Paradise Lost

A TROPICAL ISLAND WITH MORE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE-IT SOUNDS LIKE HEAVEN, DOESN'T IT"------

ack Machado took a job last fall at a resort hotel in the western Pacific. After flying halfway around the world from Florida, arriving at four a.m. and then working all day, he was exhausted. At the end of his first shift, however, a surprise awaited him: one of the guests. A 22-year-old Japanese nurse, to be precise. "She was wild," he remembers. "Perfect body. Barely spoke any English. She was a little freak, too." After two nights without sleep, he says, she kept him up for a third.

Day number four brought another |apanese woman to his bed. This one was a hairstylist, superhot, with dyed-blonde hair. She was like a piece of candy and-after a few drinks-was ready to eat. The fifth day brought Tina (some names have been changed), a Korean. "Totally sexy," Mack recalls. "Tall, thin, big eyes, long black hair." Tina stuck around for a couple of weeks, drinking, fucking and leaving the hotel just in time for Mack to trapeze to her friend, another Korean. At the

end of his first month on the job, he realized he hadn't spent a night alone. In the past 30 nights he'd had six different girls in his bed. Mack had discovered paradise. Forget the 72 virgins awaiting righteous Muslims or the harp-strumming angels of the Christian heaven: Mack had found a job where showing up for work pretty much automatically yielded a daily harvest of Asian hotties.

Nine thousand miles to the east of mainland America is a far-flung U.S. territory known as the Commonwealth of the North­ern Mariana Islands. Official outposts of U.S. soil, the islands are about four hours south of Tokyo by plane. The most populated island, Saipan, is the kind of place urban Westerners dream aboufc a palm-fringed tropical island with a turquoise lagoon, spectacular coral reefs, lush jungle growth and breathtaking cliff-side views.

On landscaped grounds of bougainvillea and plumeria, with some 300 guest bedrooms, the Pacific Islands Club hotel runs a

water park with swimming pools, tennis courts, an archery range, a miniature golf course, a volleyball court, a beach and three restau­rants. PIC. as it is known, employs the usual assortment of clerks, waiters, janitors and housecleaning staff. But it also offers some­thing more: a group of young people hired for their enthusiasm, outgoingness and warmth. They're called Clubmates.

Clubmates aren't hired specifically to have sex with the guests, but when you meet them, you may won­der if that's the case. Their looks aren't always perfect-some are almost cartoons of surfer dudes, but others are just wholesome-looking and healthy. Certainly, the man­agement doesn't instruct them to do anything other than help guests enjoy themselves.

Ask a Clubmate how often

he could hook up if he wanted to, and he'll say every night of the week. As one Clubmate. Fish, explains. "Part of your job is to make sure the guests have a good time." With a laugh, he says. "I mean, if they go home with a smile on their face because they had sex with you...." Another Clubmate. Jim, adds. "Our whole job here is to help people have a good time. Sometimes it's a family that needs help. Sometimes it's a young girl that needs help." Mack says. "Asian

women prefer us because we have blue eyes or blonde hair or different builds." Since he prefers Asians in the first place, what the hell? "Everybody wins," he says. As almost every Clubmate I meet tells me, "You don't come here for the money. You come here for the lifestyle." The life­style includes fun in the sun. low wages and long hours. But of course, as should now be clear, it also includes unlimited access to exotic booty. "My friend's dad

came here." Jim says. "He's a lawyer. He showed up. and he prob­ably wants his son to do something huge, but he said. 'Man, you're playing a joke on the rest of the world, being a Clubmate.'"

Most Clubmates sign up for six-month shifts. Several of the guys I meet signed on for the stint that runs from September to March-the holiday season. Before coming to PIC. Fish, 22, had a landscaping business and wakeboarding school back in suburban Kansas. As he puts it, his life was "gravy." but being a Clubmate for six months a year seemed like a cool way to escape the Kansas winter. Joe, 25, studied massage therapy at a northern California community college but was bumping along in life. Twig, 28. originally from upstate New York, had been in "logistics and replenishment" on the night shift at Target in Phoenix. Describing his pre-Clubmate existence, largely devoid of relationships, much less sex. Twig says. "It sucked." Jim. 31, worked in a design shop after graduating from UC Santa Barbara and was living, he says "the normal life." (continued on page 93)

PARADISE

(continued from page 46) One day he was looking out at a sunny after­noon through his barred windows and won­dered, "What the hell am I doing inside?" He has been outdoors ever since.

