Whispers and Moans Interviews with the Men and Women of

Hong Kong's Sex Industry

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 Whispers and Moans

eBook ISBN 978-988-19003-6-4

Published by Blacksmith Books

5th Floor, 24 Hollywood Road, Central, Hong Kong
www.blacksmithbooks.com

Copyright © Yeeshan Yang 2011

Yeeshan Yang asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Edited by Stephen Maurice Kettle

Cover design and photography by Tim McConville

www.timmcconville.com
 1

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would
smell as sweet.”
- Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2), William Shakespeare

A
group of apparently wealthy, well-dressed housewives with
slightly too much make-up, and slightly too much jewellery, burst
into a European-style furniture store in Causeway Bay, Hong
Kong. They tore up the bedsheets, knocked over the tables and chairs,
yelled, and generally caused mayhem. Miss Fu, the store manager, told
Elaine and Wendy, two other assistants, and me, then only 18 years old, to
try to reason with the women while she called for the police.
“How dare you stand there so brazenly, after seducing our husbands?”
shouted one of the women.
“You chickens [Hong Kong slang for prostitutes], show us what you
have that’s so good! You don’t just sell beds, you whores hop onto them
with our husbands!”
Elaine, Wendy and I were scared and nervous. So was Miss Fu, but she
stood her ground, hands on hips, feet firmly planted, and responded: “Look
at yourselves, you stupid, spoilt bitches! No wonder your men run after
other women. Your husbands aren’t here. Go and look for them in a whore
house!”
 The most slightly built of the women was sure this defence confirmed
that Miss Fu really did have something to hide. She grabbed Miss Fu’s hair
and yelled, “You slut, selling beds has turned you into one yourself! How
can you even think of being my husband’s mistress? Why don’t you take a
look at yourself? You ugly, dried-up old spinster!”
Ironically, another commented: “Your husband must have poor taste.
How else could he fuck a bitch like her?”
The slightly-built one let Miss Fu go and asked, “If it’s not you, then
who is it?” They looked at us accusingly. Eventually, all eyes landed on
Elaine.
“This slut has a mole as big as a broad bean,” one of the women said.
“She may not be a whore, but she could be their pimp.” This stunned poor
Elaine, whose jaw dropped visibly. Then, fingers stabbed at Wendy’s face.
“Men wouldn’t touch her poxy face, but they’d love to feel her huge tits.”
Wendy flushed profusely.
Suddenly, the largest of the marauding women shouted directly at me,
“Look at her, thin eyes and thick lips, a born chicken.” I was nervous,
confused, and angry.
The police arrived within twenty minutes and took the worst of the
troublemakers away. There was little sympathy for the remaining women
who were left licking their wounds. It seemed to them they were the
victims. They were surrounded by a damned pimp, a deserted spinster,
whores, a born chicken with narrow eyes and full lips, and a girl with bad
skin and annoyingly full breasts; and to add insult to injury, the police were
on their side.
For weeks after the showdown, Elaine remained embarrassed at the
public ridicule of her mole, and resigned. Wendy reacted badly when Miss
Fu continued to remind her of the comments on her skin and breasts,
implying blame of some sort. Finally, Wendy sought satisfaction in a
settlement arranged by the labour union.
My own supposed “chicken look” was destined to make me the butt of
continued jibes. After a row with staff members who were making fun of
me, I was fired by Miss Fu.
I was only 18, and found the accusation of having a “chicken look”
much more shameful than anything else I could imagine. Years later, I still
feel the shame. Even now, as an adult I will look at myself in the mirror to
try to see if the accusation has any validity, and to find any sign that I am a
good woman.
One of the housewives eventually admitted they had made a mistake and
should have gone into the shop next door. The housewives’ collective
jealousy had erroneously affected the lives of innocent individuals and left
me with a powerful memory.
Although confused at the time, with the benefit of hindsight I can see
many implications and emotions in the events at the furniture store. The
loathing married women have for prostitutes; fear of ageing and loss of
attractiveness; competition between females for the same source of security.
Objectively, it is easier to blame the most remote party, i.e. the supposed
prostitute, rather than the man. Push the man too far and he takes his
patronage elsewhere, which creates a self-fulfilling accusation, whether or
not a prostitute is the cause.
Imagine if the definition of prostitution was broadened to cover not just
cash but security, housing, clothes, and a generally more comfortable life in
return for such benefits as companionship, sexual availability, a
housekeeper, birth mother, and child minder. It could then be argued that the
angry women were simply single-client prostitutes trying to frighten off
freelance prostitutes competing for the same source of benefits and security.

