“您好！你喜欢啤酒吗？”

”…是”

”我喜欢啤酒也。你想吗?”

Innocuous is not the word to describe this man in his awkward rotundity.  Falling to one side of the bar stool and then the other; then the other; then again, the other; like a wormy dog on the edge of a step; his inability to manage his extreme weight, coupling with his profuse and profound sweating belied his identity as a vicious, gay-curious gangster.

But that he was, and in spades.

Not long enough ago (as it is so today), China was emerging as the domain of the brand new class known as “New New People”; of the burgeoning capitalist; of 12 lane highways and three cars.  China, as we know it now, was then in its infancy.

The cities still believed in the the Dream and Mao wasn’t an anachronistic embarrassment.  It was a strange, proletarian wasteland desperate for identity midst the burgeoning consumer markets of Asia and still tamped by the Marxist-Leninist-Mao Tse-tung Thought elite.  China, a decade ago, was the new Old West: poor, hungry, rich, decadent, corrupt and fitful.  Even in Beijing, the age-old Mafia so well quashed by Maoist morality and rampant poverty, resurged.  It controlled, infiltrated and shaped New New China, especially where foreigners were found in numbers.

I was there, though drunk.  I was there, though not drunk enough not to want more.  I was there, though drunk enough to know I was The Man.

The end.

It was in their sector, in their town, on their street, in their bar I found myself — lured by the heady mix of Eastern Bloc techno and recent American hits blasting from the doors like banshee songs against the still Chinese twilight. Secure in my indignant insistance and bourgeoisie confidence in “Multi-cultural American Lit.” and “East Asia, Now and Tomorrow,” I felt immune to the pitfalls of the “stupid American” and had no qualms about showing it.  This club, I thought, secluded on a back street, was obviously their attempt to break a socialist command economy’s bar of American-style entertainment.  I was, through robust patronage, going to help them achieve, help them become more, help them become better.  Clearly prevented by the command economy from being out in the open, these antitheses, these freedom fighters were, a la Les Mis, of the underground.  Eager in my quintessential American-ness to aid in the corruption of the status quo, I moved purposefully toward the entrance.  I walked straight, unequivocatingly and with a cycloptic myopia to one end:  to inject my special American-ness into their 新新 revolution and show them how it’s done.

Two of the largest Chinese men I’ve ever seen greeted me as I neared the end of the red and pink neon and flashing entry tunnel of “大 Disco”.  Their faces betrayed nothing but nonchallant irritation at my interrupting their dual session of Japanese cinema and Famicom soccer on their dual rabbit ears.

A massive load of cum flew through the air and splashed onto a crying, bound schoolgirl.  Her skin glistened with the children of 日本 as a massive pig-pink dildo contorted and spasmed in her young vagina like an angry, trapped worm.  Her anguished squeals could barely be made out above the seductive, thumping techno coming from deeper inside but I was sure I could make out, repeatedly, “YAMETE!”

A growing and anxious tension signaled my arousal at this scene of humiliating sexual violence.  I didn’t look away.  I didn’t feel enough shame.

Massive Man #1 prodded me with a finger — hard.  He wanted to go back to his woman and his soccer.

As I fumbled for the demanded twenty RMB he looked to the screens and, sneering, looked to Massive Man #2 who for his part, knowingly chuckled and gestured from the corner of my eye to my proffered cash.

MM#1 looked again at the schoolgirl, who by now was being triple penetrated by two men—one in her mouth and one her anus—and the same dildo, now at an impossible depth, still trying to escape.  MM#1 looked down at me (though only slightly downward), sneered and gave me a ticket.

Pushing through the velvet double doors and into the darkness beyond, I was greeted by a steamy blackness pulsing with pinks, reds and yellows and a bass that grabbed my gutty-wots – pushing, pulling, invading my organs’s personal space.  The place was populated entirely by jackrabbit-ear straight men, and “New New” women, complete with their garrish makeup, short skirts and boots.

Revolutionary headquarters.

A wide-eyed, smiling and buxom, punk recruit of a barmaid-revolutionary asked my orders.
“VSOP” I said without giving a look.

“Yes sir!”  (read: “Sure.”) She turned smartly and disappeared.

I saddled the bar and that’s when I met Sam.  He wore then-standard Chinese black leather loafers,  the kind administrators and academics were given.  Above socialist bourgeoisie, FUBU track pants and a brave t-shirt — holding on with all its strength to contain his voluminous rolls, the t-shirt looked at me and screamed, “Bronx, New York!”

What.  The.  Fuck.

So much to teach…

A beer appeared courtesy of a new, younger, more innocent girl.  She was dripping sex appeal and knew it.  She was young, and knew it.  She wasn’t innocent and I knew it.

Alternating between “VSOP” and “beer”, between broken English and broken English, we chatted and drank, Sam and I and Sabrina, my slut to be.  She rarely said anything in any language besides, “another?”  We talked about Sam’s car, a Cadillac.  He was surprised I didn’t own one.  He seemed to love that I didn’t own one.  We talked about his ten children and his two houses.  He loved how surprised I was that he, a HAN Chinese could have so many of both.  I tried to explain the conclusion I had come to in “The Concept of Ownership in Scarface: A Folly of Our Own Making”, that material gain for it’s own sake was at best an exercise in narcissistic brinksmanship.  Laughing, shaking his fifty-pound head, “Hehehe….no.  You don’t know.”
He ordered another “VSOP”.

