Sex and Shanghai In Chinese, 欲望上海中文版

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2011-07-17T19:40:00.000+08:00

Hui Zheng invited you to Dropbox

2011-02-01T01:12:00.001+08:00

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Recordatorio: zenlucent@gmail.com te ha invitado a probar SugarSync

2011-01-21T23:05:00.001+08:00

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2011-01-16T23:58:00.001+08:00

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所谓的行为艺术是个借口

2006-09-05T09:36:00.001+08:00

自称是"欲望上海"博主的Chinabounder发给美联社记者一封邮件。邮件自曝，这个博客（欲望上海）其实是一个恶作剧。"这些文章是我们5个行为艺术家所作，成员包括1个英国小伙子、1个澳大利亚女子、2个中国小伙子和1个日本女子，我们写这个博客的目的是要调查。我们有计划地将让别人看我们的博客，并观察这些人的反应……我们想调查现代中国到底改变了多少。"

我认为这个说法是事后的托词. 因为blogger.com在八月以前在中国一直无法登陆 . 而Chinabounder在5月份就已经有了. 如果他们真的想试验,就应该选一个没有被国内查封的网站做博客. 而且更不应该在试验刚开始的阶段就把网站关闭了.

转载ChinaBounder的日记

2006-08-31T04:26:00.000+08:00

因为ChinaBounder的日记最近被关闭了，为了避免流言和对他日记的误解，我暂时把他日记中的所以帖子转载出来(缺最后2篇)。当然这涉及了版权问题。
特此声明所有Labeled "CB Diary" 的帖子中的英文部分转载自 chinabounder.blogspot.com

不要被误导

2006-08-31T04:05:00.000+08:00

ChinaBounder 在自己的日记里提到他的名字是Brian。
现在很多人在上海寻找叫Brian的外教。
可是请注意，这个很可能是一个误导，那个其实不是他的真名。
请大家在没有确切证据前不要伤害任何人。

2006-08-29T03:05:00.000+08:00

If you think that Chinabounder sucks, and want more people to know about him;

if you think ChinaBounder wrote what actually happened in Shanghai and China, and hope more people to be aware of it;

translate those dirty diaries into Chinese,
and send it to chinabounder.chinese@gmail.com

We will post it over
http://chinabounderinchinese.blogspot.com/index.html

p.s. Those diaries revealing CB's racism will have the priority in translation.

国内外关于的 ChinaBounder 的讨论

2006-08-25T08:50:00.000+08:00

toddisnotadog
---- http://blog.sina.com.cn/u/49eaa5170100052d

a letter from Dr. Zhang
--- http://blog.phoenixtv.com/user3/zhangjiehai/archives/2006/299423.html

who is ChinaBounder
----http://whoischinabounder.blogspot.com/

discussion about Chinabounder from the west
----http://battleangel.org/item/2296#969
----http://cipherjournal.blogspot.com/2006/08/what-is-literature-last-time-i-wrote-i.html

网络追缉垃圾老外大行动

2006-08-25T04:51:00.001+08:00

--- 本文转载自Dr. Zhang

亲爱的各位网友，不，各位同胞们：

今天我怀着无比愤怒的心情告诉大家一个外国垃圾的故事，并号召各位国人同胞一起行动起来，将这个垃圾清扫出中国。

事情的经过是这样的：几天前，一位网友告诉了我一个在上海的英国人的博克。我看了以后震惊、气愤、恶心……，看了他的博克之后，我只有一个念头：是可忍，孰不可忍？一定要把这个垃圾找出来，把他赶出中国！！！

他在博克里，用极其淫秽、肮脏的语言记录了他－－一个在上海的外教－－利用教师的身份，在上海玩弄中国女人的过程，而这些中国女人大部分竟然是他的学生；与此同时，他又极尽所能侮辱、诋毁、歪曲中国政府和中国男性。

他在博克的一开始是这样描述他在上海的生活的："所以，你们看，这个星期六我和Star在一起，星期天我和Yingying在一起。中间我通过MSN和Cherry联系，打一个电话给Rina，用SMS挑逗Tulip。Suasn我给她发了一封Email调情，并通过Wendy的博客向她求爱。"

这个垃圾在博克里公开宣称，他纯粹只是为了玩弄这些中国女学生。他说，"我们不谈爱，不谈婚姻，甚至不谈住在一起"他竟然有一次厚颜无耻地说，"我已经厌倦了她，X（女性生殖器）是X，我留着她只是为了以后再玩弄她。"

这位垃圾的拿手好戏是，用及其淫秽、黄色的语言描绘中国女性的身体和他们做爱的过程。比如，"我亲爱的婷婷，你有一个极好的、漂亮的身体；我无法停止想念你漂亮的皮肤，你可爱、光滑、柔软的乳房，你性感、光滑、精致的小腹，你甜美、优雅的大腿和手臂……哦，当然，在你的两腿之间，你是多么的漂亮，多么的性感，多么的完美！

这位垃圾还极度自恋。在他的笔下，所有的中国女人还都在第一次脱衣服之前自惭形秽地说"我的乳房太小"，而当他脱了裤子之后，中国女人又都惊叹道："你的鸡把真大！"哪怕这个女的是一个处女、这是她的第一次也不例外。

婷婷是一个已婚妇女，这个垃圾在描写他玩弄婷婷的过程中，时时不忘讽刺挖苦婷婷的丈夫、然后又指所有的中国男人不能满足中国女人。

中国男人在他的笔下，除了性能力低下之外，简直就是丑陋无比。一次他连用了三个dull（呆滞的）来形容中国男人（Chinese men are dull, dull, dull.）。他说，中国女人通常能听懂他的恭维。但是，中国男人通常不懂（China Man（请注意Chinaman是对中国人的歧视性称呼）, generally, is not）。

他举例说，他对上海女人说，我一看就知道你是上海人。这个上海女人就会理解这是一句恭维的话，表明这个女人外表很时尚、很现代。可是，有一次在课堂上，他对一个男学生说"你是上海人吗？"，这个学生竟然反问他，你是怎么看出来的。于是，他下结论说："这表明中国男人是怎样的一条感觉迟钝的、缺乏想象的鱼。（This goes to show what a stolid and unimaginative fish China Man（请注意，他再一次用歧视色彩的词来称呼中国男人）can be.）"

从这里也可以看出这个垃圾的无知。中国人都知道，对一个上海男人说他像上海人不是恭维他。恰恰相反，只有说他不像上海人才有可能是恭维。

无知却丝毫不妨碍他信口雌黄。他说，"所有中国的不幸都怪在别人头上。中国总要找一个人来责备。从国家主席到普通民众都是这样。中国人，总的来说，对自己的社会一无所知，也完全没有兴趣去了解。"

太可笑了！真是太可笑了！

让我忍无可忍的是，这个垃圾在中国的课堂上肆意诋毁中国人的民族感情，公开散布分裂中国的言论。

众所周知，就在这个月的15日，日本首相小泉再一次参拜敬国神社。自然又一次激起中国及广大的亚洲国家的强烈反对。可是，这个垃圾在8月17日的博克上公然诋毁中国人民的民族感情！

他说，"我能理解他们（指中国学生）的祖辈的愤怒。但是，他们，他们又从来没有被日本伤害过。他提到一次在同济大学上课，他问一位学生"都已经过去60年了，你们为什么还如此愤怒？" 他说，一方面这是中国政府在操纵人民感情的结果；另一方面，他又说，"中国热爱它的痛苦；他们和他们的痛苦跳舞浪漫"

全世界的人都公认，德国在战争反省的问题上，要比日本好得多。可是，我的一位美国教授朋友、犹太人，不使用德国的任何产品。60年过去了，试问，他为什么也如此不能释怀呢？难道这也是美国政府对他感情操纵的结果？！

我曾经在《中国人的两大致命缺点》一文中高度评价了以色列人不惜一切代价"千里追纳粹"，并将他们最终送上以色人自己的绞架的行为。一个小国尚且能够如此，堂堂的中国又做过什么？如果中国人能够向以色列人对待纳粹那样对待日本军国主义分子，日本人想必早就向我们道歉了，也绝对不敢再去参拜什么靖国神社了。

就是这样，这个垃圾还觉得中国人做得太过分。这个垃圾似乎忘了：他的祖国曾经也在纳粹的铁蹄下呻吟过。

因此，我在这里郑重地呼吁：向以色列人学习，同胞们行动起来，把我们这次"网络追缉垃圾老外的大行动"进行到底，直至把他赶出中国。

他竟然在课堂上公开从事分裂中国的活动。比如，他有一次问一位新疆的学生"新疆真的应该是中国的一部分？"同时，他无数次告诉学生，台湾根本就是一个独立的国家。

一本对中国女人、中国男人的生动教材

可是，反过来，我又不得不说，我是如此地感谢这个垃圾、感谢这个垃圾如此直率地把他的经历、想法写出来。这对中国女人、同时也对中国男人来说，是一本多么生动、难得的教材啊!

他对送上门给他玩弄、让他满足性欲的中国女人是怎样评价的呢？他说，"这些女孩都是容易女孩，这个星球上90%的男人都会去占她们的便宜。

有一位网友质问他，你这样占那些天真的中国女孩的便宜，你不觉得恶心吗？他回答说，"当然，这是恶心的。但是对我来说这是很有趣的，而且对像我这样成千上万的白人男性来说是很有趣的。"

他直言不讳地说，他把中国当成乐土。他说，"我也想到这些人－－比如像我－－过的这种腐朽的生活，但不是大错。我们把这里当作乐土。"

为了说明外国男人玩弄中国女人的现象多么普遍，他还举例说，有一次在一家饭店吃饭。他旁边一桌有几个外国男人在吃饭。他就无意听到其中的一个男人在向别人吹嘘，他玩过多少中国女人，而且他怎样同时玩三个。

他幸灾乐祸地说，"这里对西方女性来说很难。像我这样的人就连看也不看西方女人一眼。我们对她们视而不见，她们不存在。"

为什么呢？他解释说有两方面的原因。第一，因为西方女人太聪明、太有头脑，她们根本不吃我们那些胡说八道的一套。她们太了解我们是些什么货色了。第二，就是性。中国女人就是要比西方女人更惹火、更风骚。

如此毫不加掩盖、露骨的心灵直白、太令人震惊了！中国女人，你们都听到了吗？

作为一个学者，作为一个男人，我一直在毫不留情、直言不讳、一针见血地批评中国男性，因为我自己是其中一员。可是，面对包含我们的母亲、妻子、姐妹和女儿在内的中国女性时，我一直手下留情。

可是今天，当我看完这个垃圾的博克之后，我实在忍不住要问那些中国女人一句："你们到底怎么了？"