Prostitution is often called the oldest profession. It is probably more

accurate to call it the oldest business. Despite its many forms, the common
factor is an exchange of usually, but not always, money, given in return for
sex of some kind. In this context, ‘sex’ is used to describe any benefit
arriving from a person of the opposite sex: non-contact companionship,
friendly affection, outings as an apparent couple, all the way through to full
sexual intercourse and its many variations.
Whenever and whatever the demand, there has always been a supply,
and vice versa. Which drives which? Chickens and eggs in an eternal circle.
In literature and the visual arts, the prostitute is typically portrayed by
reference to quite clearly defined clichés: a superficially sweet and
appealing creature hiding an underlying, hard-edged cynicism; a
downtrodden, used and abused wretch; or a happy hooker in full control
acting out of choice, living proof of Darwin’s notion that the female
chooses the male. This was a shocking concept to Darwin’s male
contemporaries, and despite its compatibility with biological evolution, it
remains uncomfortably at odds with much feminist thinking on the subject
of female sex workers. The feminist view of male sex workers is rather
more fuzzy.
Prostitution is a classic case of proximity determining perception. In
another country, it may be seen as a fascinating aspect of an exotic culture,
something different and exciting. In the next town, it is a social ill, about
which something really should be done. In the street in which one lives, it is
a terrible, disgusting, immoral, depraved business operated by cheap
criminals and even cheaper women.
In truth, people who suppose themselves to be morally superior would
rather not acknowledge the existence of prostitution in their own society, its
existence being a reflection of aspects of self. Such prejudice is deeply
rooted. It serves to reinforce notions of moral superiority and justifies a lack
of concern about the welfare and dignity of prostitutes.
Pragmatically, however uncomfortable it may be, societies ought to
accept that prostitution is here to stay. If all the might of the United States
could not eradicate the urge to drink alcoholic beverages during the
Prohibition era, then eradicating an aspect of hormonally driven human
behaviour, fundamental to existence, is not an initiative likely to succeed.
In Hong Kong today, it is possible to find those involved in ‘public
relations’, massage girls, karaoke hostesses, house hookers and
streetwalkers without too much difficulty.
Police Crackdown on Prostitution and Women’s Prison Cells Jammed
are common themes in Hong Kong newspaper headlines. Political parties,
hand-in-hand with local community representatives, take to the streets to
demonstrate against prostitution in peaceful neighbourhoods. Voluntary
groups who care for the prostitutes protest that political parties use an anti-
prostitution stance to gain political capital. Counter demonstrations,
although attracting small numbers wearing masks, provide an interesting if
not overwhelming spectacle, holding banners stating “Prostitute Rights =
Human Rights”.
Should prostitution be legalised? Should red-light districts be set up?
What impact does prostitution have on youngsters? What effect does it have
on community and family life? These controversial questions frequently
initiate heated debates among women’s groups, religious organisations,
feminists, political parties, neighbourhood communities and various
government agencies.
A British Catholic nun once told me an interesting story. During the
course of doing social work, her co-worker once helped a pretty girl who
was a college graduate working as a prostitute in a nightclub. The young
girl spent her hard-earned money on young male prostitutes. My curiosity
was aroused by this seeming paradox, and I was interested to find other
examples of apparently contradictory behaviour.
Idly surfing the internet one day, I found the website of Norma Jean
Almodovar, an established, successful police officer who, at the age of 32,
decided to leave the Los Angeles Police Department and sell her body. She
wrote a short article entitled ‘Sex/Prostitution/Power’, in which she claimed
that prostitution out of choice is not pitiful at all, but empowers women to
enjoy sex without the emotional burdens associated with steady
relationships. Taking an agreed service fee from a man freed her from the
need to submit to a partner, a husband or a boss, as ‘respectable’ women do.
In fact, she encourages all women to consider prostitution as a profession.
Are these examples of the mythical ‘happy hooker’? Despite my
curiosity and best efforts, I could not find the co-worker of the British nun
to verify her story.
We live in a commercial civilization, defined by materialism, which
discriminates more against the poor than against the prostitute. Women who
seem particularly mean-spirited towards prostitutes are usually those who