Mack, at 26, brings an entirely different perspective to being a Clubmate. Originally from Daytona Beach, he'd opted out of college and joined the Navy, like his father. His time in the armed services shows: He's built like a brick shithouse. He's double-plus beefcake, with a shaved head, outsize calf muscles and biceps, and six tattoos. His armed-forces phy­sique is offset by sensitive brown eyes and kind features that easily melt into sympathy and laughter, making him seem softer and goofier than most guys with his life experience.

Mack first heard about PIC from some Navy friends who had vacationed there. He had finished his fourth tour of duty as a Special Forces antiterrorist specialist. During the pre­vious seven years he had killed prison guards in the Kuwaiti desert, using night-vision gog­gles to blow up their heads "like pumpkins." He had wasted suicide bombers and pirates in the Red Sea, fending off their attempts to blow up or board the cargo ships he and a dozen guys guarded on deck with 450-caliber tripod-mounted machine guns. He had patrolled the south of India, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Afghani­stan, the Suez Canal and the coast of Greece. He had been stationed in Bahrain, Mississippi, Chicago, the United Arab Emirates and Japan. Most of his posts, he says, involved shooting people or being shot at or both. For him, PIC

was like liberation, a beautiful vacation. For the first time in his life, no one was shouting at him or telling him what to do every moment of the day. For the first time in years, he had time to wonder why he kept waking up in the middle of the night, panicked and sweating.

The surprising thing for Mack and the other Clubmates was how genuine the fun was. You weren't here to bullshit the guests. You were here to engage with them, to help them smile. It was infectious. The sex stuff that happened at night was really just a side benefit. The Japanese girls in their bikinis, checking Mack out like sharks; the 19-year-old German superfox; the Korean mother with braces who had stalked him—never mind her nearby husband and children. "Bopo! Bopo!" she kept saying to him. "Kiss! Kiss! I'm leaving tonight, so meet me!" It was a constant ban­quet of offerings: big boobs, small boobs, pink nipples, brown nipples, little bodies, big hair, small hair, all different kinds of dits and eyes and asses and mouths, all of it great. But more deeply, it was all part of some redemptive pro­cess Mack felt was reclaiming him from the stresses of military life.

By his second month at PIC, Mack had a Korean girlfriend named Yin. "She was cool as hell," Mack says. His affection for her was real, but it didn't dampen his desire to nail every woman he could get his hands on. If the girlfriend was working, why not play? A night after work might begin with a date with a hotel guest. Or maybe with a girl from another hotel, who strolled by on the beach.

Or perhaps one of the plentiful hot Filipinas who work all over the island. Or perhaps an arranged date with two Koreans, Kimberly and Amy, who both have kids on Saipan and husbands back in Seoul. The husbands almost never come around. The rumor is that they are tough guys, but who knows? Both women are gorgeous. As Mack puts it, "They're moth­ers, but they're as hot as any girl. I'd do either one of them in a fucking second."

Dinner is at Tony Roma's: Mack, Joe, Kim­berly, Amy and the kids. The women wear translucent wraps and stiletto heels. Their little curves squeal out of their tiny bikinis in all the right places. All Mack wants to do is pinch Kimberly's skin. It feels so soft. That was it. One thing you learn after holding a gun in your hands for hundreds of hours: There's no softer thing than a girl. Kimberly smells like cheap makeup, in a good way. It is the smell of sex—cheap, fun, fast. He squeezes, she laughs. He hugs, she fake-resists. The kids watch.

But there is no way to get Kimberly to come out alone. Besides the kids, there is Yin to watch out for and other prying eyes. Saipan is a small place, and PIC is a fishbowl within it. Gossip travels fast. If Kimberly is to be nailed, it will have to be without the kids. Maybe in the car. Maybe on one of many secret beaches. But not tonight.

On to Chicago Club. Dark and dank but fun. A three-sided bar around the dance platform. The pole in back. Guns N' Roses and other classic 1980s shit on the sound system. Mack and Joe walk in and the strip­pers—Filipinas in tiny costumes—light up. Maria is there. She gave Mack her phone number last time. A very fun girl. Mack and Joe ease into a booth. Maria and a friend join them. "How are you? You buy me ladies' drink?" Hands in motion, rubbing thighs. "Oh, Mack, you're so strong! Hey, naughty boy!" Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can get a blow job in the corner.

Drinks, drinks and more drinks. "You have girlfriend? Handsome man!" Should he fuck Maria tonight? The girls don't get off until two, though. Maybe tonight would be a bonus night, like a week earlier when the Russian guest snuck into his bed. She had come with her kids and a group of other Russian women married to Japanese men who live in Tokyo. She was hot. Anna. Taller than Mack, five-foot-

10, big boobs, red hair. Really hot. Mack came home late at night to find his roommate had just let her in. There she was, wearing lingerie in the bed. She was a lot of fun. And then, of course, there was always Yin.