我知道，你们许多人其实并不了解国外，不了解外国男人中有这样的垃圾存在。这中间，只有一个女孩，因为听这个垃圾偶尔提到自己有个博客，又怀疑他同时和许多女人交往，于是通过网络搜索到了这个博客，读到原来自己和这个外国人做爱的细节已经在网上被公之于众，并且知道了这个外国人根本不爱她。

我能理解，有些中国女人是为了钱、有些人是为出国。可是，女同胞们，请你们在和外国人交往时时刻记住这样一句话：你愿意成为一个黄色博克的女主角吗？

不要被别人玩弄了身体，再玩弄了尊严。

我也有话要跟中国的大老爷们说：想想那些垃圾老外，玩弄了你们的姐妹、嘲笑了你们的无能。你还要说什么外事无小事？，你还要把老外当回事？你还要见着老外哆哆嗦嗦了？挺直你的脊梁骨吧。

这是何等的奇耻大辱！

中国的外教是垃圾老外的藏"龙"卧"虎"之地

今天的中国人到底怎么了？把英语抬得这么高。华东师范大学的钟教授介绍说，有些中国的中小学竟然要求学生用英语唱中华人民共和国国歌。

这样的民意，客观上形成了对外教的巨大需求。正是由于存在巨大的需求缺口，许多教育部门、机构对外教的要求很低，甚至没有要求，只要是外国人就行。由于门槛低，吸引了大批在本国混不下去的垃圾。

这个垃圾自己就在博克里承认"外教是任何一个没有能力或者不原因做其他工作的西方人的都可以做的工作。在中国，有许多不错的、关心学生的外教，也有大量像我这样的（垃圾）"。

在西方国家，教师是一个非常受人尊敬的职业，尤其是大学教师更是如此。那绝对不是什么人都做的。所以，许多不了解内情的外国人对此非常奇怪，一个在本国找不到工作、混不下去的垃圾为什么一到中国就能成为老师、甚至成为大学老师，中国到底是一个什么国家？

尤其是这个垃圾，竟然从事灵魂工程师、而且是我们的时代骄子的灵魂工程师？！

我是做心理学研究的，这个垃圾，不厌其烦、不辞辛劳地把这些床第之事写出来，只有一个原因，他是心理是变态的。试问，这样的变态狂，怎么能做老师？而且是他自称是大学老师，是复旦、交大、同济、上外的老师。

他玩弄的中国女性都是他的学生。在国外，老师和学生之间的这个关系是绝对禁止的。可是，这个垃圾利用教师的身份，对此骗起涉是未深的女学生。试问，这样的禽兽，怎么能做老师？

他肆意散布分裂中国的言行，他诋毁中国人的民族感情。他说中国男人性无能、都是一个模子刻出来、都木纳无比，他说中国人对自己的社会、历史一无所知。试问，这样的自大狂，怎么能做老师？

我们的有关部门也真该来管一管！

我们怎样才能把这个垃圾赶出中国？

已经有很多国人同胞、男的女的、国内的国外的到他的博克上反驳他、指责他。但是，我可以告诉大家，对于这样的变态狂，你越是理睬他，他反倒越是来劲。只有一个做法。把他赶出去。同胞们，我们不能再让过"中国的大学供他生活，中国的女人供他满足，中国的男人供他消遣"的生活了。

我们的行动方案如下：要把这个垃圾赶出中国，具体工作必须要由上海的有关部门来进行。而要有关部门来关注此事，必须有媒体的介入。而我的媒体的朋友告诉，媒体介入需要一个新闻"由头"。所以第一步，我们要在网络上造势、形成一个事件，以便报纸、电视这些传统关注此事有一个"由头"。为此，

第一阶段（从即日起－九月上旬）

在这个阶段，请各位网友同胞们把我这篇文章通过电子邮件发给你的所有朋友，然后要求你的朋友再发给他（她）的所有朋友。有研究发现，只要这样传播五次，就能让几乎每个有电脑的人都收到。再通过论坛、博克等多种方式传播出去，让尽可能多的人（尤其是中国女人）知道这件事。由于这件事发生在高校，请大家务必在上海所有高校的BBS上张贴。

只有让所有的中国女人知道这件事，才能起到真正的教育的作用。只有减少这样的中国女人，才能消灭这样丑陋的外国男人。否则，扫除着一个垃圾，又有无数个垃圾进来。

第二阶段（九月上旬－九月中旬）

让上海的、甚至全国性的平面媒体关注次事件，以便给上海相关部门施压。只要有足够的压力，我相信，就能把这个垃圾赶出中国。我的目标是，在国庆节之前把他逐出中国！

怎么找到他？

他在博克里提到了以下信息，有助于我们跟踪到这个垃圾。

英国人，属狗，名字有可能是Brian。他自己说他在复旦、同济、上外、交大做外语老师。但是，他在交大工作的可能性最大。他习惯于在课程结束之后在黑板上写下自己MSN的Email地址，并鼓励大家（实际上是女学生）同他MSN联系。

他玩弄的第一个女性Tingting，已婚，医生，无锡人。Lucy是来自北方的富裕家庭。说她家花在狗身上的钱要远远多于给保姆的钱。Ceecee是上外英美文学专业的学生，上海人。

最有价值的线索是，他曾经和一个女生到天平宾馆开过房间。并且提到，那个房间没有窗户。大家知道，宾馆里极少有房间没有窗户（我就从来没有遇到过没有窗户的房间），但是，我到天平宾馆核实过，他们那里确实有没有窗户的房间。他和同一个女生两次到"博学楼"开房间。有一次的房间号码是418。他多次和不同女性到位于茂名路的日本餐厅"le garcon chinois"吃饭。

如果大家认识的外教中有符合这样条件的，如果有谁发现了有价值的线索，请立即到我的博克（http://blog.phoenixtv.com/user3/zhangjiehai/index.html）上留言，或者直接给我发Email（zhangjiehai20022002@ yahoo.com）。

网友们，同胞们，如果你是有血性的中国男人，如果你是有尊严的中国女人，请你加入到这次"网络追缉垃圾老外大行动"中来！请大家立即行动起来！

我相信网络的力量，因为我相信我们中国人的力量！

"网络追缉垃圾老外大行动"发起人：张结海博士

Little Black Book

2006-08-25T04:49:00.000+08:00

Friday, August 25, 2006

In that very class where first I noted ex-Ethel, Clarissa sent me a teasing, pleasing text message:-
does it easy to find a suitable China girl to sleep with?
I took the chance to flirt back:-
finding a girl as beautiful, sexy and unforgettable as the one I met on Friday night is extremely hard.
And as I tapped this off to her, another arrived:
Ok together with your sweet girl. i will find u later with a handsome guy.
The next morning I messaged her:-
Last night I dreamed of you... all night long, my Clarissa...
Normally that’s a lie when I say it. In this case it was true. I remember it clearly because it was a sexy dream, one in which I was just about to realize all my hopes; but just as I reached that moment I was woken by a text message from Tulip.
To this, Clarissa replied `ur killing me, u know?’
That filled me with joy, for I took it to mean `killing me with conflict’ – that is, that she was thinking of me like I am of her, though a less pleasing interpretation would be that she meant I was a ladykiller and the she saw through my shallow moves.
But still I tried to play it a little, replying ‘Killing? O, if only I could change that double `l’ to double `s’…’ And she, quick to take up this little linguistic game, said ‘u mean kidding? I know!’
This flirty tone to our relationship carried on online. A month or so after we’d got to know each other, she’d told me how she did not like to sleep alone (her husband being elsewhere on business.)
Me: yeah, i am sleeping alone these days too, and i'm not too happy about it either!C: why not find a girl friendMe. oh, i guess i could... but i am not good at being that serious .. so i don't really want a proper relationshipC: besides.... i would be thinking of you even if i did have a gfC: it doesn't matter at allMe: oh?C: as I am not an MBAMe: i know, dear Clarissa, i know... i would not make the rude suggestion that you were!Me: but i hope u could be a good friend at least!C: Don;t we?Me: we are... but.. friends should spend time together, and, alas, u are too busy for that! what a shame...C: know I am afraid of u C: afraid of ... I think u knowMe: well... i guess... so maybe it is better we are friends more by msn than in person (of course I did not mean that at all, but one must know when not to push too hard)Me: but... it would be niceC: i know u r a "killer" but I don't want to be killedC: I need a peaceful lifeB: yes, i do understand, Clarissa. but in fact i am not really a `killer' - it is only when it comes to you that i find it hard to control my thoughts.C: sweet man
This promising conversation ended there, since Tulip called me, following up her sms (more of her, later, too); but that was a good enough place to leave our online chat. This kind of conversation can be kept brief, hanging, for that makes it more piquant, more stimulating.
Keyed up to the pitch of needing feminine company, the day after this conversation I idled through a few contacts in my address book.
First of all, I called up Joy. Joy had studied at Tsinghua University, and (as are many from there) was fearsomely intelligent. Perfect in English, she was now following it up with German, and it was in such a class that I’d met her a few months before this.
Lecher though I am, the single sexiest quality in a woman, for me, is intelligence; true intelligent – not merely book-learned repetition - shines in the character, and it takes very few seconds for it to be obvious. Just a minute or two of conversation with Joy when I first met her was enough to captivate me – her breezy self-confidence, her brisk, pugnacious, teasing manner of talking to me. And so I’d set myself after her and, course concluded, we’d met for dinner.
Yet splendidly bright as she is, full of life and character, over dinner I saw that that life seemed to have little of emotion in it. Bracing she was, but also unyielding, wrapped in ice. I do not mean just with regard to my trifling desires, but rather that she was held back, reserved, as a way of life.
This is not quite to say she knows nothing of emotion, for she is aware of it and its complexities. But only in a logical way; she knows it, even understands it, some – but does not feel it. She is too rigid, intellectual.
Well, flaunting my ease with these things – or crassness, perhaps – I asked “Have you ever been kissed?”
“Of course I have!” she said –“Here,” pointing to her cheek, “and here,” to her forehead. I laughed out loud at this and in the ensuing conversation she told me that she would have to date a guy for at least two years before letting him her lips.
Partly it’s so absurd as to be laughable; partly it’s sad. This cocoon of bullshit, of lies; it’s what leads to sure marital sadness, as Chinese woman too often goes from chaste virgin to being badly, coolly and rapidly fucked by her cold fish husband – as she unwraps the gift she’s seen glittering in her mind all her life and finds a cold, cooked, congealed potato therein. Ah, yes, a ‘generalization’ again. But what shall I say? I can only write of what I see, what I am told. China is a sexually repressed society.
But (to get back to my search for a date) there was no reply for her. So then on a whimsy I text-messaged Holly, also a long-term background interest of mine who I will add to the growing list of women to write about in more detail.
In brief, for now, Holly caught my eye in class primarily because she reminded me of a girlfriend back in England. Echoes from the past are powerful, hard to ignore, and a certain amount of repetition in life has its charms. And this particular girlfriend back in England was a long term part of my life, and the years I spent in Germany and then Australia. I was not then the thing that I am now; China was the tutor and feeder of my riots.
Holly’s manner too reminded me of this past girlfriend, though of course that was likely more my need than her reality, me just seeing what I wanted to see. But the way she was slightly ill-at-ease (for the first time I invited her out it was with a general group of friends), the air she had, like that ex-, was of being in a milieu foreign to her… I don't mean to suggest any lack of social skills, not at all; more that she reminded me of how this ex- had once told me about going out with ‘wild young things.’ It was perhaps just that she found the party a little boring but something she felt she ought to enjoy – though would have preferred a quieter, calmer place. Her slight air of detachment, of observation… it was redolent, reminiscent of my life with that ex-.
But I got no reply from Holly, either. Of course, I could have called, rather than messaged, but that is not quite such a good way to flirt; for Holly would have been at work and thus would have been forced to respond to my call professionally not personally, for offices in China are not much different to offices in any country, and ears are open, tongues wag.
So then I sent Candy a message, and soon enough one arrived back from her. She was out of town. This was perhaps just as well, for I had neither seen nor messaged her for a few weeks, and to get together with her tonight purely because I wanted a woman would have been so obvious indiscreet as to have made her ha me.
And that many attempts was enough for me, so I went to Paulaner bar to take advantage of their afternoon special on beer, where, at half price, it is only surprisingly expensive rather than outrageously expensive and where (it being the afternoon) silence reigns; for in the evening Thai and Philipine bands sing, the noise is overwhelming and the crowds of easily-fooled locals, out to be seen, cram the place.
Later that evening, however, Clarissa called me, high and happy, at a party somewhere; and then again later, on her way home, 1 a.m., she called again, the party over and she on her way home; and this seemed to me a good sign, for it showed she again was thinking of me. Sure, maybe she just wants the flattery I surely provided, but even were that true it would still prove connection, frisson; she would not have been thinking of me, called me, had I not some impact on her.
Sure, I rolled out such seductive words as seemed fitting; she was after them, telling me she was sure I did not really care about her (for this was still relatively early in our relationship) – and what was that but a chance to tell her just how potently I did feel about her? How I thought of her every day? Pressed her for dinner, and she liked it but would not commit – because, to judge by the call and our online conversations she was enough interested in me for that putative dinner to undo her self-control; and, thus, while she was separated by a phone’s distance, she knew to hold to that gap as hard as she could.
And indeed she told me she had to go home to her husband – her mention of him both a barrier and an offer. A barrier because it was to remind me he was there, she was his; but an offer because, in going home to him, she showed she was thinking of me.
More, she put him there, obvious, to show he was part of the equation; that no matter what might happen between us, she would remain married to him. And that suited me just fine. I did not want to love her, exactly, but nor quite was it just a matter of sex. Yes, sex was my goal, true, but sex with at least some emotional anchor to it.

