Women are all clean.

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(font楷体-gb2312)（一）(/font)
(font楷体-gb2312)　　Foreword (/font)
(font楷体-gb2312) First, I must admit that I am a dirty man. This dirtyness refers to my sexuality, specifically to the dirtyness that falls outside the bounds of current moral standards, because I have, after all, been to those places and sought out those kinds of women. Therefore, men who have never been to those places or sought out those kinds of women, and women who only intend to sleep with one man their entire lives, can curse me and condemn me, blaming it on men like us that women like us exist. (/font)
(font楷体-gb2312) Even though I laugh at poverty but not prostitution, I agree that purely monetary sexual relationships are dirty.
However, I must also remind everyone that this so-called dirty sexual relationship is far from the dirtiest I have seen in life, because there are other types of sexual relationships whose level of dirtyness is incomparable to what I have described in this story. This is a story of my emotional experiences over nearly a year in my twenty-nine years of life. I'm writing it down simply because I want to; it has no particular significance and wo n't
help anyone. It's just a story. My previous descriptions of sex have always been clean and sacred, and I will try my best to be so here, though I think it will be a little difficult.
November 16, 1997.
Meeting her was an absolute coincidence. In fact, in the city where I live now, if any woman walking past me suddenly said, "I'm a prostitute," I wouldn't be surprised at all. If it weren't for that, some other cities wouldn't have seen the reappearance of terms like "elder sister," "girl," or "master." Einstein didn't predict the weapons humanity would use in World War III, but he asserted that humanity's weapons after the war would definitely be stones; Gu Long repeatedly reminded us that since ancient times, men's original profession was assassins, and
women's original profession was prostitutes; a virgin friend of mine talked in front of everyone about how the sex industry should be brought to the surface, and that "ladies" should have annual physical examinations at government hospitals to reduce many negative influences. She didn't think some "amateur" prostitutes were much cleaner than professional ones; she only thought they were more dirty (referring to their bodies). So if you say you can exclude all filth, I won't object; if you disagree with the statement "whatever exists is reasonable," I'll remain silent; but if you admit that you are a sexually healthy and mature person, a man who hasn't been with a woman for a long time, or a woman who hasn't had a man for a long time, lying alone in bed touching your body, but not wanting to find someone to have sex with, I will laugh at you.
I'm not that kind of man, which is why I met her. That day ,
I was working on my computer in my old little shop. Although the new company had been established, relocation was still a distant plan. Business at the shop had been slow, and I gradually became less diligent than before. I kept fantasizing that the new company would bring new development, and I unconsciously became lazy.
Then three friends arrived. They were all computer enthusiasts. Although they worked in different professions, computers gave us a common topic, and we often got together to discuss things. We were good friends. We
sat down, drank tea, and chatted about all sorts of things until dusk. So we started discussing what to do that evening. Of the three men, two were married, and the other had a very close girlfriend. Suddenly, they all remembered the karaoke place they had gone to a few days ago, praising the sound system and the women there as top-notch. Then their eyes fell on me.
At that time, I had broken up with my girlfriend for almost a year, so I wasn't too unfamiliar with these kinds of occasions. I sang well, played drinking games fairly well, and none of the three of them could match my drinking capacity. The girls weren't unattractive to me either; I remember when I was heartbroken, a friend dragged me out to find a woman to keep me company, and I almost fell in love with her. Someone once said, "Men don't need to be taught these things," and that applies to me perfectly.
But I didn't go immediately because I was in the middle of a company transition period, my mood was a bit chaotic, I was tired, and I didn't have much money. I didn't have much desire for these expensive and energy-consuming activities. Thinking about it, I've been with women before, and I'm not sexually frustrated, so why bother? They started trying to persuade me: "Look at me, I even called my wife and told her I wouldn't be going home tonight." "Oh, it's precisely because work is tiring that you should go out and relax." The most fatal thing was that sentence: "Think about it, you don't have a girlfriend now, who cares about you? Before, when you were with your girlfriend, I wouldn't have asked you to go." Thinking about it, it's true, society has progressed, and people's views have changed. Gradually, they understand that it's better to be open than to suppress, and they know to use the mentality of "it's not strange" to eliminate things like "strange". People are showing movies like "Pretty Woman", and I was moved to tears. I'm not some fresh radish skin, why should I protect my virginity? People who are married, have wives, or are single, have girlfriends, don't they all live the same way? Anyway, what's wrong with going out to relax? No one is forcing you to sleep with anyone, it's just for fun. So I let go of some moral and chastity shackles and went with them.
