Ah, what would Blok M be without them!
After years of painstaking study the Reveller has finally arrived at a taxonomy of the varieties of fauna to be found in south Jakarta, here presented to educate the novices among you and to amuse the cognoscenti.
The hardened professionals, they hunt in pairs or packs. Smart dressers, skilful users of make-up, they have X-ray vision that would make Superman weep and can spot their prey across a crowded bar with uncanny accuracy. They move in quickly and silently for the kill. English rarely gets beyond the "what you name, you buy me drink, you go home same me" stage.
Named after the well-known UK car repair company that guarantees to replace your brakes, exhaust and/or tyres in less than ten minutes. Usually slim, attractive, and sexy, they ooze lust. But when you get them into the hotel room, they're out of their clothes and into bed faster than a grand-prix tyre change. They haven't even heard of foreplay, and as soon as you've come they've gone - usually straight back to their bar of choice to line up the next victim.
Older girls who are past their shelf-date, they home in on anyone with whom they have - or think they have - an acquaintance, to cadge money for taxi/rent/sick child/sick parent/kid's school-fees/house repairs/phone bill/etc. Some display the remnants of bygone beauty, but many are now so brawny they could make a new career in the WWF.
Should really be at home doing their homework. Skimpy little waifs, fragile and vulnerable looking, they invariably add at least three years to their real age. Smoke non-stop and have a sink-like capacity for whisky colas. Often very inexperienced - they know what the Naughty Bits are for, and what goes where, but not how, when, or why.
The attractive (and often highly intelligent) girls who sit morosely at the bar glaring into their drinks. Smoke heavily with obsessive intensity. Oblivious to the other girls, and don't even look at the guys. Some are getting over broken relationships, others suffering a general attack of angst or Weltschmertz. Beneath a frigid exterior they're actually seeking companionship and a bit of sympathy, and if they can be drawn out of their shells are excellent company.
Once they smell blood, they are ruthless in their pursuit of a victim. They can gauge to a milligram their victim's blood-alcohol level, and respond accordingly. They home in on the erogenous zones, and you're lucky if you get to the pub door without shooting your bolt.
You've made the deadly mistake of taking these more than once. Thereafter you are "Theirs" and they will haunt you for the rest of your natural days. 'Fatal Attraction' has nothing on these harpies.
The basket-cases, girls who are completely out to lunch. Faces set in a rictus of a smile, with glazed and fixated eyes, they often have razor-scars on both arms and a can of Baygon in the handbag. Throw towering fits of rage and jealousy when 'their' guy ignores them, or suggests that they push off and leave him alone. Sometimes stalk guys round the Blok and cause embarrassing scenes. Pester non-stop on their handphones if they get hold of a victim's number.
These are the largely decorative totty, usually lounging around the walls and chatting to the bar staff. Seemingly oblivious to the guys, they have a glazed stare and are immune to the usual 'come hither' signals.
These are the sultry, sexy, curvaceous, luscious creatures you could die for - until you try to engage them in conversation. You then realise that they drop off the bottom of the IQ scale.
Vivacious and lively in the bar, as soon as you get them into the hotel room they become drowsy and fall into a deep coma. Not even a scale eight earthquake will wake them, and forget about Prince Charming. Fine if you're into necrophilia, otherwise a waste of time.
Charming and attractive young creatures who flit from guy to guy to say hello, share a joke, stop for a drink and a chat if invited. Wonderful smiles, flashing eyes, bubbly personalities. Bright and canny, they quickly sense a guy's mood and never outstay their welcome. Absolute gems.
These are the occasional visitors, the quiet girls. They usually wear jeans or sensible skirts and woollen tops. They don't drink much, and rarely smoke. They don't wear much - or any - make up. They avoid the obvious Lotharios and loud-mouthed lechers, but quietly and efficiently attach themselves to the less vociferous guys. Often the best performers in bed, and they never argue about the remuneration.
Slender, willowy young girls with wistful expressions and fawn-like gracefulness. Deep dark eyes, and fine exquisite features shadowed by gently swaying jet-black hair. They've got 'look, but don't touch' written all over them, and a quintessential femininity that you'll find nowhere else in the world. As they get older they usually become regular girlfriends of - and sometimes marry - good-looking young expats.
Named after the mythical creatures, half bird and half woman, that lure sailors to destruction by the sweetness of their songs. These girls are the maddeningly attractive, stunningly sensuous control-freaks who get their kicks from leading guys on until they are quite besotted, mercilessly toying with their victims - and then dumping them. Some guys never recover from the experience.
Complete non-performers who become inert as soon as they hit the mattress. Like their marine counterparts, they just lie there with arms outstretched and legs wide apart. All the joie de vivre of a wet weekend in Torquay, and about as much sex-appeal as cold porridge. The more lively specimens are reported to mutter "you want pom-pom?" in a bored voice. This species, native to Indramayu, is closely related to the Australian Surfboard.
These girls aren't just after money - they're out to impress their friends by the number of guys they manage to notch up. A sub-species of the genus Shark, very popular with the blokes as they're singularly attractive and invariably good performers. Indeed, the host male not infrequently recommends the girl to all his mates, thereby unwittingly raising her peer-prestige rating.