他的真名

2006-08-24T14:14:00.000+08:00

In his blog post "seducing ellen"

Ellen 叫他 Brian.

在comment 中有人写过，

"I read a comment on the site which was soon deleted that said he was a teacher called Brian now working at jiao da, and that he had only been in china about ten months. "

他叫什么? 如有任何线索,请在这里留言.

寻找 Chinabounder

2006-08-24T01:59:00.000+08:00

根据我们的了解和他在日记里的描述

British, should be tall and slender,
He is a dog-year guy. so 36 years old.
Teaches english in various universities
Know Jiaotong university well.
Likes to write his msn email on the board at the end of his class.
Lives on or near Huai Hai Road.

他来着英国, 高瘦.
男， 36岁犬年产，
在上海各大学教授英文，
对交通大学似乎很熟悉。
喜欢在最后一次的培训班上留下自己的msn email. （当然, 男生和他联系是没有下文的）
住在淮海路附近

他公开的email是chinabounder@hotmail.com

我们希望能找出这位猥大的作家和实践家
如果大家有任何线索，请在这里留言

流言版

2006-08-24T01:58:00.000+08:00

如果您对我们的网站有想法和建议，请告诉我们。
请留言。

成员加盟

2006-08-24T01:57:00.000+08:00

这是一个集体的博客,
它的发展需要大家的支持. Chinabounder 实在是个多产的作家, 他平均两三天就会发表新作品. 而且肠肚还不短. 再加上以往的丰富作品, 靠个人的力量实在无法完成这样巨大的翻译和追星工作.

因此, 本站
真诚的欢迎狂热读者的加盟.

如果你翻译了ChinaBounder的文章，请Email to ChinaBounder.chinese@gmail.com
我们会把你的作品贴出，并保留你的署名。

****
如果你想加入我们的队列, 只需要拥有一个gmail account, 然后发信至 chinabounder.chinese@gmail.com, 申请成为成员,
我们会在最短时间内给你回复.
(抱歉，因为现在的blogger是beta版，这个功能还不稳定，如果你可以把翻译发给我们，我们会贴出并附上你的名字）谢谢
****

大家一起贡献力量, 寻找Chinabounder.

其人其站

2006-08-24T01:55:00.000+08:00

很多人还不知道 Chinabounder, 而且更多的中国人不知道.

他是一个在上海生活多年的苏格兰人. 他是一个普通的外国人, 在上海教授英语. 他又是一个不普通的外国人, 他是玩弄女人的高手.
他有一个博客, 叫 Sex and Shanghai, 听起来很像 sex and city, 实际上也确实是都是些关于女人和性的东西, 一个记录他如何欺骗和勾引中国女人和他上床的日记.

这位 Chinabounder 恐怕是在生活中说了太多的谎话, 所以他用这个博客向上帝说了实话, 也许为了忏悔, 也许为了...他可悲的虚荣心. 当然, 在日记里, 除了记录那些淫事, 这个英国绅士还不时批判一下中国的历史和现实, 鄙视一下中国男人.

这个鬼真是无知下流和自以为是. 嗯, 应该有更好的形容词, 可惜我小时候没学好语文.

不管怎么说，他的日记有着很高的探讨和批判价值。所有应该把它介绍给更多中国的读者, 让他们看看英国绅士的风范.

在以后的日子了, 我们会逐步把他的日记翻译成中文. 并且, 我们会像所有狂乱的粉丝一样, 找出这位作者, 了解他的真实生活.

敬请关注.

More of Clarissa

2006-08-21T04:48:00.000+08:00

Monday, August 21, 2006

So the evening with Clarissa had come to a slightly moody end. But she was so sexy and unusual with it that I could not forget her. Blocking her instant messenger profile was just the spiteful, childish reaction of a man thwarted in his desires. And when I woke the next morning those desires were again strong and urgent in me; and so of course she did not stay blocked. She was just too fascinating, too diverting. Now, in a city of so many beauties as Shanghai is, that’s saying something. And in truth Clarissa seems hardly standout, for she does not have the tall, slender body of a would-be model. On an objective scale she could not be compared to Ceecee It's just It. Some women'll stay in a man's memory if they once walked down a street. (regarding whom things grow warmer). Yet Clarissa has fascinated me from the first moment I saw her. It isn’t beauty, so to speak, nor good talk necessarily.
Morning also brought with it the clear realization hat I had been a little sulky to her in the cab. She was the one who had it all to lose, so she was the one who should call the shots. It seemed to me then that she was calling them that night too, sounding me out, sizing me up.
When she’d told me of the lover she had, older, married, rich, she’d also said that one of the problems with a lover was they always wanted more…more demands, more love, eventually marriage. So it seemed to me what was on her mind when she said that was finding out if I could be discreet, subtle. In the cab I wasn’t.
And thus when I did log on and saw she was on, too, I paused a while, not wanting to bombard her straight away. But she buzzed me first, albeit with no more than a ‘You’re late today’ (late getting up, she meant). I replied with how much fun I had had with her, and she said the same; and that was that, then she was gone.
In looking through my diary to chart the course of my relationship with Clarissa, I see that this night I had a class in which one woman in particular caught my eye. Now of course that happens all the time, but this woman has since become an important part of my life and, indeed, on a recent trip to the city in which she now studies, she became my lover.
She was cute, tallish, a sexy dresser in that discreet yet revealing way some women have… A polite style of dressing, a little reserved, because that is the way the bulk of Chinese guys (and thus Chinese society) demand it; but also with hints and whispers of sexuality, of the truer self just below that exterior, hints that most guys do not even see but that I seldom miss.
Or maybe that’s trying to dress up bullshit as a compliment, since what I really mean is the lines of her bra, white, a little bit of lace, which I could see as I stood over her talking to her, covering her breasts, where what did the trick.
This being university, I kept myself formal, teacherly, and tried not to hit on her too bad. But I could not resist teasing her when she told me her English name.
Being outside Western culture, a name is just a name to a Chinese student – why should it be anything else? And so quite often I meet young women who have chosen names such as ‘Mayble,’ ‘Ethel,’ ‘Doris’ and so on, names that would be met with a burst of laughter back home. Generally I tell the student this, given that they plan to study overseas. ‘If I met someone called Enid in my country’ I will say, ‘She would be about 70 years old. No one your age has a name like that!’ At this point the student will usually laugh along with the rest of the class, and then ask me to choose a better name. There is, of course, power in that request, for to choose a name is to mark her.
And so usually I accept, saying I will think of something and tell her at the end of the course when I have a better idea of her personality. Naturally, if she is cute, I will say at the end of the class ‘I should get to know you better before choosing a name…. Let’s meet for coffee.’
Chinese names, of course, also have this component. Thus, someone born in the insanity of the Cultural Revolution might well have the character ‘red’ as part of their name, or some other boastful exhortation as to how fine and dandy China is. Someone born at an earlier period might be called `Build China’ or ‘Love China’ and so on. I have a reasonably good idea about this and, of course, turn it to my shallow advantage saying, when I encounter such a name, ‘Ah, a good solid cultural revolution name’; which remark serves to make the class think I am a China expert. It is nothing but flim-flam and veneer, but it is effective.
As for the Cultural Revolution, for those not in the know, it was a decade of the vilest insanity when maniac Mao Zedong did his best to destroy the country even more than he had already fucked it up already, even more than the crackpot lunacies of all his other schemes, his Great Leap Forward, his Four Pests campaign, his Hundred Flowers, his disastrous Korean war, his murders, poisonings and purges, and all the other filth that spewed from his peasant mind. He did nothing good, kind or decent in his whole life. He was pure scum. He was filth. I shit on him.
China’s population remains, of course, largely ignorant of what he was. Apart from a tiny, thinking minority, many people still admire him, or at least half-admire him. ‘He made some mistakes’ students will tell me, which is a remark about parallel to saying ‘Well, Hitler may have killed a few people but at least he made the trains run on time.’ Or they will tell me, demonstrating a risible inability to think, ‘He helped the Chinese people to stand up,’ echoing the words he said at the founding of the PRC.
But enough of this; I have already vented spleen on the topic below. Taking a leaf from the fat psychopath’s own book, I will get back to women. Women, say the biographies (well… not the ones available in China, of course) were a central focus of his life, as he liked to stack up 3 or 4 in bed at the same time, and often adolescent ones. Now since as well as being a fat lunatic he was also a fat lunatic with absolute power, he could simply order any woman to bed, and made great use of the privilege. I have to work a bit harder to get my women, and thus I gave the tried and trusted `I can give you more advice if you get in touch by email,’ line to this student (who was at that time called Ethel, but is now called something more suitable, a name I chose); and she did get in touch and we became friends and then lovers.
But we did not become lovers until a year or so after we’d first met. The reason for this was not because she was unavailable, but rather because I knew if we became lovers it would be a big deal for her. I knew my feckless ways would hurt her, for she would want my love and commitment. And so I forbore, all the time she was in Shanghai.
Whispers of it, hints, were always there. I recall in particular kissing her goodbye outside 美罗城 Right then, as I kissed her lips, I knew I could take her to bed with just a little more wooing. And, sure, she was attractive, intelligent, all the things I like. But knowing what a big deal it would be for her, that was a path I did not take. one time, after we’d met for coffee, how I read her eyes, saw the readiness, how she offered me her lips, not her cheek.
Not until I met her in another city – and there, under its different skies, we became lovers. And, now, as I knew would happen all along, she is half in love with me, sending wistful emails, reaching out for a love that I do not return.