This karaoke place called "Red Rose" is located on the far side of the river, near rows of residential areas, all places where outsiders live. The karaoke place was pretty good; the decor was nice, and the rooms were spacious. My friend had quite a few acquaintances there, so they seemed to be regulars. Soon after we sat down, a "madam" came in to serve tea, asking how many girls we needed and what type we wanted, very enthusiastically. A while later, the girls arrived. She was the last one, leaning against the door, observing us with a more intense gaze than we were looking at her. She was dressed simply, in a floral short-sleeved shirt and dark blue shorts, and she wore makeup. From the beginning, she was hostile; her slightly upturned, curved eyes held a coldness, and her face lacked any professional smile. She didn't seem like a hostess at all, nor did she seem to belong here. Later, I realized that perhaps that was her greatest brilliance. Someone once said, "Men all hope that sheltered young ladies are like wanton women, while women in brothels are best to appear demure." Then a friend pointed at her and laughed at me, "This was specially picked for you. Knowing you don't like tall women, I specially found a petite one for you. Pretty thoughtful, right?" I had no objections. Actually, I didn't have any. A woman, as long as she's pleasing to the eye, that's fine. Ideally, she could sing songs, play drinking games, and be lively. We're here to have fun, why ask for too much? Even if I'm not satisfied, I won't pay less, so as not to upset myself.
(font楷体-gb2312) So we all sat down, some hugging, some embracing, while she stood with her back to me, far away, engrossed in selecting songs, leaving me standing there, invisible. I was getting a little annoyed. What kind of professional attitude is this? If you're in this line of work, you have to follow the rules. Who makes money easily these days? We sell hard drives and earn ten or so dollars a month, and we're constantly running around like crazy. You sit here for two or three hours, and we've sold ten or twenty hard drives. But I have a good temper, so I tried to talk to her. She replied half-heartedly, and then started singing.
My friend noticed something was off and quietly asked me, "If you don't like it, change it." But then she noticed something was off, turned around, and pouted, "I don't care anyway." She seemed about to get up, but for some reason, I lost my temper and instead picked up the microphone and sang along with her. I still remember this scene vividly. I still don't understand why I didn't stand up and yell at her or leave. Even when we reminisced about it later, we were still confused. Maybe this is what they call a chance encounter, a random, unexpected connection.
I'm easygoing, and I thought that at this point, there was no need to get angry over something. People get to know each other gradually anyway, so I started asking her to play rock-paper-scissors. She didn't know how, so I taught her. I didn't dare teach her anything complicated, so I taught her the simplest kind. It was a kind of rock-paper-scissors called "Frog Jump." Everyone holds up five fingers, and when I call out a number, one finger sticks up. She has to stick up one finger at the same time. If her finger is the same as mine, she loses.
This frog game helped us a lot. She didn't drink much, but she drank quite a bit because she found it fun. Our group went from being quiet to being very lively. Then I started singing, and everyone quieted down. It's usually quiet when I sing; I've always had that confidence. It was Beyond's "Boundless Oceans, Vast Skies." She looked at me quietly, her eyes seeming larger in the dim light, with a slightly hazy, intoxicated look. I think I looked beautiful in her eyes at that moment.
Then everyone applauded, and she sat a little closer to me. Everyone else in the room was already huddled together, but we remained respectful to each other.
