Malaysia and Singapore doing domestic work, nannying, cleaning.  She worked for strict mistresses and naughty children.  It was tiring.  She returned to Cambodia at eighteen.  That year, her high school teacher fell in love with her and married her.  He was in his twenties.

The teacher-husband did not work out.  Wendy knew nothing of sex.  At night she would Read More