Seducing Christine #4

2006-08-19T04:47:00.000+08:00

Saturday, August 19, 2006
English parts quotes from ChinaBounder, Translated by Jennifer.
中文由Jennifer翻译。感谢他的支持。

So after eating we walked along Huaihai Road back to my place. At first, she wanted to watch TV a little, putting off the coming moment. But maybe that was just out of the wish to seem modest, for within a few minutes she had lost interest in that and was instead in my arms, returning kiss for kiss.

Then she wanted to take a shower, and wanted privacy while she did so, meaning that I could not undress her, which I rather regretted. Undressing a woman is, of course, very stimulating, and especially a Shanghai woman like her, decked in lacy, fluttery clothes. Undressing a woman is also stimulating as one moves towards the moment of revealing the panties, for that is always exciting, even here in this society where many women wear the most frumpy, plain underwear. My interest in underwear being what it is, I asked what color panties she was wearing.

“The same as last time!’ she laughed. Those had been sporty type panties, with a certain appeal, though limited. But after she came out of the shower, in her night dress, and I took her to the bed, and lifted the night dress off her (after only minor qualms from her) I was rather please to find black lacy panties, which, she told me, she had bought specially.

当我们吃完饭沿着淮海路回到我的住所时，起先她想看会电视，来推迟即将到来的时刻。但也许这保持矜持的愿望实在是难以做到的。不到几分钟她就失去了看电视的兴趣，转而投入我的怀抱，不断地回吻着我。

然后她想洗个澡，但是自己去洗，这就意味着我不能为她脱去衣服，我以此为憾。脱去女人的衣服是非常刺激的。尤其是像她一样穿着蕾丝的衣服的上海女人。脱去女人的衣服很刺激的另一个原因就是它正朝着脱去她的内裤这一步发展，这总是令人非常兴奋的，即使是这里许多女人都穿着样式老旧的内衣。我对于内衣的兴趣是她所穿内衣的颜色。

“和上次一样！”她笑着说。那是运动型的内裤，但还是有一定吸引力的。但当她穿着睡衣从浴室出来时，我带她来到卧室的床上。我撩起她的睡衣（她只是稍微迟疑了一下）。我非常高兴的发现了黑色的蕾丝内裤，就是她告诉我她特地买来的那条。

‘And what will your mother say when she sees these?’ I asked, teasing, for I already knew the answer. And indeed the idea of her mother finding these panties made her eyes open wide.

‘She’d kill me! But I won’t let her find them’ she said.

The panties matched her bra in color, but not in style, for the bra, bought by her mother, was a Mickey Mouse bra. What parents! Christine also told me, soon after she arrived, that she was not wearing perfume since her mother had taken it away from her that morning – why, she was not sure. It seemed not to have occurred to her to ask, though that may have just been policy so she could preserve the innocent image she had in her mother’s eyes. To them she is still 12.

The real reason her mother took away her perfume was that her parents were out of town that weekend. She’d told them she’d stay with a girlfriend (which was the lie she used to stay with me), and presumably her mother thought she might go into town with this friend and, perfumed, would be in mortal danger.

What parents like this do not understand is that in restricting their daughters so severely they just drive them into the arms of chancers like me. The daughter under such restrictions chafes at them, they circumscribe her whole world. But when she gets a chance to break free of that confinement, when she meets a guy like me – then she embraces the opportunity, and becomes everything her parents hoped her not to.

“那要是你妈妈看见她会怎么说?”我开玩笑的问道，因为我早就知道答案了。但这样的想法还是让她睁大了眼睛。

“她会杀了我！但我不会让她发现的”她说。

这内裤的颜色和她的胸罩的颜色是相配的，但款式不相配。胸罩是她妈妈买的。是米老鼠的。多好的父母呀！Christine还告诉我，当她来过这的不久后，她妈妈在那天早上就把她的香水没收了。至于为什么，她也不确定。看起来她是不会去问原因的，这可能是她想要在她父母前装作天真的策略。对他们来说，她还像个12岁的小孩子。

她妈妈拿走她香水的真正原因是那个周末她父母去了郊区。她告诉他们她和她的女朋友一起住（实际上这个谎言是为了和我住而编造的），所以可能是她妈妈认为如果她要是和女朋友一起上街的话，香水会招来很大的危险的。

像这样的父母是不明白正是因为他们这么严厉得约束才会把他们的女儿推向像我这种人的怀抱。他们的女儿是在如此严厉的约束下，她的整个世界都是受的限制的。但是一旦当她得到了打破戒律的机会，当她遇见了像我这样的男人，那她会紧紧地抓住这样的机会，去做她父母不希望她做的任何事情。

But even though she’d brought these panties just for me, getting them off her took a little more while, for she thought she should still be reluctant. Yet she was horny, too, so her protests, her No, her Don’t, her hand holding them in place, did not last long. As I eased them off her hand flew over her mount in final protest but, easing it away, I saw what I had been waiting to see; and she is nicely made, shapely, hair so neat as to be coiffured, though she insisted it was natural (which I am inclined to believe).

I wanted to go down on her, of course; and here too was more fuss, since she felt it was `abnormal.’ She soon forgot that complaint when I dived in, and trim, clean and tasty, it was great to do, sexy, intimate, erotic. So, a while of that and then she pulled me up towards her, signaling she was ready for the final push. But already I knew it would by hard going, for by tongue and finger I had found she was tight indeed; and even plenty of lubrication helped little.

It hurt her and was awkward for me, too much fumbling, coaxing. Indeed, I grew churlish at her reluctance to grin and bear it, churlish enough to say “Maybe you’d better find a Chinese boyfriend.” That was an ungrateful thing to say, and, lying on the bed in chagrin I compounded the insult by falling asleep, having had just a few hours’ kip the night before. I woke what must only have been 5 or 10 minutes later, and she began to cry, so naturally I comforted her, already feeling guilty; and we tried some more.

但即使是她为我买了这样的性感内裤，但要脱去它们还是花了一点时间的，因为她认为她应该要表现得勉强些。但她也很兴奋，所以她的推脱，她的反抗，她说的：“不”，“不要”，她用手抓着内裤等行为都没有持续多长时间。当她做了最后的反抗后，我脱掉了它。我看到了我一直在等待的。她体型很好。阴毛看起来也很整齐，虽然她说是天生的（但我是不会相信的）

我想吻她那里，当然又有了一些小意外。因为她觉得这样有点“不正常”但当我开始后不久她就忘记了抱怨。这样很好，性感、够刺激。过了一会儿，她想把我拉上来，这预示着她已经为最后的一步做好准备了。但其实我已经知道那样会有点难度。因为通过舌头和手指我知道她那里是很紧的。即使是用大量的润滑剂也起不到太大的作用。

这样既伤害了她又会让我很尴尬，太多的尝试，哄骗。事实上我已经开始对她装作很勉强的傻笑不耐烦了。所以我粗鲁地说“也许”你应该找个中国的男朋友。这当然是不应该说的。躺在床上，我用装睡来掩盖刚才的侮辱。像是已经睡了几个小时一样，我在5分钟或十分钟后醒来。她已经在哭了，我很自然要去安慰她。觉得有点内疚，然后我们又试了试。

A little more success, now, getting halfway in; but still it was pain for her. So we left it there awhile, cuddling and talking, and then she brought me off (though I had to hold my hand over hers to get the rhythm), over her belly and mons, she watching in fascination as I came, saying, in wonder, “So much…”

We showered again – this time, together – and that was pretty sweet. The daringness of it (as it seemed to her), like that time with Mona in Zheng Da, wrote breathless pleasure across her face. And so anon to bed, and here she wanted to kiss, kiss, kiss, even lying on top of me to do so.

“I want to kiss you all night long” she said. I just lay there and let her do what she wanted; it was rather wonderful and she even began to kiss up a little emotion in me. Yes, her body on mine in the dark, her lips and tongue… that memory is a keeper.

Well, another attempt to make love in the morning, and with more success. Still I could not fully get in, but there was less pain and more willingness in her. And then lunch – for we woke late -- and then another try, again with a little ground gained.

I saw that with a few more tries she would be used to it, and so this time I was relatively brief with her, and then ate her again, all the way until she came. That gave me a real sense of cool, having her come under my tongue and seeing how it just wiped her out for ten minutes, how she lay on the bed wrapped up in it, lost, amazed.

“Still think it’s abnormal?” I asked. She did not. And then she did me, again; but this time all on her own.

Now there was some male pride in this; I’d asked her more about her boyfriend the night before. She told me he never went down on her, because he did not like it, but that she did use her hand on him – though to get all the way there he had to do himself, she explained, gesturing with a hand to show she meant that to reach orgasm he had to wank himself.

Well, that was a challenge to me – the woman ought be able to get the guy off, both to validate her own equality and to show the guy is relaxed, at ease with her, is truly her partner. And it worked, for though she did not say it, I could tell that when I came under her hard, she was pleased. I hope it made her feel womanly.

And that was about it; she showered, dressed, and I accompanied her to the tube at half 5 so she could make her 6 curfew at home — a curfew which I was again rather glad for, since, having been with her the last 24 hours, I was ready for my own company again.