She started finding songs for me to sing, and she also sang songs she was good at. Her singing was excellent; I think I hadn't heard the original version of Zhou Bingqian's "I Really Miss You" until that day. My friends don't sing much, so it was just the two of us in the room. As she sang, she slowly leaned on my shoulder, and I naturally put my arm around her. At that moment, I glanced back, and my friends were all giving me lecherous and mysterious smiles, but I felt a different kind of elation. Her shoulder was small and soft, and it felt so comfortable leaning against it. Time flew by, and it was almost midnight. She turned back and gently asked if I wanted to go to her place. I hesitated for a moment, because cases of robbery using sexual favors were quite common at the time. Actually ,
I was willing. Her live-in girlfriend was in the arms of one of my friends. I glanced at my friend, and we immediately agreed. The four of us quickly disappeared into the night. They walked ahead, and my friend and I lagged a few steps behind. I watched her greet the security guard familiarly, who watched us enter the complex without a second thought. I took a deep breath of the river breeze, feeling a little uneasy. Although it wasn't the first time, I had never so brazenly walked into the home of a woman I'd known for less than three hours. I didn't think about whether it was right or wrong, because it was fundamentally wrong. I didn't think about whether it was clean or dirty, because it was dirty. At that moment, I just thought that she was a woman I liked, and I wasn't forcing myself. (
font楷体-gb2312) The suite on the fourth floor was pitch black. She didn't turn on the light, pushed my friend and her female companion into a room, and then pulled me into another dark space.
She skillfully helped me undress, chatting quietly with me all the while. It was then that I learned part of her background. She spoke of her suffering, but in truth, what woman in that situation wouldn't be suffering? I've heard even more tragic stories, and I didn't quite believe them, but I still listened intently. Why not? Since it was just a charade, why remain detached for those few minutes?

We were finally naked. She slowly helped me put on a condom. I gently stroked her face; it was round, her skin smooth. In fact, every inch of her skin was smooth and well-maintained. She let her hair down, and I used my mouth to slowly move down her ear, neck, and shoulders. My hands gently held her round yet small breasts; her figure was still exquisite at that time. She let out a soft "Ah!" and began a professional moan. I didn't mind. I'm no less sexually savvy than any man. The number of times I've orgasmed during sex relative to the number of times I've had sex is no less than any man's. I can always muster the passion I need for a woman I like. She was definitely my type. I felt the arousal she stirred within me. My hand gradually moved down, brushing over her flat yet undulating abdomen, about to go further. But at that moment, she took my hand and placed it on her thigh.
My hands are always very gentle—this isn't something I say, it's what she says. The skin on my hands is indeed softer than that of many women. I didn't know why she moved my hand away at the time, nor did I think about it. I continued to feel her other parts. Her breathing quickened a bit, but she remained lying flat, not responding to my movements. From then on, every time we made love, our positions were basically like this, always giving me a feeling of complete lack of engagement. But I accepted this fact, because even if she seemed very engaged, I would still think she was faking it.
Her legs were firm and smooth, her ankles slender but not thin. I had nothing to complain about. She pulled me onto her, and without much foreplay, I entered her. The feeling was amazing. Her place was narrow and elastic; even with her legs spread, it felt very tight, without any looseness. During thrusting, there was no worry about it slipping off at all—all thanks to her long-term cold water bathing. She started moaning, and I got excited too. So we started changing positions, rolling around, and finally she sat on my waist, thrusting wildly. I looked at her swaying breasts and was about to stand up while holding her completely.
Just then, the door next door opened, and my friend and his female companion came out, asking if we were done. I yelled angrily that we weren't. Then my friend and his companion left first, and I lay in the darkness, having lost all interest and sexual desire.
She nestled against my thin chest, kissed me, breathed in my ear, and even touched my lips to hers—the lips she never let me kiss—hoping I would thrust into her again. Surprisingly, I wasn't excited; instead, I felt strange and touched. She wasn't the first professional woman to sit on me. Her movements were gentle, a combination that reminded me of my girlfriend. She didn't mechanically urge me on; everything felt natural. There were no distractions around us. I should have continued, but instead, I stroked her face and softly said, "Is this enough?" A hint of hesitation flashed in her eyes, probably worried I wouldn't pay enough. I smiled, removed the dry condom, patted her plump bottom, and accurately retrieved my wallet from the darkness, asking, "How much?" She finally smiled—a smile that wasn't just the kind you see when you see money, at least that's what I thought. I pressed four bills onto her three outstretched fingers, and her eyes were full of approval. Many men are intoxicated by this kind of approval.
