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Philippines Sex Clubs
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The Sex Trade, Part 1: Pleasure, At Any Price
Sean Flynn explores the labyrinth of Philippine sex clubs—a paradise for adventurers where the girls are plentiful, cheap, and have no other choice. The first installment of a three-part investigation into the global sex trade
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The fat guy smoking Pall Malls, he says he almost married one of those girls. Honest. He met her in a bar one of the last times he was in the Philippines and fell in love, almost bought her a ring and took her home. It didn’t work out, though, and he doesn’t say why because it doesn’t really matter. He shrugs.
The skinny kid with the knobby head understands. Same thing happened to him, sort of. She was 19, beautiful, didn’t wear makeup or anything. She was so…what’s the word? Simple . You know? “Just give her the American necessities and those are, like, her luxuries,” he tells the fat guy. “Let her live like a queen.”
The fat guy grins. His front teeth are missing, and he’s got hair like an oil slick, long and black and greasy. Oh yeah, lots of those girls want an American husband, and they’re not picky, either. “As long as you’re not married and you’ve got an income,” the guy says, “you’re good to go.”
It’s four o’clock in the morning in a Japanese airport, thirteen hours out of Detroit Metro, on a layover in Nagoya before the last 1,700 miles to Manila. The fat guy and the skinny kid found each other in the smoking lounge as if they had picked up a shared scent, a couple of misfit white guys dragging halfway around the planet.
Then another, a fellow traveler in a red running suit, walks over. He’s fiftyish and pudgy with gray hair and enough of a beard to cover a weak chin. He’s never been to the Philippines before, he tells them, just heard the stories about the bars and the girls, and now that he’s divorced, what the hell, treat himself. Still, he’s a little nervous about the whole thing.
The skinny kid knows that feeling, too. He was nervous his first time. It’s kind of weird, the way you can buy a girl for a couple of bucks, a different one every night, every hour if you want, walk around town with her and not even pretend it’s anything more than a cash transaction. “I walk into this place with my arm around this local girl, you know, and there’s all these guys sitting around looking at me,” he says. “And I’m thinking, I’m gonna get my ass kicked, you know?”
The fat guy’s grinning again. He knows where this is going.
“But then they’re all like, ’Hey, American, come and drink with us!’ ”
“Oh yeah,” the fat guy says. “And after ten minutes, you’re not talking to them. You’re talking with them.”
“Seriously,” the skinny kid says. “They love Americans.”
There’s a girl on a small stage in a bar called the G-Spot Lounge in Angeles City, a sprawl of cinder block and tin about an hour northwest of Manila. She’s wearing a sky blue bikini that matches the powder Mamasan swabbed on her eyelids, along with enough blush and mascara to make her whole face itch. She hasn’t worn makeup since her first Communion, and then not so much.
She has a birth certificate that says she’s 19. It’s false, and obviously so, because she’s only 13, but nobody cares, because in the dark, under all that rouge and shadow, she looks old enough. All the girls—the other ones onstage, the ones waiting tables, the ones cuddling up to customers, sweet-talking foreign men into buying them drinks—look old enough, which isn’t very old at all.
An American man is yelling at her. “Hey, you!” he says. “Yeah, you. Dance! You’re getting paid to dance.”
She doesn’t really know how to dance, and the high-heeled boots she’s wearing make it even harder to fake it. Her arms are in close, holding her own bare torso in a loose hug, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot, gently twists her shoulders from one side to the other. Is that dancing? Is it close enough? Do they even care, the men watching, the Koreans and the Japanese, the Americans and the Aussies, the fat guys and the skinny kids sucking on stubby bottles of San Miguel?
Mamasan, the bar manager, will pay the girl 120 pesos to wear her bikini from six o’clock in the evening until three o’clock in the morning. She is supposed to dance for half an hour, then go work the room for a while and wait for her next shift onstage. If one of the men in the club buys her a drink, Mamasan will cut her in for fifty pesos, put it toward her debts: 1,300 for the boots, thirty-five more for a week’s laundry. Or maybe one of the customers will buy her for the night, give Mamasan 1,000 pesos—”bar fine,” they call it here, a term that’s both a noun and a verb—to take her out of the G-Spot, maybe to another club or a restaurant first but probably just to his hotel room. The girl would get half of that, about $9 American.