有点起色，但只进去了一半，还是让她觉得疼。所以我们就这样子拥抱着，聊了一会。然后她握着我的**（我要握着她的手引导着她）掠过她的小腹和乳房。当我射的时候，她入迷的看着我，惊讶地说“这么多、、、”

我们又一起洗了澡，这次是在一起，非常的甜蜜。对她来说这是非常大胆的，就像在正大和Mona一样，她的脸上写满了愉悦。再回到床上之后，她想要不停的接吻、接吻、接吻、甚至爬在我身上接吻。

“我想吻你整个晚上。”她说，我只是躺在那让她做她想做的。这是相当的美妙的。她甚至有吻起了我的情绪。是的，黑暗中在我身上的她的身体、嘴唇和舌头、、、这个记忆是美好的。

另外一次做爱的冲动是在早上，这次更成功。虽然我还是不能全进去，但她没有那么疼了。似乎也更享受了。因为起的晚，午饭后又试了一次，这次又有些收获。

我看到几次尝试后她会更加适应，所以这次我要容易些。又吻了她那里。直到她达到高潮。这种感觉对我来说是很酷的，看着她在我的舌头下达到高潮。看着她在床上上下扭动、完全失去了自我，真神奇。

“还觉得这不正常吗？”我问到.她当然不觉得了。然后她又让我达到了高潮，这次完全是她自己做的。

这是很多男人很骄傲的，我在这晚之前问了她以前的男朋友。她告诉我他从不吻她那里，但她是会用手帮助他的，尽管最后还是要靠他自己。她还用手做了个她男朋友自己达到高潮时的样子。

那对我说是个挑战。女人让男人达到高潮时，既要满足自己还要让对方放松，让对方很享受。这才是她的伴侣。尽管她没说，但我知道我在她手中达到高潮时，她是高兴的。我希望这会让她觉得很有女人味。

在那之后，她洗澡穿衣。我在5点半时陪她到地铁站这样她就能按规定6点到家。对于这个规定我是很高兴的，因为在和她呆了24小时之后，我又是独身一人了。

The Concept of Irony

2006-08-17T04:46:00.000+08:00

Thursday, August 17, 2006

So the Chinese press is shaking with vitriol about Koizumi’s visit to Yasukuni.
The China-Japan relationship is one particularly fascinating part of life here. It shows, in many ways, how unwilling – or unable – to think millions of people are in this society. For they misunderstand the past, present and the likely future. And they are blind to the crashing irony and hypocrisy which riddles their belief.
I should perhaps begin by saying that Japan’s conduct in the war was a crime against humanity of the gravest degree, lest this blog be overwhelmed by young hotheads who, at the hint of a supposed conciliatory gesture to Japan, will begin to froth at their anonymous mouths. The horrors they committed at Nanjing were overwhelmingly evil, and the bone pits on display at the Nanjing Massacre Museum are a sight I will not forget.
But here’s how the Japan argument plays out with the average, say, Tongji student, who (being at that university) is generally a bright person.
Me: “It was 60 years ago. Why are you still angry?”Student: “They have not apologized for the war.”Me: “They have. Numerous times, for example Prime Minister Tomiichi Murayama in 1995, or PM Ryutaro Hashimoto in 1997, or Junichiro Koizumi in 2005.”Student: “Oh… are you sure? I never heard that. Well.. anyway… they do not teach the truth in their history books.”Me: “The history book to which you agree is indeed offensive.” (Smile of righteous victory begins to play across student’s face; student’s shoulders begin to tense back in patriotic fervor)Me: “But it is taught in less than one percent of schools.”Student: “Oh… are you sure? I never heard that.”Me: “I am. Let me ask you a question. Do you think educators or the government should choose the syllabus in your university?”Student: “Educators. The government does not know what it best, and I wish at my university the teachers could decide what to teach.”Me: “Well, in Japan, educators decide what to teach, not the government. The content of the books is not a direct government choice. ”Student: : “Oh… are you sure? I never heard that.”Me: “When that book was published, there were large demonstrations against it. 30,000 people marched in the streets to protest it.”Student: “Oh… are you sure? I never heard that.”Me: “What do you think would happen if people tried a public demonstration like that here?”Student giggles.Me: “Did you know the PRC signed a joint communiqué in 1972 waiving all war reparations, and in 1978 signed a treat of peace and friendship with Japan?”Student: “Oh… are you sure? I never heard that.”Me: “Did you know that when the war ended Japan left about US$100 billion of assets in China, which it agreed to leave as reparation?”Student: : “Oh… are you sure? I never heard that.”Me: “Did you know Japan is China’s number one aid donor?”Student: : “Oh… are you sure? I never heard that.”
And so on.
It’s a curious double world, China, where it is fine to hate Japan, de rigueur to puff up with nationalist arrogance and demand ‘Japan face up to history,’ while at the same time wallowing in the grossest ignorance of China’s own recent history. The truth of the matter is that the CPC in general and Mao Zedong in particular have killed far more Chinese people, have hurt China far more profoundly than ever the Japanese did. But that is a truth too far for China, and here people are more comfortable with their simple world view, China good, Japan bad, with their simple surety that Japan is, was and always shall be evil, with their shallow-minded reliance on mathematical tricks to prove this contention – such as, for example, their oft-repeated claim that the Japanese killed 300,000 in the Nanjing Massacre, a figure which a cooler-headed look at history suggests is simply not true .
And it really is an alarming thing to hear students talk about Japan. The anger that comes into their voice, the real passion and hatred… I can understand their grandparents’ anger, for that anger comes from direct experience. But for them, who have never been hurt by Japan, it is astonishing, shocking in its brutal, visceral and unthinking conviction. I have met students in class who have actually wept when talking about Japan. It is absurd; how can they hold such hatred to something that never affected them?
It seems to me China is in love with its suffering; its people clutch the Nanjing massacre and all that to their hearts, they dance and romance their pain. It defines them; it is them. And, mired in their unthinking ignorance, what they do not see is that in so hating Japan they are learning precisely the lessons that the Japanese of that earlier generation learned – the absolute contempt for another race that allows such atrocities to be committed.
And the irony of it, the irony! So on the front page of yesterday’s China Daily there’s a photo of Japanese people, in Japan, protesting about Koizumi’s visit to the shrine. Japanese people protest, and the government will at least listen. Chinese people protest, and what happens? The government sends in the fucking tanks. People here are too busy hating Japan to see that it is the freedoms Japanese people have that they should be clamoring for instead.
But of course this is precisely why the CPC encourages hatred of Japan. In doing so, it can take the minds of the people off internal problems and focus them on external ones. The way that the CPC uses the appalling cruelty of wartime Japan to bolster its grip on power shows the most breathtakingly arrogant cynicism, the most profound contempt for the suffering of the Chinese people of the time. But most people here are blind to this. Nor, having the haziest understanding of democracy, do they see that Koizumi has to go to the shrine to show he is not being bossed around by other Asian nations. Not that that means Japan is militaristic – indeed, in the year that I worked there I found the people to be remarkably peaceful, though at that time I did not specifically look into their feelings about China.
And textbooks, let’s talk about teaching truth in schools, shall we? The Cultural Revolution, for example, that decade long period of lunacy in which thug scumbag Mao said, “Destroy the old and the new will take care of itself,” a period in which tens of thousands were murdered. In Chinese school textbooks (and I have checked) it gets two paragraphs, and, in the teacher’s guide, the instructions say “The teacher need not linger on this topic.” These same textbooks lie that the Great Famine was a natural disaster, and that Mao was ‘70% right 30% wrong,’ that the CPC did fighting against the Japanese in the war (whereas in fact the Guomindang did all the fighting after the CPC refused to join their ‘United Front’ against Japan.
And irony upon irony… In the features section of yesterday’s Shanghai Daily there’s a piece about “My grandfather Mao Zedong” in which his granddaughter has the gall, the absurdity to claim:-
“He was a son, husband and father firstly, a statesman secondly.”
There is nothing about this statement that is true.
Mao let both his father and mother die alone, though he had the chance to be with both as they died. He regularly abandoned wives and children, and for his whole life his sole center of concern was himself. And this woman, this granddaughter, even admits she never met Mao (who clearly did not give a fuck about her) yet has the unparalleled gall to claim he was a family man!
Or let’s talk about how Mao ran the Jiangxi Red Army base between 1931 and 1935. During his rule, the population dropped by 20%. Seven hundred thousand people died from non-natural causes. Half of these deaths were from people executed as ‘class enemies’ or from slave labor. In the case of the ‘class enemies’ Mao and his cronies thought up tortures every bit as brutal as the Japanese. For example, a wire would be run through the penis and the ear, and then plucked like a violin-string by the torturer; or a red-hot gun-barrel would be inserted in the anus.
And are people here clamoring for this truth to be faced up to? Or do they rather put Mao on the banknotes, his portrait in Tiananmen Square, his murderer’s face on a million busts and million statues? One of the greatest murderers of the 20th century but he’s a hero here.
Now the lies told in China do not make the lies told in Japan any less serious. They are no excuse not to be critical of Japan. But aside from a few wishy-washy generalities such as the bogus percentage above, local people (save for a tiny minority who see that to know their history is the true way to love their country), mostly live in total ignorance of the last half century’s terrors. Yes, some anger at Japan is justified, but nothing like the passionate hatred that soaks this society. And what is worse? To be hurt by an enemy (as in the case of Japan and China) or be hurt by a friend (as in the case of the CPC wallowing in the blood of its own people). attacking
“That’s all in the past” students will tell me, and so it is. “We know all this” they will say (only they do not; they but know it in the most general, vague terms) “But what is the point of talking about it?” Why, then, are Japan’s atrocities not in the past? Ah, the double standards of this society.
I am a man who knows something about double standards. So back to that next time.

