The dive my friends dragged me to last weekend, faced premier shopping haunts, and was next to a budget hotel that offered massages as well. Yes, it was that kind of place.

"This is where real Malaysia hangs out," my friends told me.

Not at Zouk, not at Zeta Bar, not at Starbucks; oh no, my friend, not everyone had the money. This outing would be good for your column, they said.

Expecting a burlesque show, I was disappointed to see watered down cabaret performances, and vulgar jokes that had seen their time. The band that played during intervals yowled like tomcats in heat.

I turned to observe the crowd. Who knew, there could be a story here.

These were the faces you would not notice in daylight. Predominantly Malay, in the darkness of the restaurant cum bar, their faces looked hard. Pockmarks were more pronounced in the harshness of cheap stage lights. I had never seen such weary faces, even as the owners joked and hailed the performances. Muka polis, we described them.

The women had a similar look: badly done highlighted hair that resembled zebra stripes, squarish jaws, pronounced full lips and shimmery powdered eyes. The transvestites, in spite of bobbing Adam's apples and gravity defying breasts, were more feminine than the women.

The men were burly, moustached, smoked heavily and drank hard liquor. They were not to be messed about with. Their rough and hairy hands spoke many stories: of little care for luxuries, a slap or two, maybe a punch here and there. These were men and women that worked and raged hard, seen too many things and were determined to forget before they went home.

These were faces that on other days, at other times, we would not look at, because they were not beautiful.

Welcome to Malaysia

Kuala Lumpur is a contradiction by itself. This town wins hands down when it comes to irony. It's glass towers and busy executives at Jalan Sultan Ismail; it's rojak at Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman as locals, tourists and migrants mingle as they bustle along the roads. Kampung Bahru is a historic Malay enclave, while Chow Kit resembles Jakarta each minute as Indonesians make it their home and trading place.

An interesting example of luxury and sin co-existing is our famed Bukit Bintang area. There are many shared (and popular) histories here. Five star hotels and shopping malls are neighbours; walk a bit further and there's the nightlife you're looking for. Be adventurous and you'll either be bemused or shocked at how sex pervades every corner, every inch.

Sun Complex, which is next to Federal Hotel and geek paradise Low Yatt Place, is notorious for 'butterflies'. Oddly, right in the corner is a Balai Polis. Walk up to Bintang Walk and if you're (un)fortunate, you may be approached by a slick gentleman with a menu of sexual favours. While you're trying to digest the absurdity of it all, he'll slip his business card, wink at you and go off quietly, becoming one with the crowd. You've just been pimped-ed, baby.

A hop and a skip away are luxe entertainment centres De Vegas and D'Bintang, reputedly renowned for Sushi Girls (no, it's not a Japanese band.) Behind the row of shops whereby the former swinging nightclub owned by former nightlife queen Rhona Drury, Scandals, used to be, you see (Eastern?) European women walking briskly. And you know they aren't here for Cuti-cuti Malaysia.

And the powers-that-be want to turn this area into a tourist megapolis for Arabs. An Arab Square is being built at the moment, and a few yards away is Blue Boy, a hot hot hot and happening club for men only. This would make a fantastic television show: Sex and The Burqa. You better pray that Osama Bin Laden doesn't hear about this.

It's business, baby, business

One of the things many of the younger generation is getting quite blas about is how business is done in KL. This used to be the domain of tycoons, but now, to get up the corporate ladder or anywhere at all, sometimes the young (usually male) executive has to entertain.

Example: Young man, extremely impressionable, is asked to accompany senior management to entertain clients. He goes, not knowing anything, and when he comes out of a nightclub that very first time, his life has changed.

His success then is measured by how much is spent on the amount of bottles of cognac, whiskey and the girls he paid to entertain his clients. He may not sleep with them, but his reputation will soar:

"Oh he's a big spender man! 10k on drinks alone!"

"Big tipper!"

"He sure knows how to take care of his clients."

His friends, colleagues and peers are impressed and some even hate him secretly, because he's successful! He's cool! He's on first name basis with the mama-san!

And for many men, despite strong marriages, iman, inner strength, sooner or later, they succumb to the siren's call. She understands them. She knows how to take care of them. And for RM100, he'll get the best handjob in the world. He falls for her, because he feels he owns her. It's a power trip. Poor sod doesn't even want to acknowledge he's being screwed royally by his girl. She entices him, coos at him and then he believes it's love. He thinks he's the best stud in the world because all these women want him.

It's business. This is what keeps the food on the table, the children and wives clothed and the in-laws happy. Besides, if you don't do it, you're a prude, and if you're in it, and you spend big bucks, you're seen as a success. Men may scoff at you behind your back, but there is a degree of envy there: who doesn't want that kind of money?

Do you know where your husband is?

But back to our night out. Our male friends told us, as we walked past aging hookers enjoying fishball satay, that this was what most men did. They're not cheating, for they paid. It's a service transaction. Just like how we women paid to be pampered at the spa.

And if that was not heartbreaking enough to hear, then we were told that yes, sometimes men accepted solicitations from transvestite hookers.

One time, my friend was approached by a mak nyah kat Regent Hotel. It was RM50 for a blow job, so he figured he had an itch to scratch, why not?

Why are you girls screaming? It's not even another woman! Adoi, that hurt, stop hitting me with your handbag.

"I think we've always had a culture of cheating and prostitution. In the same way I think that our men are inherently homosexual," a friend chimed in.

"We are so not gay," the boys were miffed.

I remembered my father telling me once that authorities should go after men that have sex with men. Straight men, mind you, for ' gay men have relationships with gay men. Itu dunia dia. Free condoms and needles are one issue. It is these married men that stray on the wilder side that cause all these diseases and problems. They are not men. They are sodomites."

As far as some men were concerned, as long as they met their responsibilities keeping the family happy what they did in their other lives was a secret known only among the boys. God and everyone would forgive them, because they took care of their families.

**

I heard more stories this week, but I'm sure you've heard them before.

DINA ZAMAN lives with her family in Kuala Lumpur.