She jumped out of bed, ran to turn on the light, and after my eyes went numb, I naturally looked at her firm chest, not noticing her lower abdomen that she hadn't let me touch earlier. She smiled brightly, opening the wardrobe as she said, "I'll change into something nice before I go back." I slowly put on my pants, and she was already dressed up in a gray tracksuit and white tennis shoes. She jumped a few times in front of me, laughing and asking, "Does it look good?" At that time, she was definitely a child.
When I got out of bed, she started making the bed. I looked around the empty room; although there wasn't much, everything was tidy. She made the bed even tidier, then carefully folded the clothes she had changed out of and placed them at the foot of the bed.
This time, neither of us went to the bathroom to shower. I gave her one of my cards, which many people considered foolish at the time, and I still think it's foolish now. She also gave me her pager number. She walked
out of the complex with her arm around my right arm. She was laughing and talking loudly with the security guard, who just smiled and thanked me. I didn't feel bad. I hadn't had an orgasm, but I wasn't disappointed with this time. Also, I liked her walking beside me like this.
Back at the karaoke bar, she sat on my lap the whole time, holding my neck tightly as she sang. She sang beautifully. My friends noticed something was off again and laughed. The friend who had come up to the room with me started bragging about how long I lasted, while the others teased me about being entangled and unable to escape. It was all a mess, but I felt neither joy nor impatience. I just felt like I didn't belong in the room; only my body was pressed against hers. The laughter, the singing, the dim neon lights—none of it belonged to me. I felt I should take a walk with her by the river; I hadn't felt that desire in a long time.
She sang and whispered to her companion, probably about tonight's haul. I noticed her companion looking at me with respect. I definitely didn't look like a magnanimous man; even I would agree when I looked in the mirror. But I had earned that respect. But in this situation, what difference did it make whether a man was magnanimous or foolish? What difference did it make whether a woman's respectful gaze was different from the gaze of someone staring at a soft fish? I didn't mind too much because I could buy some feelings and some long-lost desires with money, which made me temporarily forget other things.
As I finished singing "The Sea" at the top of my lungs, I left the stage. She helped me carry my heavy handbag out of "Red Rose," humming a Zhang Yusheng song. I remember her asking what was in my bag that was so heavy, but I couldn't recall what was in it. The surrounding late-night food stalls were doing better and better, the lights in the night seemed to grow brighter and brighter, and I was getting further and further away from her. I gave a final salute to the women who had stood at the crossroads watching us leave, not thinking that my farewell words were too few, and let my figure disappear around the corner.
On the way back, some people eagerly inquired about what had happened between us, some noticed the strange look in my eyes and warned me not to get involved with this kind of woman, and some began to regret bringing me to this side of the river.
I faced the river wind and confessed that I hadn't started to care about her today, but that I had rediscovered the feeling of love today.