It’s her first night at the G-Spot. She’d gone looking for work a few days ago—up Fields Avenue, past Club Fantastic and Camelot and Stinger, past the sidewalk shops selling shirts that say I FUCK ON THE FIRST DATE and I’LL BUY DRINKS FOR SEX, past the shoeshine boys and the peddlers with their bootleg Cialis, past all the other bars looking to hire dancers and waitresses and GROs, which is short for guest-relations officers , which is long and awkward for prostitute . “Must have happy personality,” the signs say, because no horny tourist is going to bar-fine a girl who isn’t any fun.
The mamasan at the G-Spot asked the girl how old she was, and she said 19 and showed her the birth certificate that couldn’t possibly be legit, and Mamasan hired her, gave her the boots and the bikini and rubbed makeup on her face and put her on a stage. That’s how it happened, just like that: A little girl walks into a bar and gets a job.
“Hey.” Big Daddy again, out there beyond the strobe of the stage lights. Papasan, the guy who runs the G-Spot. His name is Thomas Glenn Jarrell, an Ohio native who did a tour in the army before settling in a dirty little city that is moderately famous simply because it has bars, dozens of them, and girls, thousands of them, and only eighteen bucks a night. “You’re getting paid to dance!”
Seriously , fat guys and skinny kids tell each other in Japanese airports, they love Americans .
The girl blinks the itch from her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides and wiggles her hips. Is that dancing? Is it close enough?
Change her name. It doesn’t matter. Make her a little younger or a little older, but never too old. Dress her in a red bikini or a slip or a pleated plaid skirt. Wrap her naked around a pole or put her in a room with a big glass window and a flock of other girls, bored and trying not to look it, waiting to be picked like lobsters from a tank. Move her down to Manila and pay her more, or move her up the coast to a shack on the National Highway and pay her less. Put her thousands of miles away, in Tokyo or Moscow, or put her on the other side of the globe, in Costa Rica or Mexico. It doesn’t matter. The story will be the same, the beginning sounding like the setup to an old and dirty joke: A girl walks into a bar…
So many girls walk into so many bars today that no one even tries to count them all. Cataloging every prostitute on the planet with any accuracy is no more feasible than counting leaves in a forest: The business is by definition largely underground and extremely fluid, the workforce mostly unregistered, untraceable, and ever changing. Instead, there are only guesses, estimates, and extrapolations, worst cases and best cases depending on who’s counting and where and why. Statistics for individual countries, individual cities, even specific red-light districts, vary wildly from lowball official figures to almost incredible numbers conjured by aid groups and activists. Thailand, for instance, a notorious and well-studied sexual playground for foreign men, has either 75,000 prostitutes, as the government claims, or depending on which aid group is tossing out numbers, nearly 2 million who generate up to 14 percent of the country’s gross domestic product—parameters calibrated so widely as to be virtually useless as an accounting tool. The sex-trade data are so imprecise that researchers and government agencies shorthand the global total to a generic tens of millions of women and girls generating tens of billions in cash.
The actual numbers are irrelevant, anyway. A Filipino bar girl doesn’t care whether she is one of 50,000 (the low end) or 800,000 (the high end), and a john in a Russian brothel doesn’t concern himself with the millions of women he could theoretically be renting, because the ten or twenty at hand are more than enough. The global sex trade, as pure a commodities market as pork bellies or soybean futures, need only be measured in broad sweeps of demand, which is apparently insatiable, and supply, which is seemingly endless.
Within those uncountable numbers are stories of horrific brutality, of women smuggled into foreign lands, beaten into submission, forced to work off infinite, impossible debts. There are stories, too, of breathtaking naïveté, of young Moldovans giddy because they’ve got contracts to work as cocktail waitresses in Kabul, of peasants in Mindanao who believe a low-rent gangster when he promises to make them cabaret stars in Manila or Tokyo, of foolish girls who actually want to be prostitutes because they’ve seen a bootleg tape of Pretty Woman .