Seducing Christine #3

2006-08-15T04:46:00.000+08:00

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

I did not think to message her again until the evening of the next day – which, of course, shows my fundamentally callow attitude. Now I was sure of her, there was no need to woo. Sending messages to a woman you’re unsure you’ll charm to bed is stimulating, spicy; the need to bat messages back and forth, to tease and maneuver, keeps the thumb active, keeps the mind ticking over on what the next reply will be, and the response to it. But once you’re sure of the woman, all that dies down.
And so (as I might have expected if I had really bothered to think about her at all) she replied to my message that she was unhappy.
‘Why?,’ I asked.‘Because you didn’t send sms to me, Ha ha, do you believe it?’She followed this by texting, ‘I’m really waiting for your sms all day. I know u r busy but I’m still feel unhappy. Ha ha.’And so I replied to say I was sorry about that, but that I had been very busy. I had not, of course.‘I know ~ I’m happy now~ I want to be your girlfriend now~ ha ha ha ha only make a joke but I’m really like you.’
Then she asked, ‘you have been kiss many girls, right?,’ to which I made some glib reply.‘Oh my heart is broken.. :-) 你真的是华心大萝卜啊。。’
Now I did not bother save my messages, so all I have is a record of hers. But my replies can be pretty much guessed from the pattern of what she says.
‘what are you mean? You will kiss me for a long time?’‘why? You change heart quickly or love other girls fast?’‘which kind of woman do you like best?’‘you like a playboy.. But I’m still like you. You have special charm. I wanna say goodbye to my bf’‘together with him I can’t learn anything and I found I lost many times’‘my mood is complex now. I don’t know whether to meet you is a good thing or a bad thing.’‘Let me think about it.. Well this Sunday I will get away my parents and stay with you all day, OK?’ (I’d asked if she’d spend a night with me)‘Or you unwilling to stay with me?’‘It’s very exciting~ Just like you say, I’ll let my youth colourful~ Don’t cheating me any more’‘Whether any girl told you she wanna be your gf you all agree with her?’‘I love you, I wanna be your gf.’‘Ha ha Don’t mind only sound out you~’‘昏.. I know you like see me become a bad girl’‘You wanna see me have many many boyfriends?’‘Very well!! I miss you all night until now~ :-) How about you?’‘Sorry’ (I had not said anything to make her say sorry; the reason she said it is clear from the following message.)‘Maybe you don’t like to hear I say I miss you.. So I say sorry.’‘:-) You say you dreamed of me, tell me something about that’ (I’d told her I dreamed of her. I had not. But telling a woman this is an effective gauge of where she sees the relationship going. It is a shallow and obvious thing to say, and would not work on a Western woman, but of such flimflam is my box of tricks made.)‘Maybe it will be interesting! Don’t worry, tell me’‘Are you sure you tell me the truth?’ (I’d told her it was a sexy dream – that’s part two of the routine.)‘I understand what’s your thought’‘Tell you later!’ (I’d wanted to know what she though of my dreaming about her so.)‘Take care of yourself. I like you regard me as an adult~~~ You can tell me everything you thought, about sex…’‘Yes I think so! :-) and you are manly too’‘Sorry, I meant include sex.’ (Her meaning was ‘I meant to say you were sexy also.’)
The next day we met again, but just for an afternoon. And while we spent it in bed, we did not make love. As we idled together, talking, she worried out loud that, if we made love, I’d then lose interest; and so I likely would, I thought to myself.
But yet… as I lay there, just cuddling, it was rather sweet, and I felt whispers of emotion. She fitted in my arms snug and light; cool against my body, even under the duvet, light, sweet. Slender as she is, her body lies against mine nice. When I’d carried her into the bedroom it was as a scrap of silk – she is featherweight, 45 kilos or so. With a bulkier woman it takes each body a few hours to adjust to each other, and so cuddling soon becomes too warm, sticky, under the duvet, after lights out, until the cooler small hours and the body’s adjustment. But she was just right, and it was good. She’d be fun in bed, I was sure, and promises of it percolated through the afternoon, how she straddled me, pressed into me.
I could see that she’d take a little more persuasion before she gave herself to me wholly, but I knew I’d be able to persuade her to yield, and that she had the potential to be a fine lover. She would not be a great lover to start with, of course. Women here, I have often found, are cautious lovers at first, having been raised to suppress their sexual side. I was well aware, for example, that when I went down on her it would cause her to squirm at first. She’d find it dirty, wrong, product of this society as she cannot help but be. Mona, for example, in telling me about a new local boyfriend, said ‘But I will have to hide how experienced I am with him. He wouldn’t like that at all. He has to feel like he’s in charge and I don’t know anything.’
But I was pleased Christine she felt I saw her as a woman – that too would help bring her to me, for her parents and sap of a boyfriend only make her feel like a child. Perhaps if I was a bit more honorable she would be child in my eyes too, for, when I first got to know her, she had not quite turned 20. But that youth fired me rather than cooled me, and so I carried on with my pursuit.
This time, after she’d left (to hurry home for her 6pm curfew) I made sure to send messages after her:-
‘I miss you too. Tell you a good news. Maybe I can stay with you a whole night this Saturday.’‘You can compare with superman! 快去吃饭！谁叫你中午不吃完上又不吃的！’‘We must make love on Sunday?’ (I replied to say that it was totally up to her. And of course it was; I would respect whatever choice she made – but would do my best to persuade her to choose yes).‘Oh I see! Thank you! You are very kind! I love you! Kiss~’‘Do you have free time after 6 tomorrow?’‘算了当我没说’‘噢!Maybe I can stay with you all night. I’ll try my best.’‘Try my best!’
And so we met to spend the night together. She was a little early at the rendezvous, which seemed to me a measure of the keenness she had for the encounter. I suggested eating – was she hungry? She was, and she wanted to eat at McDonalds. This made my lip curl, rather – such trashy bland pap. It made me think less of her, though she did not quite see my distaste. But I pushed the feeling down – after all, she was only 19, and so it was no surprise she has the tastes of a teenager. And the more mercenary angle of it occurred to me too – junk food a cheap and quick precursor to sex. What need for candles and romance?

Seducing Christine #2

2006-08-13T04:45:00.000+08:00

Sunday, August 13, 2006

During that coffee with Christine I’d almost made a slip. She’d said something – I forget what – that made it unclear how she’d got my email, and gave the impression she’d got it from a friend. I half followed up this comment, but in doing so almost gave away that I did not recall where I’d met her. But by switching back to what I had thought to be the case (that she had got it from the university people) I was able to cover my error (something which was eased by her only moderate command of English) and thus hide from her the fact she was, to me, at that point, essentially wholly random.The messages that we exchanged after that coffee soon came towards the point, and I asked if next time I could see her all night.
‘Ha ha, I think it’s impossible’ she replied. ‘But if you can come to Wuxi (the city where she studies) maybe we can stay all night’
That was a promising reply, yet she remained a little unsure (and that of course made her the easier to seduce) and followed it with another message to say, ‘You can laughing now. I’m silly, right?’
A week or so after that coffee, I found myself with a free day, due to a cancelled class, all the students having been packed off to learn the sparkling profundities of the Three Representatives. Or was it the ‘Seven Goods and Seven Bads’? Or the ‘Four Maybes, One Yes and Three Don’ts’? Some such specious dreck.
And so, suddenly free, I messaged her suggesting a meet. She accepted with alacrity, as I knew she would since her messages the intervening days had been green lights all the way. We met at a big mall near People’s Square, her clad in a pink dress covered with blue polka dots which fluttered in the warm breeze, wrapping itself more closely around the contours of her body. But we did not linger, soon heading home so I could ‘show her my flat.’ This of course was a euphemism, and she showed she knew it by the tense, expectant way she sat in the cab. She knew it was sex, I knew it was sex. But I also knew that this was no easy green light. She would still need persuading, cajoling. And indeed she then seemed to set up a get-out, telling me ‘My stomach aches.’ This, of course, meant she had her period, at which I felt a brief surge of chagrin. So maybe I was wrong, I thought, and we would not be lovers today. But then I thought again; she was, after all, coming back with me. Whatever happened, this was most surely not merely a matter of ‘showing her my flat.’
Her nervousness increased once we got back to my flat, but I did not let that stop me too long, clipping her in my arms and angling for a kiss. She tensed, but did not pull away; let me kiss, but did not respond. And in this she was just like when I was seducing Tingting; bursts of passion mixed with stretches of reluctance. She’d kiss back for a moment or two, then withdraw again. Yet clearly she was interested, not murmuring for me to stop as I caressed her body.
I was sitting on the dining room table as this took place, her in my arms, her body held between my knees. I wanted to take her to the bedroom – which of course met with much protest from her, ‘No, no, I can’t, I am not a bad girl..’ Yet even so she let me lead her there. At the threshold she stopped; so I just picked her up – she is light, lithe -- and carried her to the bed.
It took a while, her passive and active by turns; a battle between what she wanted to do, and what she was conditioned to do. Again like Tingting, she wanted to be persuaded, wanted to be talked round. And some sweet words, some whispered ‘darlings’ and my assurance that she was not at all a bad girl allowed me to begin to undress her.
And now her reluctance showed for what it was, a mere veneer, for she began to return kiss for kiss, and now with interest, with passion, none of the perfunctory, cool response of before. Now she willingly let me unzip her zip, slip her cute pink skirt up over her head, to reveal her smooth body, her bra, which, unusually, was not a padded one, for her breasts did not need it.
Indeed, she even worried out loud to me that her breasts were too big – a rare worry for a woman here to have. More than this, she was actively apologetic about the size of her breasts, telling me, ‘I hope you don’t mind… I don’t like it..’ And while I tried to convince her that they were wonderful, exciting, sexy, well-shaped, she was reluctant to believe me.
But she was still not fully ready, for she would not let me take her panties off, though I very much wanted to see her naked. But she was pretty sure about keeping her panties (tight fitting white cotton sporty type) on, and I accepted it was as a result of having her period rather than fear of fucking, for by this time I knew she was not a virgin. And so I did not push the matter. Why should I? I now knew that getting was I wanted was just a matter of time. There was no hurry – indeed, the anticipation made it all the more interesting.
I, naturally, was already naked, and at first she refused to look at my cock. And for our whole time abed she was not quite comfortable with it. She half wanted to look, half was afraid to. So I had to ease her hand down there, and then she did caress me a little, but nervously, unsure.
She did gratify me with murmurs as to its size – which murmurs, given her general innocence, could not have been calculated enough to be flattery. ‘It’s so much bigger than my boyfriend’s...His is just…’ and here she tailed off.
Ah, her boyfriend, who she mentioned to me before as something of a playboy, a handsome guy, runner after women. This is palpably rubbish, for what she went on to tell me shows he was no sort of lover. Kissing, caressing, I asked her if she enjoyed sex. ‘Sometimes..’ she said, with not much enthusiasm. In our resulting conversation I learned that she has been with him two years. And in this two years they have made love …six times. So few that it is easy for her to remember each time – each time, I tell myself (with little risk of being wrong) brief and unimaginative. I could easily imagine his technique – brief, hasty, furtive, bumbling; taking, not giving. Six times in two years! I knew that next time we met I would show her more than she’d dreamt of.