Whether dirty or clean, I thanked her first. ( II) November 20, 1997
I was still working on my computer in the shop when the phone rang. Her soft, slightly fuzzy voice came through, speaking broken Cantonese. I knew it was her immediately. She said, "It's getting cold, be careful not to catch a cold, remember to wear an extra layer..." I replied, "Ah, thank you so much, you're so kind." In my mind's eye, I thought, "Please don't ask me to come over, I'm broke. I almost spent all my salary that night." She said, "It's nothing, just saying hello. That's all, goodbye." " The phone call ended, and my heart skipped a beat. I felt this was a bit off from normal professional conversation, but at the same time, I admired her skillful technique. But I'm not some big fish, I can be absolutely certain of that without even looking in a mirror. Silence. November 23, 1997. I continued typing on the computer, and the phone rang again, this time for two minutes. November 24, 1997. I was typing on the computer, and the phone rang again, much longer. We switched from Cantonese to Mandarin, from her calling to me asking for a public phone number to call back, from her greeting me to me greeting her, from the weather to grocery shopping and cooking. November 25, 1997. " I placed her pager number on the table and dialed it without much internal struggle. It was the first time I'd ever called her. She answered quickly, and I called again. That's how it started. From that day on, I began to like her, to care about her. I needed a woman to be with me, to comfort me and let me comfort her, to talk to me and make me feel like a man, to help me rediscover some of the romantic feelings I'd seemingly lost, feelings I subconsciously craved. She didn't charge me, and she didn't charge me extra in the future; the phone company did. Later, I called her at night, and she answered much later. The surrounding noise was deafening, filled with loud music and off-key voices. I knew she was at work; her tone was hurried. I didn't bother her much. A slight annoyance washed over me when I hung up, but it vanished quickly, replaced by a vague worry and concern. I'm very clear about my feelings; I never run away from them. Everything is subtle and natural. She and I are from two different worlds. I seem to always prefer liking people from another world. But at that moment, my heart was calm. My understanding and empathy for her profession was no less than those who worked in it; the only thing I had more of was compassion. (font楷体-gb2312) Days passed in a repetitive cycle. Finally, she said she wanted to come see me, see my company, and have some fun at my place. I didn't hesitate and agreed immediately. I waited for her all afternoon and prepared some money for the necessary expenses, including food, drinks, and sex. She didn't come, later telling me she had something to do and would come the next day. The next afternoon, she arrived and called me from a nearby phone booth, asking me to pick her up because she didn't know the way. When I saw her, she was wearing a black bodysuit and light purple jeans, without makeup. As soon as she saw me, she hooked her arm around mine. There were many people on the street, and I don't know if I was afraid someone would see us, but actually, I was afraid of my own mental barrier and wanted to avoid her. She immediately got angry, glaring at me fiercely and yelling, "What's wrong? You're my boyfriend, and you're not even allowed to hook your arm?" "She was about to leave when I realized how fiery her temper was, and how inexplicably fiercely she insisted on fighting for her pride. I pulled her back, wrapped my arms around her waist, and she laughed, holding me tightly in return. We went back to the shop separately, and Ah Lian, who worked at the shop, kept covering her mouth as she watched us, mainly because she'd never seen me so intimate with a woman. She stared at Ah Lian, greeting her coldly, as if she disliked any single woman appearing alone near me. We climbed to the second floor, and she looked around my small but wonderful world, touching the computer and printer with incredible curiosity. The background music was Alex To's 'Don't Go': 'I wait for you in the rain, you laugh at me there, I'm holding on for you…' I thought if I fell in love with her, I would soon experience the feeling described in the song. " As we were entwined in the executive chair, my partner returned. He watched her feed me slices of orange with an expression that was practically like looking at an ape. I understood his feelings; he had been desperately hoping I would find a woman. I also understood my own feelings. How was I supposed to describe her profession to him? Fortunately, my partner, who had been sitting on pins and needles, scurried away after twenty minutes. Although he interrogated me for almost two hours the next day, I finally managed to get rid of him with a cobbled-together answer that lasted three times as long. The happier he was for me, the deeper my guilt grew.

(font楷体-gb2312) It was December 6th. I told A-Lian to pack up and leave early. We hadn't eaten dinner, and we just snuggled together listening to music. She was typing on the keyboard on my lap, her eyes blankly staring at the screen. She knew nothing about computers, and many things in general. To me, she was like a primary school student—in fact, she hadn't even graduated from primary school yet. But when I held her, I didn't understand why I had such a strong urge. Maybe she was the body I wanted. "Men absolutely don't care about a woman's background or education," I completely agreed with that statement. I must admit that at that moment, my lust for her outweighed my feelings, but for some reason, we were deliberately avoiding each other while playing the roles of a customer and a prostitute.