do not benefit from this materialism, and don’t receive romantic attention or
appreciative gifts from their husbands.
An acquaintance of mine, Ling Ling, recently migrated to Hong Kong
from mainland China. She brags about her three boyfriends there who,
while not married to her, still give her a sense of security. One of them is an
old man with no time or energy who sees her every two weeks, while
providing her with a monthly allowance of US$2,500.
Another acquaintance, Wanda, is ostensibly a ballet dancer. Despite
Wanda’s lack of success as a dancer, her mother is always boasting about
her daughter’s ability and ambition. Wanda’s true ambitions seem directed
elsewhere. She only picks wealthy prospects. Client A covers the cost of
overseas study for both her brother and sister, B supplies her with
fashionable clothes, C takes her to exclusive clubs, and D has bought her a
yacht. Wanda may not be that pretty, but she seems to have the power to
engender competitive jealousy. Being seen with A increases her desirability
in the eyes of B, and being seen with B makes C determined to buy her a
fancy car.
I have had several relationships and I still do not have a house or a car.
Hearing these stories of opportunistic girls makes me think: perhaps I am
wasting my natural “chicken look”.
The modern world seems ready not only to tolerate prostitutes, but to
return their dignity, previously denied by thousands of years of abuse. The
change in attitudes interested me sufficiently to want to investigate the
reality as it exists in Hong Kong, and produce a written record.
The problem became what to write, and how? There is little reference
material available about Hong Kong prostitutes, even in academic libraries.
In The History of Prostitution in Hong Kong, Ng Ho describes the Western
District of Hong Kong in the 1930s and 1940s, a time considered the age of
romance. The whorehouse was then the place for rich men to show off their
wealth, enabling prostitutes to live in luxury way beyond the imagination of
the typical housewife. These pampered celebrity whores would often
dominate their male sponsors.
British journalist Kate Whitehead recently penned After Suzie. (The
World of Suzie Wong was a bestselling 1950s novel about Hong Kong
prostitutes. It was adapted into the movie of the same name that helped
create the Suzie Wong stereotype of the Hong Kong prostitute.) The
author’s materials come mainly from police files, making After Suzie
essentially a reference work that does not contain significant character
depiction.
I decided the best approach was to meet a few Suzies! With this plan in
mind, I mobilised my meagre resources and set off to look at the sharp end
of the business.
Fred is an executive director of a large company, and he took me to Club
Bboss in Tsim Sha Tsui East for a business meeting with Mr Leung, a
regular visitor to expensive hostess clubs. Mr Leung is a generous man with
a good sense of humour, and he is popular with the hostesses. His hero is
Zhang Wuji in the famous kung fu novel Heroes and Heroines. He adopted
the nickname Wuji because he is so fond of the clubs where he finds his
‘heroines’.
One evening, at 10:30pm, Fred led me through the grandiose lobby of
Bboss, along an ornate corridor and into a huge hall decorated in French
baroque style. The coffee table in the centre was as big as two king-size
beds and circled by huge sofas. The only other guest present was Wuji, who
was accompanied by three girls in nightgowns. Fred introduced me to a
middle-aged woman in a black uniform. This was mama-san Monica of
Team 98. Wuji had already told her of my intentions.
Monica looked 40, clean, neatly dressed, and gracefully mannered,
putting to shame the slovenly behaviour of the three smoking hostesses.
Monica’s husband was the manager there, and the couple would work until
the last customer left. The club’s male managers had different functions.
They arranged the meetings between the girls and customers, helping to
make customers feel more respected. After Monica’s husband had
welcomed Wuji into the club, and before Fred and I arrived, Wuji had
opened a super-sized bottle of XO cognac, and was happy for two girls to
just sit with him while he paid for their time in full. This typically profligate
expenditure ensured his sky-high popularity.
Monica did not look like the classic mama-san as often depicted in
popular films. As she put it, “Movies always demonise us.” She told me that
the movie Stars/Moon/Sun was about prostitutes, and that she had worked
with the producer and director to make the script commercial. I
remembered the film and perhaps that had contributed towards my negative
impression of the mama-san. Monica said the girls nowadays were cheap,
and did not even want to spend money to dress decently. Customers did not
even bother to remember their names, content just to recognise them by
their dress and general appearance. This increasingly impersonal attitude