“Wow, this nice, fatso has so much to learn…he’s so naive.”  Though I.

“This fucking American doesn’t even know.”  Thought he.

Sabrina, the Spears-esque virgin-cum-whore, came over, drink in hand, and revelled in my drunken proffers.  She laughed amiably at my playful leering down her dress.  She demurred at my promise of marriage but accepted my promise of a kiss.  She pretended to hate how I slipper her the tongue, but I knew she liked it.  I knew, thanks to “Asian Dragon Ladies, Trope and Fact”, that deep down inside her shrinking Chinese violet, she was a slutty American….er….Whore Flower waiting to get out.

“You want her.” Said Sam.

“Fuckin’ eh right broham.  Fuckin’. A. Right!”  Said I, slapping the bar.

I didn’t notice the inflection at the end of Sam’s sentence.

It’s wasn’t a period, but a question mark.

I’d just confirmed to him not the existence of lust, but of assent to a deal.

Sam stood, signaled someone, and then said something to Sabrina.  She looked surprised and hesitant but assented with a curt nod.  Her smile was less but she walked to a side door and reached out to me, beckoning in lilting Chinese phrases of which the meaning was easily inferred.

This trope was about to become fact.

I was not as confused as I made believe.  I knew, finally, what was going down and why Sabrina’s effervescence was once so appealing and now seemed nervously forced.

I was nervous too. 

Nervous the way you are when you’ve accidentally turned down the wrong street and find yourself in the wrong neighborhood.  When you take off your iPod earphones, still hearing 2 Pac and realize you just got off the 1 in Inwood (where’s Columbia, dammit!?).  Nervous like when you know you’re in a place the rules of which you are ignorant and the rules of which you’re sure are designed to exploit and damage you.

A storming-mad patron jumped up and ran at Sam yelling in guttural Guangdong accent.  He was middle aged, poorly dressed, angry and drunk.  Sam looked at him, stuck a sweaty sausage finger in the guy’s face and yelled.  The man looked like he wanted to kill but, rather, gave a curt nod of assent.  Before Sam could take another step the man, apparently desperate, foolishly put his hand to Sam’s chest and began to beg.

Sam looked down, then at the man, then said loudly, though with an aire of sad recognition, a man’s name.

MM#1 appeared and immediately encroached upon the now cowering suit.

MM#1’s fist flew, breaking through the man’s surrendering hands and pleading words and planted itself squarely inside the man’s face.

An ANIME spurt of blood.

The sound of breaking wood.

A muffled scream.

MM#1’s second first came fast and lodged in the man’s stomach.  Never before has a human folded in half so completely.

I was now quite a bit more nervous.

Sabrina was starting to shake.

I was fucking scared.

Sam beckoned to me to follow him and Sabrina out the door but my legs wouldn’t work.

An animal plopped onto my shoulder.  It was MM#1’s surprisingly gentle right hand.  He looked down on me with a gentle smile as if to say, “It’s cool man, it’s the 大 Disco, remember?”  I followed his outstretched left hand to the door, met S&S and walked to a well-appointed room with a luxurious bed, a couch and a large TV.

“You want her.”  Said Sam.

This time it was a most definite period.

Sabrina and I were left alone, the muffled strains of the suddenly far away club and its impossibly distant exit alone filling the pregnant silence.

I went to comfort her by touching her shoulder but realized soon that the tender, “Don’t worry, we don’t need to do anything.” was falling on deaf ears.

I contemplated pretending sex for half an hour and then walking out.  But how could I make her an accomplice?  What about bugs?  Here’s a fucking TV and VCD player…there could be cameras.

There were probably cameras.

There were definitely cameras.

Fuck.

The blankets were salvation from prying eyes.

Strugglingly:  “You’re pretty” and “I’m Jonesy” and “I like you.”

“THANK YOU.” was her only reply to all three.

The blankets were salvation from prying eyes.

I looked up to invite her into celibacy to find she’d already taken down the top of her dress and exposed her perfect, smooth breasts.  Her alabaster skin glowed pink under the red lights, its satin smoothness broken only by her small, tender, brown nipples.  Apprehensively, she looked at me from the top of her eyes.  I went to her, kissed her neck, took her hand and led her into bed.
I was only going to kiss this girl, and really only so she wouldn’t have to lie…she could complain that I only wanted to kiss.  Obviously, then, I was doing her a favor by kissing her, and she’d already taken my tongue in the bar so it wasn’t that big a deal anymore.  I wouldn’t touch her breasts, though.  I would, howver, take off my shirt to keep up appearances.  If her breasts brushed against my body, well, then, that’s just physics.  I was going to respect this girl.

In bed we made out.  I smiled at her a reassurance of my good intentions.  We made out like it was Prom Night.  Our hot breath intermingling and heating the space between us was aphrodisiac.

I stirred, stained and grew anxious.