Seducing Christine

2006-08-11T04:43:00.000+08:00

Friday, August 11, 2006

Some months ago – never mind how long precisely – a new contact popped up online, greeting me with what have become very standard words - ‘Hi, do you remember me?’
Quite how a student expects me to remember them when they first contact me I do not know, given that all I see of them is their sign-in name which, even if it is a variation of their real name and not a more creative handle, gives no clue to their identity since I seldom teach any one group of students for long enough to get to know their names. And yet, after every class wraps up, four or five students will begin a conversation with those very words.
But given that in this case the sign-in name of this new interlocutor, Christine, was clearly female, I judged it best to make it seem as if I did recall her, and so I gave my catch-all answer, ‘I taught you English, right?’
She told me that this was right, and she was glad I remembered her.
By dint of asking open-ended questions I established she was a student who’d come to one of the universities I work at for an oral exam, and that she got my email from the information form used at that interview. But still I was unable to remember anything specific about her. However, given my penchant for the Lucky Dip, I let the conversation grow and unfold, and, by its end, had agreed to meet her for coffee during the following few days. For even though I was not quite sure who she was, I liked the pot luck of going to meet her. The anticipation of who willbe waiting for me in the coffee shop (or wherever the rendezvous is) is always stimulating.
Now it so happens – with a dash of the chance, the pattern, the echo that I so relish in life – that this very same day that I met the (at that point) random woman was the day Clarissa flew overseas to her new life. I thought of Clarissa all that morning and particularly at 2pm when, me amid a class of guppies, she flew out. I knew I would miss her a lot, and so I did, for I was falling in love with her.
But this did not make me any bit more reflective, for I still kept the appointment I had made to have coffee with this woman who I remembered nothing about. And thus even as one woman left, a woman I cared greatly about, I was off questing after another.
Yet even as I was going to meet Christine, I ran into Amy. Amy was a staffer who worked in the accounts firm that’s in the same building I live in. I’d got to know her a little, and had come to the conclusion she was pretty certain, and passably cute with it. She’d emailed me once or twice to tell me the sense of frustration she felt in her life, asking if I thought she should take the risk to change to a new job. Naturally I urged her to do so; but more to the point, in the email in which she asked that she also referred to her ‘husband.’
She had mentioned this guy to me before, when we’d shared a coffee. But that time she’d told me he was her boyfriend. Either in the present email that use of ‘husband’ was a mere slip, or, last time, she’d lied to me; and if she had, it was a fine sign indeed. There’s but one reason a woman downgrades a husband to a boyfriend, and it is the same reason that she airbrushes her other lovers out of her life altogether when meeting a new guy.
But at that time I was busy with other women and other classes, and so I decided merely to put her on pause and maybe apply myself to her a little later on. Fundamentally she was dull; but dull and cute, and a fuck’s a fuck.
And so keeping matters brief with Amy, I headed off to the rendezvous with Christine.
If there was a moral plan to the world it would have been just deserts for my scoundrelly ways if she had turned out to be a fright – but not so; the woman who arrived to greet me was young, sexy, snappily dressed and, I was sure within a very few moments, almost certainly a cinch to seduce. And I did now remember her from the interview, and remembered being rather struck with her.
She was young, just 20 – which, in this culture often means more like 15 in emotional outlook -- and she was indeed 15 in some ways, a little timid, and most certainly corralled and controlled by her parents.
She told me she could only stay for two hours, since her parents had told her to be back home by half past six. She also told me her mother had, at first, wanted to come with her but had settled for getting my phone number from her. Such parents! They give her the curfew of a ten year old.
I told her she had partly herself to blame for accepting this. She said she had tried to change her parents’ minds… but obviously had not tried hard enough.
As we talked, I assessed her. Not great looking, but good, and rather a trim body. I felt it would not be too hard to charm her to bed; indeed, as, later, I walked back with her to the tube, my arm guiding her from time to time, I was sure I was home; and had the train not been quite so crowded, I’d have kissed her as we parted. I sent a follow up message saying I had enjoyed meeting her, and that she was cute. She replied in kind, and we exchanged a couple more messages in the same vein during the rest of the evening.
But I was sure Christine was not quite the wholesale innocent she appeared, for she had a boyfriend (at the time; he is long since gone). ‘Do your parents know?’ I asked of this boyfriend – expecting and getting the too-common look of amused horror on her face – ‘Of course not! They would kill me!’
It is an old story; parents here seldom know the truth of their daughters’ lives. Eve, my full-time girlfriend, for example, has to lie to her mother every time she stays with me. No matter that she is 25, and, in a few days, flying off to begin her postgrad studies in Canada, she must still tell her mother (who is, by the way, a pleasant and friendly woman) that she is going to stay with a girlfriend. As with Eve, so too with Ellen, Jingjing, Mona; again and again women here pull the wool over their parents’ eyes wholesale, a lie necessitated by the older generation’s failure to see what life is today.
Sure, Christine looked and acted the virgin, but while I was not so gross as to ask, I suspected she was not; she told me her guy was a bit of a rogue so I concluded he had put her to it – opening a path for me, I hope.

Chasing Clarissa

2006-08-09T04:42:00.000+08:00

Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Clarissa was bright, vibrant, electric when we met. She’d been at an office party and had clearly had a couple of drinks, a tinge of flush to her face, animation in her manner, eyes sparkling. She was, in short, even more stimulating than I remembered her from class.
As we drank and listened to the jazz naturally my words (and hands) became wider, more expansive.
‘You’re leading me along, like a fox’ she said -- but didn’t stop me. And indeed her talk was sexual and her body language mirrored mine. So we had a good evening of it. She enjoyed my flattery and attentions, and it seemed to be going well to me, though several times she told me she was faithful to her husband. Now the mere fact she said this was a clear enough sign she knew what was in the offing. And when she went on to tell me that she let her husband think she was a virgin on their wedding night, my hopes rose.
Letting him think this was not a lie, she said, since he did not ask and she did not, thus, deny. But still it was a crack into which I felt I might drive a wedge.
Smart as she is, of course she knew this when she told me.
Later, the more I thought it over, the more I was inclined to wonder if I had not been played, and played with some expertise at that. If I was, it is no matter, for after all I was playing a role too, and if she was indeed playing me, I was content to be played.
Yes, she was good. ‘I’m going to go home, have a bath, and wait for my husband to come home in the morning.. and maybe fuck me.’ Now there’s a rare thing to hear – such verbal directness is rather rare in Chinese women. Yes, they will be emotionally direct, but even then their words are often couched in more delicate terms.
I played along with Clarissa’s provocativeness in, I guess, a pretty obvious way – ‘How about some pix?’
‘No way!’ she said, before telling me that they had taken pix, and a film, of their lovemaking. A sexy woman altogether! But even with this fire she tried to bank and ebb my ardor, telling me she was happy with this husband, and that they were good together in bed. I asked why she had married so young – she is around 24 – she said, sexy smiling, ‘To save the cost of going to hotels all the time!’
As the jazz wound down and the crowd thinned I noticed a hooker trying to close a fat Westerner on the table next to me. She was past her prime and I doubt he had ever been in it; and her play-acting, now loving, now cold, now happy, now hurt, was pretty risible.
But she saw me looking and flashed me a smile of complicity –‘Yeah, this fat slob ain’t much, is he?,’ her glance said. And I was briefly taken in, briefly felt a sympathy for her in her unhappy lot, before the clarity of the corollary meaning of her glance stuck me in all its obvious truth – she was trying to establish a tie with me in case it did not work out with fat guy, for then I might be her night’s fee.
When it was time to go, Clarissa at first wanted to go alone, but I said I would drop her home and then go on my way. ‘I know what you want’ she said, and of course she was right.
By chance her home is near Gloria’s, and, as we headed there in the cab, past the familiar buildings and territories of my relationship with Gloria’s, this restaurant, that coffee bar, I did feel a slight sense of melancholy at the upset I caused in her life and the messy, astonishing way our relationship ended (I shall write it up in due course.)
But of course I did not stay melancholy for long. Saying ‘Come here,’ to Clarissa, I drew her to me for a cuddle, which she allowed, gladly. Naturally I caressed her, and this too was okay. As also were one or two kisses, but not too much of that, for she pulled away. I eased her back and she lay in my lap. Then I erred, blowing in her ear. Earlier, in the bar I had caressed her earlobe and the effect was strong.. she arched, and said ‘Don’t.. that makes me…’ These words of course had the opposite effect, making me all the more keen to caress her there.
But now in the cab that soft puff of air in her ear was too much, and she pulled away, a scalded and no longer sexy cat; and indeed was quite irate, for when I put my arm to her again, it was ‘NO!’ and ‘DON’T’ in tones increasing peremptory and strident.
I let her cool awhile and tried again. She had not cooled. The opposite. So this riled me a bit – no one shouts at me, I thought, in my semi-drunk choler (for I can be a dyspeptic, arrogant fuck when the beer takes me a certain way and my pride is dented) – and so I became insouciant, detached (a mistake I was later to make with Tingting, though that mistake is now healed, forgotten, and she is back in my life).
My cool goodnight to Clarissa was met with, ‘Now I’ll see what you’re really like.’ In saying that, she was referring to conversation earlier in the evening.
In that conversation, she had told me she had avoided meeting me in person thus far, preferring to keep our acquaintance net based. Why? I asked. ‘Because if we met, I knew what you would want.’
Quite right. And I admitted it; ‘Yes, to be truthful, I do want that..’
‘You admit it?!’
‘Yes, but that’s not all I want.. I like you a lot and enjoy your company even if we don’t…’
She was doubtful.
‘Well, you will be able to tell … if nothing happens tonight and I never call you again,’ I said.
Hence her parting shot, hence that ‘We’ll see what you’re really like.’ She meant that if fuck was all I wanted, she would not expect to hear from me again, but that if my claim of liking her company was true, I would keep in touch.
I remember as I rode home in the cab thinking, What am I really like? I could not decide for sure. That night, I blocked her chat profile and was inclined to leave it so, for I felt she was playing me and wanted an admirer, preferably rich and definitely hands off; which was no role for me.