In discussing the acceptability of nailing mar­ried women, Jim, who is older than the other guys, knows better. He is less of an asshole now than when he was younger, and as a result, he says, he gets less booty. That was fine with him. Cheating is a bad idea. It means bad karma and angry husbands. But Mack just laughs. Sex for him is about feeling alive. After shooting at people for seven years, it felt like a way to become human again. For him there is only one possible philosophy: Nail everything you can, while you can. "When I meet a married woman, my only question is, How far away is your husband?"

It's always surprising (although it shouldn't be) how quickly the varnish wears off these things. The puppy becomes an old dog. The object of puppy love becomes a pain in the ass. It's like the exchange in Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises when Bill asks Mike, "How did you go bankrupt?" and Mike responds, "Two ways. Gradually and then suddenly."

Four months in for the current crop of Clubmates, Super Bowl Monday (Super Bowl Sunday to those on the other side of the inter­national date line) begins like every other Monday: with the morning meeting. At 8:29 A.M. a dozen or so uniformed Clubmates strag­gle in from the hot morning. Sergei, the Rus­sian manager, is glad to report that the resort is running at 107 percent capacity. "Good job, Clubmates," he says. He runs through the sta­tistics: the numbers of guests, of visitors from other hotels, of kids and so on. A few weeks ago, around Christmas, the assembled Club­mates looked happily hungover and smug about the previous night's adventures. Today they look grumpy and sour.

Hanging at the club's Buoy Bar, Clubmates get their night started with half-price drinks. The Filipino house band continues to play on and on, bad Top 40, the Planet Hollywood version of American culture that entertains the world from Riyadh to Honolulu. Joe is currently with a 20-year-old Russian law stu-

dent. Fish puked so hard off the balcony the other night, he tore his esophagus. The doc­tor told him to stay off the sauce for a few weeks. Crack! He opens another beer.

Mack surprises me by saying he has all but decided to reenlist in the Navy at the end of his contract. "It's not like I want to do it," he says, but earning minimum wage at PIC won't cut it forever. Back in the Navy, he says, he could earn $8,000 a month, plus a signing bonus. That's too good to refuse. What about Yin? He shrugs. It's not as though he doesn't care. It's just—how is he supposed to move to Korea with her and earn a living?

Jim too feels as if his time at PIC is com­ing to an end. He has done three stints over the past six years and feels maybe it's time to move on. His favorite manager is leaving; the place seems to be changing. But mostly, hooking up all the time isn't so interesting anymore. The other day he met a Japanese cutie with a tattoo on her neck—superhot and totally interested. What did he do? Nothing. WTF? It felt weird to have gradu­ated past the dog years, but there it was. He just doesn't want to be an asshole anymore.

Joe seems besieged by similar, if occasional, feelings of unwanted maturity. He came to PIC largely to escape his woebegone family and dismal career opportunities. Not surpris­ingly, running off to a Pacific island hasn't fixed a single problem. Joe's six-month contract is almost up. The adult thing to do would be to go home and face the music. Right?

A week or two later Mack finds out his dad is sick. He may need a transplant. Everything seems to be falling apart. Yin is getting weird. She knows Mack will soon pull up stakes. He sighs, "Now is when it starts." By that he means the crying, the drama, the questions. "Here it goes again." He'd seen it in Bahrain, Japan and everywhere he'd ever been stationed. There is really only one thing to do: hit Club and get fucked up. Meet up with Kimberly. Bang some Filipina waitress. Meet someone new.

Early one Sunday in March, a few days shy of his departure, Mack's phone rings. It's his manager. "Hey, Mack, what are you doing?" he asks. "Sleeping," Mack answers. Why? "I was gonna call in," he explains, "but I decided

to sleep." Two months earlier Mack told me with genuine excitement how pleased he'd been to have received the highest number of favorable guest comments. Now he could give a shit. "I have zero intention of being a Clubmate anymore," he says.

Twig is off to Korea in a week to teach English. Jim has already quit—with PIC's blessings—to run a local soccer organization for kids. Fish, it seems, was abruptly termi­nated without prejudice three days earlier for drinking while on lifeguard duty. Apparently, he was discovered in the chair, wearing a rain poncho with three beers underneath. The hapless Kansan was confined to his floor for the evening and escorted to the plane the next day—but only after throwing a final bash.

The last five days turn into a long weekend. Mack, Joe and Twig are in various states of hangover. Mack's room is trashed with alcohol and food containers, dirty laundry and papers. His plans come in and out of focus. Part of him wants to stay in Saipan; he doesn't want to return to military service. Part of him wants to leave Saipan and never come back. One plan involves going to Florida to see his dad and sell his car. Another involves reenlisting.

