Miscarriage

So this is true. Miscarriage is the end of a life in its most natural form. It gets expeled out of your body, like a reject, like a birthday song sung too early, like love gone awry. Or perhaps it is a sign that love has gone awry.

Miscarriage is therefore a love story ended too soon. It's the last sign that he existed. He had tried to form an unit and your body rejected him like you did fifteen years ago.

French Women, American Women, Asian Women and All Women

Vanity Fair has finally caught on with French Women Don’t genre, in this issue, it says “‘No French woman willing works, French women have better things to do with their time, like waxing their legs and seducing other people’s husbands.’ Unlike her neurotic American sisters, a French bachelorette would never be caught dead moping on the sofa, digging into a tub of Haagen-Dazs because some doofus did not call, and she never goes out looking as if she just crawled out a laundry hamper…She remains mistress of her domain, avoiding the terrible modern fate of both sexes: becoming a sad sack.” 

Recently a male friend went on a rampage on why American Women suck and how dating foreigners changed his perspective. “With an European woman, she’s genuinely happy if you handed her an Apple.” “American women are so angry, self-entitled and have unrealistic expectations.” He then added.  I recall a very similar conversation I had with yet another male friend of mine not too long again; and yet again, nearly two years ago I heard the same complaint from another male friend. I wanted to defend American Women because I’m one myself. I think American women are fundamentally the best kind of women in the world. Yet I am slightly conflicted about it because I’m quite fond of French women’s ways and my move to France is not a possibility but inevitability at this point. 

But, I’m still feeling more American than anything else. So my friend added, “Well, you are kind of American but not really. You spent your formative years abroad. And you are so independent, laid back and happy. Plus, what do you know - you are Chinese. You guys are totally in demand, with soft skin, small frame and long straight hair, you are considered attractive by most men. And let’s not forget, you, in particular, have a big rack, unlike most Asian women. You don’t know what’s like out there. ” He continued. 

“Excuse me, I beg to differ. Most of my white guy friends only date white women. And I had never felt to be such an object of an affection in my earlier, in-demand years. ” I challenged his theory. 

So this friend rolled his eyes, and said, “Com’on, don’t lie.” 

Alright, he knew that I knew what he said was true, and he knew that I knew that men think that I’m hot, even at this age. But it’s not because I was of a particular race, it’s because I was attractive as a woman.

It’s an universal truth, as an attractive woman, all you need to do is to bat your eye lashes, catches his glance and then look away. Adding to that physical attractiveness, you then must be not annoying, not complaining or have unrealistic expectations. Then you can keep a guy. Men are simple. They fall with their eyes. If they lust over you, you get to keep them. Jane Austen got it right. So did the French women. 

And on occasion, an Asian American woman like me.

I’m in the wrong business. I should write relationship column. I should start my very first column by titling it “How to be handed an apple and be happy.“ 

Food, fucking, and how not to fall in love

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Another Evening

He held my head, tilted, so he could examine me. Then he pulled my hair up, and pulled me closer, and he stared at my face, turning me from left to right, so he could look at my face, up close and personal, as if I was a sculpture, he needed the view, the 3-dimentional view, and he turned me. I asked, “Why, why are you doing that?” “Because you are so different from the white faces I’ve seen. Your face is softer, less of a contour. I had not been seeing this kind of face for a long time.

“You have a nice nose. Straight, narrow, not wide, or flat, like the others.” He continued to observe and examine me.

I was getting self-conscious and I wanted him to stop. But he wouldn’t. He had laid out the camera, with zoom lens and he started to take photos of me. Me smoking, me checking the phone, me staring at the camera, me smiling or me pouting. He took photos of me in varies angles. He took detailed design notes for his projects, hand written notes in his meticulous writing, left handed writing, he wrote his ideas and thoughts, and he taped photos of his women in the note book. I insisted not to be in his notebooks, But I changed my mind, I wanted a picture of me, faceless, only my boobs, and my torso, in it. So that when he was dead, and famous, they’d look at those books and wonder who I was. I was one of the women he had been with, and I was faceless.

He made slow rhythmic moves to and on me. He called me Sweet Pea. He gave me nicknames as if I were food. When I was putting make up on or when I was doing something that did not involve him, he’d peak over the kitchen window and look at me, curiously and passionately.