Fascination

2006-08-04T04:41:00.000+08:00

Friday, August 04, 2006

So Clarissa, a woman who has the most powerful effect on me – intoxicating, captivating, maddening.
As are they all, she was a student in class; but she was, is, nothing like the average student. I’d written up a bunch of adjectives on the board (or ‘abjectives’ as I now think of them, after Tingting’s neologism – Tingting who, to my surprise and delight, is now back in my life again) one of which I’d misspelled. Now this happens fairly frequently (not because I am illiterate but rather because I tend to talk and write at the same time, and thus my concentration lapses) and students almost never point it out, even when the error is egregious, say writing ‘somethig’ for ‘something’ (at which point I’ll turn it into a little homily, telling them this passive approach will not do in the West). But Clarissa, bold and confident, raised her hand and pointed it out.
And thus began my admiration for her.
Among the hundreds – thousands – of students who have come and gone, she stands out with total clarity. Even the word I spelled wrong – ‘choas’ for ‘chaos’ -- glitters bright in my mind, burnished by memories of her, and each time I write it in a class she is uppermost on my mind. Equally vivid in my mind is how, at the end of the second class, she stayed behind after to ask me some vocabulary, wondering how to say ‘小便’ (‘to piss’)
Perhaps these foundations to our relationship have shaped the edifice we have created together; bold, straightforward, honest – but also sexy, secret, intimate.
Both these elements were right there at the beginning -- the sex so much so that even that first time she talked with me after class I had to pull down my jumper. Hoping to get to know her outside the class, she was one of the rare few (like Ceecee) to whom I gave my card.
Sometime later, when she messaged me online from Guilin, I failed to recognize it was her. But the next time she did so, I worked it out… and our conversation rose from the polite to the excitable – stoked in part by her, asking me if I had heard of the term ‘MBA.’
‘Master of Business Administration…?’‘Married but Available.’
And from there our conversation grew more open. She is an adventurous sort, having had an older, richer, married lover before she got married. This is unusual, even with all China’s much-touted modernity. Many people here still marry their first boyfriend or girlfriend, and a sizeable proportion are virgins when they marry.
Clarissa told me how she had felt deeply for this guy, but how their relationship had come to nothing, he unable to be anything more than a lover, his social position ruling out any possibility of something more permanent between them.
This is something I have found time and again in Chinese women; their great openness – even need – to talk about their emotional lives; to talk of love, sex, of romance and passion, of affairs and cheating, of desires hidden and hopes quelled.
It’s not because I am especially sensitive, or profound (and certainly not trustworthy) – it is rather that there is just no outlet for this in their Chinese life; they cannot talk about it with Chinese men. (On which note: I do tend to make these sweeping statements about Chinese men, and such generalizations are often unwise. But while I do not mean to say that all Chinese guys are alike (far from it) I do still feel there are traits that many have in common. And this rather limp approach to love and passion is one of them, as is a rather antediluvian attitude to women. Frequently in class I ask my male students, ‘If in the future, when you were married, your wife earned more than you, how would you feel?’ About 70% of them tell me they would feel uneasy, or humiliated, and that it is the man’s duty to earn more than the woman. I will then ask the women what they think of that, and their most general answer is something along the lines of ‘It’s an absurd attitude but that is what guys are like.’ I will also often ask, ‘If your wife had a better job than you, and asked you to stay home to look after your child, would you?’ Utter shock unrolls across the student’s face at the thought of this, at its (to him) sheer absurdity. (It is as ludicrous a proposition to him as if I said ‘Taiwan is not part of China.’ Taiwan is of course part of China, just as it is a woman who should raise the kids. That there could be any other truth to the matter is simply inconceivable.) The women students generally roar with laughter too, at the idea that a Chinese guy could ever be relaxed enough about himself to do this. As with money, so with education. A Chinese guy, in general, will not be comfortable with a woman who has a higher education than him. Thus the saying current here, ‘In China there are three genders – men, women, and women with PhDs.’)
And thus, later, when Clarissa and I met face to face (a meeting she suggested, to my deep joy) our conversation soon dived beyond the trivial, down into these emotional depths, the truths she needed to tell. She’d suggested meeting near Shanghai’s Donghu Hotel, a venue in which, just a few weeks before, I had been running down another unhappily married woman, Carolyn. She too is one I never got (for in truth my hits are more than my misses) and has since dropped out of sight wholly. This Carolyn was, at the time, on the verge of initiating divorce and, later, sent me semi-cryptic text messages suggesting she had initiated it. But despite my replies I never saw her again.
No great matter for that (though I still think of her, for, having not got her, she is more stuck in my mind than she would be if I had). To my wolvish pleasure, the Donghu Hotel was, at that time, just near the very bar for my plans, JZ, a jazz club which has since relocated (and which is mentioned here. This rather good site clued me into the fact they had a new singer for Monday nights and thus, last week, when Kay (a woman worth an entry who I will get round to soon) wanted me to take her out for an evening, to cheer her in her misery (caused by her married lover’s casual treatment of her) that was where I chose. JZ is a sexy sort of place, good for a seduction, and as there is a sexual thing between Kay and me, it was a fine choice.)

Fucking Mona

2006-07-30T04:38:00.000+08:00

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Dinner with Mona was as I was sure it would be.
We’d met, and first she’d shown me her dorm, which she had to keep on so that she could pretend to be living there – for if the university found she had rented her own apartment she would be expelled. The dorm was not quite so spartan as others I have seen, such as those at Shang Wai, though was still mostly a big poured concrete box, with correctional facility overtones.
And then to the wet market, where we made the film I had planned, a large crowd of onlookers staring as we did so. That done, it was still early, so we returned to her flat and watched a couple of episodes of some sexy American sitcom which she’d heard about but never seen. A good choice of viewing, given my plans for the evening.
I said she would soon have to pay what we’d agreed for me bringing her these DVDs – the pay being a kiss, which we had teased about on MSN. She was still a little nervous, not yet warmed, so she blushed and murmured, and I did not press for the kiss. There would be time for it later, and I knew that the sexy language of the show we were watching would help change the mood. Finding it for her was easy; the DVD pirates are one of the city’s many wonders. Just today, for example, I found a copy of ‘Le Comte Ory,’ one of my favorite operas, but one that is a little obscure. (Rossini suits my essentially ephemeral character.)
And so when we were cooking I took the kiss, holding her under the chin and tilting her lips towards me. Still a little shy, she did not meet me with her eyes, but the response of her lips was quite enough to show how the evening would end. This kiss was spiced by the loose, shapeless housecoat thing she’d put on while cooking, having modestly closed her door as she changed out of the showy dress she’d worn to meet me. Even though this garment would well become a 50 year old Shanghai housewife with big hair, on her slender body it fell forward enough to reveal that she was naked under but for panties.
And after eating and washing up (more romantic than you might think, with its chances for caresses, warm water, suds) we made love. Kissing first, gently nibbling and caressing her; and like Tulip, like Lucy, soft breath in her ear made her wilder.
Blowing in a woman’s ear, kissing and caressing her there, feels cheesy to me; feels like the kind of thing the guy who has read his ‘Guide to a woman’s erogenous zones’ would do. It does not feel authentic – it is too clichéd, too obvious. But it works.
I eased my shirt over my head and then slipped the hem of her dress upward, first to see pink latticed and bowed panties, clearly chosen for their look; and then over her belly up to her breasts. Petite, and, thus, for me, most erotic. Big, broad aureoles, wide enough indeed to be out of proportion to the size of the breast. But cute, cute. So I played there a while before kissing back down; then she took off the dress and I the rest of my clothes – then her panties for the first glimpse of her pussy. Compact, tight, needed a trim on top. And so the oral, which I dearly love, as did she – but far more controlled, restrained than Lucy. Her passion was deeper, more locked, sighs and sips.
This country, this society being what it is, I had wondered if she too was a virgin, and while her control here, lack of nervousness, made me think not, that opinion was balanced by some seeming inexperience elsewhere as we cavorted. And while I was sure she enjoyed it, I was not sure I made her come.
It was a fine night with her, sexy and wholly satisfying, though not quite so wild as Lucy was the first time. Mona was not so unreservedly passionate and, a little to my irritation, told me, ‘It’s my special time of the month.’ I was prepared for this at least, clued into it in part by the lengthy amount of time she spent in the bathroom before we made love but more by the bloodied towel I saw hidden half around the u-bend. Later, when we were talking, I leveraged this into an accolade. When she’d said it was her ‘special time’ I’d said I knew; after we’d made love, passion spent, she now wanted to know how. So I told her she had seemed tired and a little pale yesterday, and even that she had walked a little wearily – which was true, indeed, though at the time I did not draw the conclusion that she had her period. But anyhow, the tale I now told her made me think me ‘很厉害.’
The next morning, she had to get up at 6 for the mandatory exercise her martinet university insists on, and then a lecture at 8.20. Her university day was over at 9.30 a.m, an hour when it should not even have begun.
It’s little wonder China is still a third-rate country. It will never be anything more than the world’s service shop until it stops treating its people as commodities.
I dozed until about 9 and then sat on her pink-covered bed in her pink-walled Pudong apartment typing what was the original of this entry until she came home. Having just been going over the night before in my mind, I was feeling ready and horny, and keen to see her lovely body again, those cute breasts. I put her in my lap, kissed and caressed, undressed and ate her… as before, I was not sure if she quite orgasmed; for tho’ she sure enjoyed it, there was no clear peak, no obvious climax, no pushing away of my head as with Yan or other lovers; and so either my skill lacking or she is still an ingénue that way.
However, after that, she did not really want me to penetrate her, telling me she was tired. But I guessed that more likely she meant sore, for, physically, she was the slightest women I had been with. Maybe half the bulk of me, at most. And while this made her a great lover, easy to position, lithe and responsive, it also meant that now, the next morning, she somewhat ached.
And so I made no fuss over it, was polite and understanding. ‘You’re a very gentleman’ she said – and I did not correct her either on the sentiment or the grammar, though both were wrong.
We dozed an hour, 90 minutes, and then I got dressed and she walked me to the bus stop.
Now going to the bus stop might seem the action of a cheapskate. But that is a too-hasty interpretation. Taking the bus here is, in fact, a rather positive thing to do. In general, Chinese people are often surprised when a foreigner can talk Chinese, and even more surprised if he or she can read it. Locals thus expect foreigners to travel almost exclusively by cab, in part because of the language problems (overcome by the Chinese person telling the cabbie where to go) and in part because they believe money is no object to expats. Taking a bus, therefore, shows a certain familiarity and ease with Chinese society, and that goes down very well. For while the moneyed life of many expats is a matter of aspiration and envy to local society, it is also a slight sticking point, an angle of envy, contention. Showing respect for the culture, being willing to live like a local, and able to speak and read Chinese some – all this helps.
And so taking the bus by oneself is a good thing; it shows that one is willing to make oneself a part of society. Naturally, when with the woman in question, one takes a cab.
Once on the bus I turned on my mobile. I’d left it off the night after it rang when I was between her thighs. That time, we both ignored it, and I then turned it off when we were lying prone on the bed after making love.
And now, on the bus, as I turned it back on, an sms from Tulip arrived, saying she had called me but I was turned off or engaged, and asking was I busy this afternoon, how about lunch?
This was most convenient, as right then I was heading to Lujiazui, right near her office. And so I arranged to wait for her by the Orient Pearl Tower, a hideous monstrosity of a building, all communist boasting and ugliness, with the touts and tourists peering at me as at a strange fish.
I remember thinking as I sat waiting for her of what to tell her. Should I explain my switched-off phone by saying, `I was in a class?’ Or should I say, ‘I was seeing a friend’? Or should I say ‘I was seeing a ‘friend.’”? Now, sure, to let her know I was seeing her right after another woman could be taken as an insult. But also she is a little intrigued by this free and open sexuality of mine, and I think hearing about it gives her a charge, a thrill, and that’s something worth aiming for. And so some measure of honesty might have been fruitful.
But one must not plan these things too carefully. And so I simply decided to wait and see, play it by ear.
Right on time she rolled up, at our usual meeting spot, in her blue car; a sigh and catch in my heart as she did so, as I stood to walk toward her, open the door, take in the scent of the car’s perfumed interior, sight of her lovely profile…