The great bulk of the business, though, is far more prosaic, a function of simple economics, the ageless enterprise of women willingly selling their most easily marketed assets. It can be condemned by feminist theory and religious mores, and the key adverb— willingly —is terribly relative, especially considering that there is almost always a middleman, a mamasan or a pimp, taking a cut. Yet oppression is also a relative term: For people with limited options, the few that remain don’t seem so unreasonable. And in any case, business is booming. In an age of easy international travel, when borders are not much sturdier than lines drawn on a map, both sides of the trade—supply and demand—have become industrialized.
If viewed from above, from high in the stratosphere with the whole blue earth rolling and spinning below, the currents of the sex trade would be as obvious as the clouds, swirls of people moving from country to country, continent to continent. There are two dominant streams, intertwining, twirling around each other but moving in opposite directions. The women and the girls are swept out of poor places, from parts of South America and Asia and the former Soviet Union, into wealthier nations and cities, Moscow and Tokyo, Turkey and Dubai, Germany and the United States. The men—” ‘mongers” or “hobbyists,” in the fraternal jargon of the hardcore sex traveler—generally drift in the other direction, from rich to poor, from the United States and Australia and Britain and Japan and the rest of the First World into the Second and Third Worlds. There are small and curious eddies, like the Brits—”whorists,” the tabloids call them—who’ve discovered “tottie tours” through Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, or the drip of Arabs who fly to Chisinau, in desperately impoverished Moldova, to patronize the brothels. But the strongest currents flow to the most entrenched bazaars: to the resort cities of Brazil, Cuba, and a few Caribbean islands; to Central America; and, of course, to Southeast Asia—historically, Thailand and Cambodia and, rising fast over the past twenty years, the Philippines. Many of those countries, particularly in Asia, became destinations in part because they have long cultural histories of prostitution. According to several studies, more than half of Thai men paid to lose their virginity, and more than 400,000 visit brothels each day, estimates that no one seriously disputes. The Philippines, a nation that is at once matriarchal and rotten with machismo, has a similar tradition, an indigenous demand that drives a local market. “It’s simply the norm that you have two kinds of women—those you respect and those you can buy and play around with,” says Aurora Javate-de Dios, the ecutive director of the Asia-Pacific chapter of the Coalition Against Trafficking in Women, based in Quezon City.
And that norm has grown into a massive service industry for foreigners. In Balibago, a few dusty blocks of Angeles City on the south side of what used to be Clark Air Force Base, there are 117 bars and a handful of massage parlors, one gaudy facade next to another next to another. “It’s all here: alcohol and sexy young women,” the neighborhood’s semiofficial Web site (www.balibago.com) promises. “Recreational sex is the sport of choice. You can enjoy full privileges with one or more attractive young females regardless of your age, weight, physical appearance, interpersonal skills, wealth, or social class.” On Burgos Street in Makati, the high-rent district of Manila, the girls upstairs at Jools wait by the door until men walk in and the lights snap on, and then they all pop up and pose, and the girls at High Heels squeeze onto a melon-wedge stage and sway roughly in sync while others work the high-top tables with red velveteen trim— you bar-fine me? —and all the girls at all the other clubs on that strip do the exact same thing. A few congested miles away, in Quezon City, is Air Force One, an enormous neon box the size of a midwest convention center, with inlaid floors and a red-curtained stage and narrow hallways lined with small rooms named for every American president (the George W. Bush cubicle is particularly popular) and girls stocked in two glass-walled displays—first and business classes for the younger and prettier, economy for the older and uglier. And along the northern coast of Subic Bay, in a speck of a town called Calapandayan, underage girls wave from a balcony in striped tube tops while across the street, in a place called Muff Divers, a dozen more girls do a limp waggle for five surly Australians.