I told her, "I want to do 'that' with you." She nodded. Then I turned off the light, unfolded the long folding recliner, arranged the pillows, and lay down with her. She obediently let me remove her clothes piece by piece until she was naked, though she insisted on taking off her pants herself. This time she didn't give me a condom; we were completely and utterly united. For some reason, I wasn't afraid—afraid of catching any diseases I might have. I didn't touch her lower abdomen again; I simply pressed my own abdomen tightly against hers, our pubic hair intertwined, even our toes entwined. She wrapped her arms around my neck, I around her waist, and I moved gently. She didn't respond, not even a professional moan, only a low murmur. This nearly one hour felt wonderful; my whole body trembled with excitement even more than with my previous girlfriends. The sounds of cars on the street seemed to fall silent, the reading from the neighboring school sounding like accompaniment. I don't know why I reacted so strongly to such a body. I began to understand why arranged marriages could produce feelings; most of my feelings for her began at this moment. As I neared climax, she gave me her lips, a long, wet kiss. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I knew it was a gift from her; she would never have another orgasm, at least I couldn't give her one. But she knew what I needed. I can't describe how I felt then. I wasn't dying; I was just grateful because sex so desperately needs lips, but their lips are naturally repelled by men's. I felt a profound, unbridled pleasure, and at that moment, I felt selfish, guilty for not being able to give her that experience. Instead, she looked at me openly, slowly wiping away the fluid flowing from her body. Her eyes held neither joy nor pain, but a
maternal love like that of someone looking at a child. She could see the genuine satisfaction on my face. My fingers finally touched her lower abdomen. She involuntarily flinched, but didn't pull away. She took my hand and gently stroked that mysterious place for her. What I felt was a slightly raised scar.
"It's from a C-section."
I was a little surprised. "Where's the baby?"
"At home. Can I bring him out?"
I lowered my head. "How old is he this year?"
"Five years old."
"You gave birth when you were eighteen?" She nodded.
"Where's the father?"
She didn't answer, and I was speechless too. I just gently hugged her tighter, and she gave me a rare hug, draping one leg over my waist. I breathed slowly, without much sympathy. I only knew that no matter what, everyone suffers, and everyone is born to do this kind of thing.
She rested her head on my shoulder and told me her story: how she suffered at home, how she couldn't resist running away, how she started working at a karaoke bar because the work was too tiring and the pay too low; how her father and stepmother argued, how her father got cancer; how her older brother was such a disappointment, having bought a wife for five thousand dollars only to have her run away, and how he chased her all the way here; how good her grandmother was to her, how she sent thousands of dollars home every month just for her grandmother, who raised her child and also shared some with her father; how the house she was living in now was a gift from a Hong Kong man, and how that Hong Kong man abandoned her. She laughed whenever she talked about her child, laughed like a child, and that was the only thing I believed about her—that she did have a child.
Around 11:00, she got dressed to leave. She could still catch her next event, so I wasn't too reluctant to leave. I gave her fifty dollars for the bus fare, nothing else, and she didn't ask for anything. She hugged me, smiled, got into the bus, and said she'd call me when she got home.
When I got home, my pager rang. It was still music and a distorted voice on the other end. She loudly told me she was home, and that the taxi driver wanted to chase after her. I gave her a loud kiss on the phone, then hung up, laughing like a child in the darkness. I knew I was about to fall in love with her. I didn't know if I could love a woman like the men in movies or novels. I felt relatively calm at that time, even though many people would have thought it was the most dangerous moment.
December 13, 1997.
Many things at the company weren't yet on track, and I was busy. I didn't use the computer as much, but I made more phone calls, though not to her. She only called once a day, and they were all very short. She was also busy, and it seemed there were some things I didn't have the energy to understand. (
font楷体-gb2312) I was a little free that day, and although I'd kept her profession a secret from many people, I couldn't hide it from my friends from the beginning. My friend Jun and those other friends had no secrets, and I planned to let Jun meet her and give me some advice, even though no one would support me being with her. She
arrived before Jun and still wanted me to pick her up. It seemed she only knew about the Tianhe Sports Center and wouldn't ask about anything else. This time she was even more plain, wearing a men's jacket and black tight-fitting leggings, looking like a little boy from a distance. Her face was a bit pale, and as soon as we met, she complained that her stomach had been bothering her for the past few days. She still clung tightly to me, as if if she let go, I would run away, and she would be all alone and unable to go back. I laughed and said I didn't want people to see me hugging a man, and told her not to get so close. She got angry again and hit me hard, but this time she didn't try to leave. She was really angry, so I could only hold onto her jacket and see A-Lian covering her mouth again.