The most incredible thing happened to us. The most unusual sexual experience, took place last night, when he took me missionary style, for four hours and counting he took me and I came violently as he fucked me. It reminded me the sex I had once had with a Swedish man, the only man in my twenties who wanted me so completely, offered to take me away to Sweden, to be with him, his business, his four Mercedes, to be his wife. I would not have been whom I was today, if I agreed with him, I’d be living in Sweden, raise little half Swedish babies, married to a man who’s 6’4”, and loved me. I had to kiss many many frogs before realizing that he would have been a prince. But I said no, broke his heart, his eyes filled with tears, he loved me, and I came the same way I did with him, slow rhythmic moves, Missionary style, I came and I saw God. And I saw that Swedish man who once loved me and promised to rescue me from the mundane. I had a different path to embark, I never kept in touch after I broke his heart, his eyes filled with tears were the only thing I’d remember about him, I was twenty-two and he was twenty-seven at the time. We’d had made it. He was the reason why I could not get away from Scandinavia, he was the reason that my boyfriends in my twenties after him, were either Swedish or Danish. He was my imprint. Now this man was able to accomplish the same.

He called me the Windup Doll. After Sweet Pea, Windup Doll sounded suggestive and dirty. He spanked me and I was creaming. It was within seconds that my body changed. My body changed to respond to his behavior, he noticed the way I reacted and called me a dirty slut. I can’t help what got me to turn on. I got turned on by things that were not considered “normal”. I liked being tied up and spanked and I liked to be degraded. That was how I was and how I would be. 

Only one man understood me completely. He was my soul mate, the love of my half-spent life, and then he left me there, crying and asking for him to call me back, when the world crumbled, when all I had left was for him to return my affection, he disappeared. He fell off the face of the earth, he was cruel and unforgiving, he was calculating and manipulative, and he broke me. But strangely when that happened, I broke free also. Perhaps the old me needed to die before the new me was to be reborn.

He pulled my hair up; he wanted to see my face. My wrinkleless youngish looking face. Without make up I looked non-eventful, but my skin remained soft and smooth, my body curvy; I was not young but I was womanly.

I told him a story. A story I’d never told anyone before. About my journey as a five year old, to a village in the middle of Yangzi river, across Wuhan, onto a river boat, traveled through the Three Gorges before they took them down, the three-day journey on a slow moving passenger boat on the Yangzi river, that took people from the southern part of the Yangzi river to the middle part of the river, ending in Shanghai. The train that first took me from Changsha to Wuhai, in the summer heat, and without mosquitoes net, people camped on the street, in the evening, in the small farmed bamboo med in the summer heat of forty-plus Celsius. The small food vendors lined up by each train station, selling pickled vegetables and fermented eggs. Fermented thousand year eggs were no different than Hakarl, the fermented shark meat in Iceland, which I liked, both times. Upon arrival in An Hui, we made our journey into the village, where my grandma killed the family goose to feed us tired travelers. There were more pickled vegetables and tea leaves soaked eggs.

“I’d never make it in China. I'd die of starvation.” He said after. I came from an exotic land. I was not whom he’s used to.

“I grew up in suburban United States. When we were teenagers, we drove car really fast, drank terrible drinks, acted stupid, and threw eggs to houses we vandalized. We threw out raw eggs, not eating them, not fermenting them, not soaking them in soy source or tea leaves.”

“We have nothing in common.” He concluded.

I was vastly disappointed. “Nothing? Nothing at all?” I asked.

“No, not a thing.” With that he wrapped his arms around me.

“That’s a good thing. How would you like being with someone who’s exactly the same?” He was right, to certain degree. Opposites did attract.

But I liked to think he and I had something in common.

“You are very funny. Pretty, smart, and funny.” He complimented me, as if that was going to make me feel better.

Maybe a little. I decided.

I closed my eyes. Satisfied and tired. The clock showed 1:15 AM when I woke up. It was late and I needed to find an alternate parking spot. No parking from 7 am to 5 pm, Monday through Friday until June 18^th. Repavement of the road outside of his house.