For a moment he had happily imagined reenlisting, getting stationed in Korea and settling down with Vin. But he had cheated on her so many times, it seemed unlikely they could have a future together. Tired of the stress and uncertainty, she had broken up with him a few days earlier. Last night he stayed out until two. He met a local anchorwoman. He claims he fell in love. She gave him her number, but now he can't find it. When he got to his room, Yin was sitting outside, crying. "I just went to bed," he told me. "I don't care. I'm a heartless bastard. What can I say? I don't even have her e-mail address." What to do: stay or go? "This place is like a trap," he says. "It's so easy to get in and so hard to leave. I have no idea where my fate leads me. If I go back into the military, I'll be back in the desert, being shot at. And shooting back—hopefully." Will he be killing people or nailing Korean girls next week?

Joe feels the same way. That morning he learned his dad had ended up in the hospi­tal from taking so many medications. "What the hell am I going to do?" Joe wonders. He wants to help his dad, but how long can he realistically be around his family with­out going nuts? How do you help people if they're hell-bent on self-destruction? "Maybe I'll look into cruise ships."

I thought about Mack's, Joe's and Twig's choices. The reality is that since 1974 Americans without college degrees have earned comparatively less than those who have them. The economy is tanking, and whatever shitty chances these men once had are diminishing. In that context or in any other, why would any sane person want to mature? I ask them what maturity means to them. "Responsibility," says Mack. What else? Mack thinks and says again, laugh­ing, "Responsibility." I ask if they know of any models for getting old, if they have any ideas about how to grow old gracefully. Joe makes a long, low cartoon whimper. "Being mature almost sounds like, I mean, not having fun. I don't know...."

That night we head to Garapan, Saipan's tourist area. You'd never know that the ground we're walking on had been the site of a famous World War II battle widely regarded as the turning point of the Pacific war or that 42,000 people had died there.

We hit the Hard Rock Cafe, where cute Filipinas serve us watery drinks and a band billed as Guam's number one reggae band struts around onstage to tape loops. From there we hit Godfather's, where even cuter Filipinas in midriff-baring schoolgirl outfits serve us Coronas and tequila shots. After that comes Johnny's and the Flair Bar, boasting "Korea's hottest free-basing rap group." A shot here, some soju there, Bud and Miller Lites all around. Mack has been whispering into girls' ears all night and hugging waitresses with familiarity. He tele­phones Kimberly to come join us.

Joe knows he had wanted to be "upper middle class or better" when he grew up. He wanted to provide for and protect his brothers and sisters. He didn't want "the typical nine-to-five office job" or anything to do with paperwork, he says, but he did want to get older like his grandparents, who were very solid and "always had awe­some family holidays and get-togethers." He just didn't want to be stuck in a life that wouldn't let him have his freedom.

He has studied massage therapy and could always start his own shop. But why rush? Why not keep traveling? Asia is pretty cool. Maybe, he thinks, reversing a decision he has professed to have made three times already, he would go home, deal with his family and then come back to be a Clubmate again. "Big possibility," he says, nodding thoughtfully and check­ing out a slinky Korean bartender. "I might just plan on it."

Some newcomers have joined us, John and some other kid from New Jersey, brand-new Clubmates with their tongue hanging out of their mouth at all the hot Asian girls. Mack is drunk by now but in a fun way. He launches into a story about how once, back in Florida between stretches in the mili­tary, he was so hard up he responded to an ad for male strippers. But he couldn't go through with the audition.

A little later he declares, "I'm never get­ting married." Everyone laughs and tells him to shut up. "What?" he asks. "1 don't know where I want to live. I don't know what I want to do for a job. Why do I want to drag somebody into that? Maybe some­day, if I know all that stuff."

Then he decides he must find that anchorwoman. Where can she be? God, they have a really special connection. "You know," he says, "maybe this is weird, but if I find her, I'm just going to say, 'Look, I'm really into you. I know I just met you, but if you're into me, I'm happy to just, like, throw down and commit to you, stop fooling around and stay here. I'll stay. That's what I'm telling you. I'll stay for you. I could just tell from the moment I met you.'" He looks at me, and his eyes show how serious he is. He's serious. "You know? I'll just tell her, 'I'll stay here. Because I want to be with you. I want to be with you.'"

n

ASK A

CLUBMATE

HOW OFTEN

HE COULD

HOOK UP IF HE

WANTED TO,

AND HE'LL SAY

EVERY NIGHT

OF THE WEEK.