Then Jun arrived. After a few pleasantries, we ate hot pot, which was dog meat. She diligently poured tea and washed the dishes for us, saying that these were the things women should do. She loudly argued with a poorly served waiter and excitedly chatted with some fellow villagers whose accents she recognized. She wasn't lonely, but at this moment, she was more like a housewife. Jun quietly watched from the side as she fed me piece by piece, drank with us, and talked about her feelings. She didn't show much displeasure or happiness. That's because he could accept this woman, but he was also worried, worried that she had lied to him, even though neither of us knew what I had that was worth lying about. Actually, if I were him, I would feel the same way, but that was enough, enough for me to know that someone still understood me. After dinner
, Jun said goodbye, and we went back to the company. I said, "Don't leave tonight, let's sleep together," and she agreed. I brought my guitar back to the company and played for her, telling her some romantic things, but she ignored me completely, only wanting me to sing some pop songs. Later, I put down the guitar, hugged her, and rubbed her breasts. She got angry and scolded me fiercely, saying that I only knew how to have sex with her and that I absolutely couldn't touch her tonight because she had her period. I laughed. I completely admitted that I was interested in her body, but there was one thing I was equally clear about: my interest in her was no longer limited to sex.
During our argument, I somehow steered the conversation towards whether I believed her. She repeatedly insisted that I didn't trust her, that being with her was just about sex, and that I'd always treated her like a prostitute. We ended up sitting back-to-back, sulking for a good ten minutes. Finally, I couldn't hold it in any longer and got angry, so I showed her a letter I'd written to a friend—basically, a piece I'd published called "My Feelings Back Then." Of course, her Chinese wasn't good enough to understand it, but she believed I'd had a girlfriend before, and we'd broken up.
I told her that no matter what I said, she'd think I was just trying to trick her into sleeping with me; the implication was that I'd doubt everything she said, which was inherently contradictory and normal.
Then she asked if I liked her, and I nodded, nodding to her and to myself. She then asked why I didn't take her home. I remained silent, which made her even angrier, and she hit me.
Finally, I said, "When the time is right, I'll definitely take you back." This sounded like a line from a movie, but her reply was anything but. She pointed at me fiercely and said, word by word, "If I come back next time and you don't take me home, I'll never speak to you again!" I was moved by her anger and surprised by my own fear—I was actually afraid she would ignore me. She seemed to see the look in my eyes, and suddenly softened, even making the bed for me.
I held her tightly, and she repeatedly told me not to move, but my hands didn't move at all. We began to recount our feelings about our first meeting. She said she particularly disliked me, disliked me from the first sight, thought I was sleazy, thin, and not handsome. She had originally chosen one of my friends, but ended up assigning him to me. I told her I didn't hate her either, that she had no professional ethics whatsoever. She shifted slightly, chuckled, and replied, "If you don't like it, stay away." As I pulled her small shoulders tighter, I suddenly felt a surge of happiness, a feeling that rose like a bubble from the conflicted, remorseful, and extremely unsettled emotions of a man who had fallen for a prostitute, only to quickly vanish from the completely blank international map I was staring at.
We continued our game of rock-paper-scissors and singing until we drifted off to sleep.
It was my first time spending the night with a woman, and I didn't fall asleep so easily. I watched her shoulders rise and fall, occasionally letting out a cough and a groan. I knew her "woman's disease" was acting up again, but all I could do was wrap her up tighter in the blanket.
What else could I do? I stood before the lamplight reflecting off the darkness, my beloved nestled in my arms. I'd only known her for about twenty days. How many men like me had dreamed of pulling their lovers out of the mire? But how many had the courage? And even among those who did, how many persevered to victory? I exhaled, mingling with her cough. In the dim light, her slender shoulder twitched. My heart was so close to hers, our heartbeats and breaths in sync. In that instant, she seemed to sense my anxiety, while I sensed her peace
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