He and I both got up, groggy and disoriented. Out we went, looking for parking, in the middle of the night.  After circling for twenty minutes, we found a spot. We parked and walked back. On the way home, he said, “Kate used to look for parking, sometimes for half an hour.” Kate was his ex, the German woman, the serious relationship. I was curious why he compared my searching of parking to his ex's activity. I was not going to be his woman, therefore, never his ex either.  But in his subconscious mind, I had started to become a regular encounter. Someone he had gotten used to, someone he had developed feelings for.

I encouraged him to see other women. I’d offer him up to other girlfriends who were in need of getting laid. I didn’t mind his fucking other women. So that I could continue my own extracurricular activities.  

We fell asleep again, this time I had rested my head on his chest. He turned me around and wrapped me like a burrito in the middle of the night, I remained in that position until the next morning. The dehumidifier fan on the floor hummed all night. 

Beard, Costume, Episodic

No, I don’t love you.

Anymore.

I like this. Your beard. Your cock. Your way of making love.

These Episodic Erotic Encounters. 

The Triple E.

I do everything to please you.

But that does not mean I love you.

I don’t care about whether you love me or not, anymore.

No, I don’t love you.

The worlds collide

When you are introduced by the man you are seeing, to his friends. Not just any friends, but good friends, the worlds collide.

It's just one of those things, it happens.

Here I was, and there you were, and there he was, your friend, a good looking man, which under normal circumstance, I'd flirt and be attracted to. But he's your friend, and I'm the one you are banging, and your friend knows it now, putting a name to a face.

He proceeded to speak to me, about his photography, his video and about Ocean Beach where he shot the video.

I remembered once I was playing there, by the Ocean Beach with a boy. He was not the love of my life, but years later he'd come into my life and break my heart as a man.

I told him about a mystical place I swam recently, the steam reminded me of his photos. They were not steam, they were waves that hovered over rocks.  He started to tell me about how he shot the video, in what interval. I was slightly intrigued by it, but then you came to the room, surveying, and wanting to make sure that my presence was meant for you, and you only. Not even your best friend should deserve my time.

But I had to leave. I didn't like the worlds collide. I wanted to maintain distance and be invisible. That's why for men I sleep with I do'n't have them on FaceBook. They should remain anonymous. I should not need to have FB to keep tabs on them. I was too cool for that.

I wanted anonymity, irregularity, I was fine, finally, about lack of ending, lack of planning. I was good with everything being episodic, so every encounter could be epic. I wanted epic stories. I was tired of mundane. I was no longer in search of meaning, the meaning of faithfulness and devotion was thrown out of the window when love ended.

I had to leave. He was disappointed. He wanted to talk more about his shooting techniques.

But I did not have the tendency to linger. I knew my place. I needed to leave before you were tired of me.

We knew when we'd see each other. No need to be reminded of the inevitable.

The inevitability that this should end.

Before the worlds collided. I was living in my own planet, my own world, you did not exist, he did not exist, and the man who would come into my life and break my heart, did not exist.

I was fine the way it was. I was fine.

Under your lens

You took photos of me. I never quite understood that. Why? Why should I exist in your photographs? In a file somewhere I was yours and yours alone.

But, I could not be tamed, I was yours, once, and then I was gone. Existing in your memories, existing in your photographs, was this girl who once loved you, but no more. “I like this version of you.” I said. While lying on top of the white sheets white pillow white comforter. I was falling asleep, I talked in semi coherent ways, I was sure I had once felt something profound and magical.

He also liked to photograph me. He had a bulkier camera, with bigger lens, he had white sheets white pillows white comforter like you. He took rapid shots of me, and he kept them so he could look at them on his own, like you. He took photos of women he had been with, like you.

You came inside of me, then I wrapped my legs around your naked body, in your arms I was folded under and I fell asleep. I always fell asleep with you.

He wanted me to talk after. He said I was so girlie, I had a nice voice, he wanted me to talk, to tell him things. I was different, unlike others he’s met. So I told stories and then I said, “Promise not to fall in love with me.”

You asked about my latest adventure. He did too. You were the best sex I had ever had. But I needed more. More frequency, more variety. You were like me. I wanted you to be with other women. That was how I could fall out of love. To know you were never mine; therefore I could, then, be released from your hold.

You asked me, “Why, why do you want me to be with other women?” I said because it was good to have variety. But there was more; Knowing you were not mine, mine alone, allowed me to be released from the bond we once formed.

I once loved you. I was finally free.