These girls pose as Best Friends and snare the unwitting victim into taking both of them, with hints of unbridled erotic pleasures to follow. But once in the hotel room they switch on the TV and chatter together non-stop (usually in Javanese), and instead of the exotic "two up" that was salaciously anticipated it's more like tag team wrestling. While one is vaguely active, the other is listlessly watching television - she then rolls over, taps her friend on the shoulder, and takes over while the one you were dallying with assumes the TV-watching role.
These are the Hungry Girls. You've barely closed the hotel room door before they announce that they're ravenously hungry, and proceed to order half the room service menu. By the time the food has come and been devoured your libido has packed up and gone home, and if you've been carousing all night you're probably in the arms of Morpheus rather than the sweet young thing by your side.
This type has a disdainful, haughty demeanour - but punctuated by occasional flashes of eyes and pouting of lips. Pays exaggerated attention to another guy while she shimmies up to you. Disappears without warning for minutes on end while she secretly watches your every move from a distance, then greets you like a long-lost friend on her return. Pushes her best friend at you to see if you're tempted. Looks shocked and embarrassed when you ask her the inevitable question - then drags you out of the bar and sets off like a rocket for the nearest hotel. Pure sinetron!
These are the personable, friendly girls who just seem to latch on to you and become fixtures. Undemanding and unassuming, they're happy to sit with you, have a drink and a chat, and never ask for money or push you to go with them. They're often loners, for whom the bars and discos are a pleasant break from the tedium of a humdrum job or a claustrophobic family. Many are separated or divorced, and may have a kid or two to bring up single-handed.
These are the frotteuses who hook onto you and spend the night rubbing themselves lubriciously against your body. They aren't aggressive or forceful about it - every contact is made to seem like a delicious accident, the girl pretending that nothing's happening while the guy's hormones spiral out of control and he risks shooting his bolt. They somehow contrive to get all their erogenous zones into contact with yours, giving a whole new meaning to thrills and spills.
These are generic look-alikes who pack the bars and discos - instantly recognizable by their long black hair, pale complexions, slim figures and black outfits. Listless and bored, they rarely smile or show any sign of animation - all the vivacity of a telephone answering machine. Bussed into Jakarta as job lots from the remoter kampongs of Indramayu, they're re-branded as Blok M girls.
These sleek and slinky harpies think you're a walking ATM. They demand the most expensive drinks in the bar, want you to buy them a handphone after the briefest acquaintance, expect you to pay their rent at the end of the month, and claim to have a string of costly family misfortunes that would keep a sinetron going for a year. If they hook a guy they dig in for the duration and life is one long demand for house, car, gold, jewellery and cosmetic surgery.
The Cinderella who suddenly vanishes into the night as midnight approaches, leaving you bereft in the bar with only your drinks tab for company. Even after promising an all-nighter invariably invents a feeble excuse for being unable to stay and scoots off after the briefest of clinches. You're left feeling like a mouse that got whacked by a trap and didn't even get to eat the cheese.
Named after the overpriced and over-engineered gas-guzzling luxury car that was one of the biggest flops in motoring history. Dresses up to the nines, typically high-heeled thigh-length boots, tight leatherette mini skirt, frilly translucent blouse and gaudy jacket. Usually wears a loopy hat on top of streak-bleached hair and totes a futuristic shiny plastic shoulder bag. Make-up way overdone, nails long and crimson, looks like something from a vampire B-movie. Demands the most exotic drinks in the house and turns her nose up at any bloke she considers can't afford her. Doesn't pull many guys, but provides priceless entertainment in the bar.
These girls are like car tyres that have been remoulded and given a new tread. The standard model is slim and trim from medication-boosted dieting, has straight black lustrous hair from industrial-strength dyes and chemicals, smooth pale complexion from a major replastering job, eyebrows scraped, shaped and rebuilt with impasto liner, eyelashes reinforced with heavy-duty all-weather mascara, eyes dark and glistening from synthetic belladonna. The luxury model includes silicon-enhanced nose, lips and mammaries. In the bar they look like a million dollars, and think they're worth a million rupiah.
Completely catatonic, these girls are dysfunctional wallflowers who stand limp and lifeless on the fringes of the bar staring vacuously into space. They don't dance, they don't talk to the guys - they don't even talk to each other. Chatting them up makes Mission Impossible seem like a doddle.
These are the harbingers, the have-beens and never-wozzers who drift into the bar ahead of the young girls like flotsam and jetsam washed up by the evening tide. Their function is unknown. They occupy no clear ecological niche, serve no obvious purpose, and just sit around the bar, frumpish and inert, like time-worn statues in a jungle temple. There is a slightly more mobile version that clomps into the bar alongside the youngsters and hogs seats at the bar until pushed out by the guys or the bar staff.
These girls are a dangerous mutation, the next step in Blok M evolution. They have an infallible sixth sense that tells them if a guy is a regular with an expat salary, a regular with a local salary, or a visitor flush with expense account dollars. If he's a visitor they home straight in with "Hello, you buy me Long Island Tea, you go with me three hundred thousand, standard price, OK?" The expat-salary regular gets stung for the same drink but there's no mention of the price - which will be a post-coital stick-up for 300k or more. The local-salary regular is a last resort, the desperation option. If he looks interested she might push her luck and ask for a Gin and Tonic, otherwise it's a beer or soft and she knows she'll only get the flat rate of 200k plus taksi.