The bars are everywhere, and there are girls in every bar. Yet none of the girls are technically prostitutes, because prostitution is illegal in the Philippines. A bar fine, in the national patois, is merely proper compensation for a club to let a girl out the door for a few hours, after which consenting adults can have at it—a ridiculous semantic wink that allows the industry to thrive with official deference if not outright sanction. (“I’ve had [aid workers] tell me you can’t stop it because to do so you’d have to arrest half the senate,” says one Western diplomat in Manila.) Indeed, much of the rest of the tourist sector is in on the gag. A guard with a machine gun at Ninoy Aquino International Airport sees a man in a suit with an American passport, grins, nods. “You have a good time, yes? You get some girls, yes?” A driver for the Makati Shangri-La, a five-star hotel, volunteers that he can procure an authentic virgin out in the provinces. Her parents will want 100,000 pesos, but she’ll be a real cherry girl, guaranteed, not some university coed faking it for a night because she’s short on tuition.
At this point, there is no financial incentive to enforce the laws, anyway. No one knows exactly how much the bars and the girls contribute to the $2 billion tourist trade—immigration does not ask men if they’re entering the country to get laid—but it is substantial. An estimated 300,000 Japanese sex tourists visit the Philippines each year; and in 1997, a boom year for tourism, 13,000 Australians traveled to Angeles City alone, a figure reportedly second only to Americans. (And there really is no other appreciable reason to go to Angeles City, other than the bars.) Factor in the businessmen with a few hours to kill, multiply by hotel rooms and restaurant tabs and bar bills… It adds up.
Moreover, the bars and the brothels provide jobs in a country that doesn’t have nearly enough to go around. Almost a million Filipinos leave the country each year to find employment, and more than 10 percent of the gross domestic product is cash sent home by overseas workers. Most go off to be domestics and laborers, a few are skilled professionals, and some—again, no one knows exactly how many—are imported to be prostitutes in wealthier countries. Until earlier this year, Japan alone granted more than 70,000 visas annually to Filipinos to work as “cultural entertainers,” a euphemism so transparent that international pressure finally forced the number to be cut to 8,000. For those who remain on the archipelago, where nearly half the population lives on less than $2 a day, there are menial jobs in the city and field work in the provinces, neither of which is abundant or pays more than a subsistence wage.
Or there are the bars. There are thousands in the big cities and little villages, and dozens that sprouted next to the American naval base at Subic Bay and alongside Clark Air Force Base in Angeles City. Soldiers and sailors and airmen used to come by the thousands, flush with American dollars to spend on cheap beer and pretty girls, and the pretty girls came by the thousands, too, because the money was so much better than anything else they could do, and sometimes—not often, but with the same frequency that sells lottery tickets—a soldier or a sailor fell in love with a girl he met in a bar and married her and took her away. It went on like that for decades, so durable and so vast that it became famous, so famous that even after the bases closed, men kept coming, Americans and Australians and Koreans and Japanese, with their dollars and yen, traveling all the way into the middle of the Pacific just to hump the local women. There are so many tourists bringing so much money that a silly term is invented to make it all legal, and eventually the whole country—the hotel clerks and taxi drivers and airport guards—is winking and nodding, because in a way they’re getting a little taste of the action, too.
There is another girl, a woman, actually, because she’s 23, who works at another club, a different kind of club in Manila, more subdued, classier, the sort that features girls with business cards. The cards are a mottled gold and pink, and they have her cell-phone number in the bottom corner and her name—Wine, that’s all, just Wine—above her awkwardly translated and slightly misspelled title, CLIENT’S LIASON ENTERTAINMENT OFFICER.
Wine wears a cocktail dress, size zero because she is tiny, not quite five feet tall. At the start of each shift, she sits with all the other girls in the showroom behind a wide pane of one-way glass in one of the upholstered chairs that are set in long rows, like the littlest theater at the cineplex, and there is a small screen, set low into the front wall, playing videos to keep her from going mad with boredom while she waits. When customers come in, Mamasan draws open the curtains on the other side, and dim light filters in so Wine knows to look up, but she can’t see anything on the other side, only shadows. She can count how many men are looking in and sometimes, if one of the silhouettes is especially large, she’ll get up and slip out the back.
Most times, though, Wine smiles and tries to look pretty, which she is, and tries to be charming, which is difficult through a sheet of soundproof glass. If a man selects her, Mamasan will push a
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