From the outside, nothing about this building stands out in particular. Its true nature is neatly camouflaged in an array of glittery high-end malls. As I step into the densely fluorescent-lit dungeon that is Orchard towers, my already numbed senses go haywire. The contrast between the familiar comfort of Orchard Road and this new environment is jarring. I instantly become hyper-aware of my surroundings. Within this micro-universe, an entire red light district is compressed into a building that oozes with poor decisions and regrets.
Decades of alcohol, perfume, vomit, and detergent have layered the inner surfaces with an intangible grime, conjuring an unmistakable aroma that is hard to ignore.
I start heading in deeper into the dizzying labyrinth. One of the first things that strike me in this chaotic world is the diverse mix of people visiting the place. Next is the sheer amount of women present. As I visualize my destination, dopamine begins to charge my movements with momentum, infusing purpose in each step that I take. My visual landscape is now narrowed to a point of singular focus. Escalators are tricky. I put up a brave front and ignore the odd looks. A brief look into the eyes of another visitor reveals enough — but the judgement is reciprocal.
Bass lines and foreign sounding music reverberate incoherently from multiple directions; a gaze in the wrong direction will earn you unsolicited catcalls. Blatant sexual signalling, normally blanketed by layers of social norms, are on full unfiltered display in this arena. Women of all shapes and shades flaunt their stuff without holding back, offering you a range of thrilling possibilities to end your night.
Taking photos here is risky business. For obvious reasons. But hey, how else can I capture the inner life of this idiosyncratic world? No good can come about being associated with this place at this time, so understandably, people get pissed. Despite my best attempts to be discreet, I get shut down and shouted at pretty quickly.