I could touch her tits, right?  We were having such a good time making out, after all.  I kissed her deep and grabbed her tits with my hand, sqeezing with all the passion I could convey to her.  She bucked slightly but nodded around my penetrating kiss.  I brusquely squeezed her nipples and kissed them before biting them hard.

At this point, was there so much difference between second and third base?  No way.  I reached up her dress and pulled down her panties with one hand.  I stopped kissing her and stuck two fingers into her mouth, deep, until I felt that slimey spittle, the good spittle.  She coughed a little.  I reached down, pushing her legs apart with one knee and pushed my fingers into her surprisingly dry vagina.

I bent down to kiss her again and the door opened.

It was a smiling Sam and a cohort of smiling men.

I was abandoned of my confidence.  I was suddenly fucking scared.

Sabrina pulled my hand from inside of her and slowly kicked off her panties into the bedclothes.  She pulled her dress down and said something derogatory and definitive to Sam — indicating me.
My sweet, unwitting accomplice in love had the same idea as I!

She began walking towards the door and Sam looked at me, “You shoot? Shoot?”  He asked, surprised.

“Uhh.  I can’t.  I’m, like fucked up.”  Pointing down, then shaking hand and head, “No shoot, fucked up.  Bu it’s cool, I’m fucked up.  I can’t shoot.”

Sam looked unhappy.  He grabbed Sabrina who tried to shake him off.  He wrestled her back into the room and pushed her down onto the bed next to me.  His cadre closed ranks behind him.

I was fucking scared.

Sabrina was shaking.

I touched her hand as if we were more than strangers, more than patron and server, more than John and Hooker…I touched her with intent to protect.

Sam looked at me and said, “You can shoot!  Okay.  No problem.  Shoot. Shoot.”  His only-flesh head nodded, undulated, encouragingly.

“Okay.  Thanks.  Will do.  Shoot.   Uh…see you later.”  I’d become Keanu Reeves.

Sam was pleased.  Sam didn’t leave.  Instead he directed his comrades to sit at various places around the room.

“No, dude.  I’m going to shoot.  I will.”  I assured.  “But like, I wanna really give it to her, you know?  Strong.  Like a dragon.  I’ll do it now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Aiit, see you later?”

They didn’t move.  They were all smiling.

“Um.  Okay, you guys go, okay?  You guys go and I’ll shoot. Okay?  Go?”  I motioned to the door.
Sam shook his head.  Sam said something without giving a look.  The door opened and MM#1 appeared, smiled at me like before as he shut the door, leaning his mass of body against it.

I was fucking scared.

Sam said, “You take her now.  Like Dragon.” Again, there was no misunderstanding the period.  There was, also, no misunderstanding his suddenly native-sounding American accent.

There was no misunderstanding what was happening.

I was to be a one-man sex show for Sam and his friends.

Self-preservation urged me forward.  I pulled Sabrina into the covers just as the covers were ripped off us by one of Sam’s men.  Without the benefit of foreplay I pushed my penis into her mouth, seeking the slimey spittle, the good spittle.  I held her head and thrust into her throat to get what I needed in order to thrust into her body.  She coughed and I felt my cock covered in warm slime.  I pulled out of her throat and held her shoulders as her body curled to the side.  I forced her legs open with my knees.  Her patent leather heels flashed as they passed my head like knives.

They were, like us, pure sex and violence.

I moved my left hand to just under her throat and with my right aimed my cock at her quivering labia.  I thrust into her hard.  Felt some resistance and kept pushing.  She bucked.  But I worked it in, swiveling and gyrating until I was completely inside her.

Sam and his men were excitedly talking.  One man shoved my ass with his foot.  My cock went deeper, faster than it had before eliciting a tiny wail from Sabrina.  I told myself it was a scream of pleasure.  She loved my huge cock.  She wanted it. God, I had to shoot.

“She’s a dog!”  Yelled Sam.

I pulled out and flipped her onto all fours.  I fucked her doggy style.  Someone reached from behind a put a finger in her asshole.  Then Sam’s sausage-finger tried at mine.

I put it out of my mind.

As I punched ever deeper into her pink and now red folds I could feel myself coming to the end.
I put her on her back, ready for cum.  I remembered Sam’s ten children and suddenly became scared that a 中文 sex-slave would persue me to America if and when I impregnated her.  I struggled against evolution as I pulled out to shoot my load.  The first shot landed on her face; the second fell onto her neck, filling her clavicle.

The men were ecstatic, on their feet, gleefully mimicking my thrusting.  They clapped me on the back and bleeding buttocks.  They shook my shoulders like proud fathers.  They kissed my shoulders like Johns.

I felt good.  I’d done what they wanted.  I was safe.

I looked down at my partner and was nauseated.  There was blood on her inner thighs and the sheets.  She was curled into fetal position, single tears leaving glistening trails down her face, falling onto the pillows, their dark wetness indistinguishable from my own.

I doubled over and threw up.

Three days later I was aboard a plane for America.

Back home I’m fine.  She’s out of my mind most days and I go about my business as if I was never raped by Sam’s finger.

Travel changed me, I suppose, but people don’t know me as well as they think…I don’t only date Asian girls.