over her 20-year career made her feel ashamed: the girls were not as
professional as before and had no interest in making any effort to attract
men. They felt that simply making themselves available was sufficient.
When I asked her how much social prejudice the girls suffered, she said
there was no prejudice at all; being a hostess was perfectly all right. So I
rephrased the question: “How do the girls deal with prejudice and
discrimination?” This was met with a burst of laughter from Wuji, who
ridiculed the notion and said, “My wife used to be a hostess, so you tell me,
what prejudice do I have?”
One of the girls then said, “Customers here are quite decent and nice to
us.”
“Your idea is old, you are thinking of 30 years ago,” added Monica’s
husband.
I believe many customers don’t despise the girls. It is a simple
transaction and both parties get what they want. My interest in the question
of external prejudice led me to ask, “When the girls reveal their real work to
their families and friends, what happens?”
Another girl said, “We never want to talk about it, and we don’t have to,
so there’s not much trouble.”
“Everyone watches over his privacy nowadays,” said Monica’s husband.
“People in other trades don’t talk much about what they do or where they
work. Plus, these girls are not chickens. Your question is for the pimps in
Mong Kok [an area of cheap clubs and brothels].”
To claim the hostesses in Club Bboss are not chickens is a fine
distinction. Nothing may happen on the club premises, where the girl is a
hostess only. A customer may, however, buy her time and take her outside
where he deals directly with her, usually for sex transactions. Even if a
hostess’s time is not bought in this way, she still makes the waitress income.
This means she does not have to make overt advances or tolerate groping
from customers. Once taken outside, if they only went for the meal and did
not accept further deals, they would become known as uncooperative and
the mama-san would definitely fire them. So how is it they are not
chickens?
Monica answered, “I’ll give you many breathtaking stories for your
book, but please don’t portray the hostesses as chickens.” One hostess in a
revealing outfit was keen to add, “Of course we are not chickens.”
Monica talked me into singing. I wanted to sing a Japanese song, so she
immediately called over a girl who knew Japanese. Fred said we shouldn’t
call over any more girls, but Monica simply looked the other way and said
he was drunk.
Then another mama-san walked in with one more girl. Fred told that
mama-san the three of us did not need a fourth girl, but she pretended not to
hear. This annoyed Fred and he whispered in my ear, “You must sing hard,
the songs here are very expensive!”
I asked Wuji why he liked to fool around in these places. He said he
found nightclubs simultaneously the most relaxing and the most exciting
places to ease away the tensions and suspicions between strangers. He said
striking a business deal takes at most 15 minutes, but even when a deal is
secured after straight business talk, one still feels a bit upset and not so sure
if it was the right decision. He claimed that if the deal took place in a
nightclub, things would be completely different. Firstly, he could let the
hostess make the small talk, and pretty soon, everybody would be in a
relaxed and romantic mood, which greatly lowered the level of anxiety and
suspicion: good for a successful deal. Once trust was built, a long-term
partnership could be expected.
I joked with Wuji, “Then businesswomen should go to duck [toy boy]
houses.” Fred cut in, “Theoretically you are correct, but this is a man’s
world.”
Wuji told me he was a man with a tremendous need for love, and there
were many lovely girls in the nightclubs, so he was always crazily in love.
Gradually, the wine went to my head, and a hostess with a cigarette was
singing a pop song about love and hate. The room was filled with loud
music and erotic expectation. The men were feeling the girls’ thighs. The
singing hostess imbued the sentimental lyrics of the cheap song with
surprising power, enough for the sugary tune to make me experience the
intended romantic yearning. I finally understood Wuji’s comments about
relaxation, excitement, and crazy love. At that moment, in that company,
the sensations were infectious and I felt that I too could succumb.
At 2:20 in the morning, the bill of HK$15,000 (US$2,000) arrived. I was
shocked, but Wuji paid up calmly, saying it was perfectly reasonable for the
wine and four girls’ working time. I knew I would never again be able to
afford meeting nightclub hostesses at their place of work!
I hopped into a cab alone, still missing the sexual ambience. The driver
asked me: “Just knocked off? How is business going?” He took me to be a
hostess. I was so embarrassed that I immediately made up a story. This
made me feel guilty, because deep in my heart I was experiencing a subtle
sympathy for the hostesses who claim they are not chickens.