Going out on vacation to find married women

page views:1 Publication date:2022-09-28

On the last day of the holiday, I took a thousand yuan to her place. She said she had drunk a lot of beer with her girlfriends the day before yesterday, and I was a little puzzled by her behavior: "Why are you treating yourself like this? You just had a medical abortion, and your body hasn't fully recovered yet." "To be honest, I feel terrible, I'm always at a loss, and I can only rely on alcohol to relieve my worries." "What's bothering you? Tell me quickly." "A lot, a lot, you can't understand it right now." I gave her the money, and she didn't say anything, gesturing for me to put it on the table. I hugged her, and she said, "Are you bored when you're with me? You're not good at talking, you don't have a sense of humor, and we can't even have sex." "No, I'm very happy when I'm with you. Being together doesn't necessarily mean having sex." "Are you free this afternoon?" she asked. "Why?" "I'll cook for you this afternoon." Maybe she was sleepy, because she fell asleep after a while. Feeling bored, I picked up a magazine and flipped through it randomly. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. She got up, picked up the intercom by the door, and asked who it was. Of course, I couldn't hear what the other person was saying, only that she said, "You've got the wrong place." She put the receiver down and went back to bed, but the doorbell kept ringing. I thought someone was playing a prank, so I said, "Let me go down and see." She quickly stopped me, saying, "Never mind him, he'll stop ringing when he's had enough." I was a little puzzled. After a while, someone started knocking on the door, repeatedly calling out "Wang Ling, Wang Ling." It was a typical Cantonese man's voice. It seemed this person really had the wrong address. I knew her name wasn't Wang Ling. I wanted to open the door and explain, but she gestured for me to be quiet. In that instant, I felt she knew the man knocking. Throughout our relationship, we adhered to the rules. I never told her my name, and she never asked. Although I knew her name from the business card she gave me, I never called her that. We always addressed each other as "darling" or "baby," and in public, we'd at most say "hello." Wasn't her name the one printed on the business card? The man outside probably got tired of knocking and stopped, but a few minutes later, the doorbell started ringing again. He ran upstairs, knocked, and then ran back down to ring the doorbell, repeating this three times. He must have been sweating profusely, and it took half an hour before it finally became quiet outside. During this time, she dared not make a sound, even tiptoeing to the bathroom, afraid that someone outside would hear anything. Actually, the person outside already knew someone was inside when they rang the intercom, which is why they were able to persist. About ten more minutes passed, and there was no more knocking. The man probably gave up, realizing there was no hope of getting the door open. I felt like her affair had driven her into a dead end, and I also sensed that her relationship with that man was more than just casual; it was just that he hadn't followed the rules and had become an unwelcome guest. Even she complained that he hadn't called first, which made me feel terrible and embarrassed for her. "Do you know him?" I asked, a pang of sadness in my heart. Perhaps feeling that this reality was unavoidable, she thought for a moment and carefully chose her words before answering, "He's a man who likes me." Just as I expected, I continued, "How long have you been seeing each other?" "Before you, he only treated me to two meals, nothing else." This was clearly an attempt to cover something up. How could someone who had only eaten two meals with me be so persistent, shameless, and knock on my door in the hallway for so long? Nobody believed her. After a two-minute silence, I said, "From now on—I'm not going to contact you anymore." I thought about these words carefully, afraid that they would upset her, but I still took a deep breath and said them. “We really have nothing going on, we just had two meals together. He’s the kind of guy who’s just playing around, I can’t be with him.” At this point, I felt she was being a bit promiscuous, but I forced myself to continue: “What I mean is, I’m a married man, I can’t get a divorce, and we won’t have any future. You’ll eventually have to find a boyfriend and get married, and continuing like this will only hinder your happiness.” “But you’re my only pillar of support,” she said, and I was actually a little moved by what she said. She continued, “He’s not really anyone to me, it’s like I’m really having an affair. Will you come again? I feel like you won’t.” “Not necessarily, I just don’t want to affect your life,” I said. “You really won’t come again?” She looked up and asked as I was about to leave. “No, I’m just busy next week, I won’t have much free time.” I put on my shoes, and this time I didn’t turn around to kiss her as usual, I just said goodbye in a flat tone. “Goodbye.” Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. Maybe she didn’t want to say it. A petite woman, facing two men she was about to meet, perhaps her heart was in turmoil, very turmoil. I didn't see anyone waiting outside her door. Perhaps the man who had knocked had already lost patience and left; maybe he felt hurt; maybe he was still completely confused, thinking the woman was just unhappy and didn't want to see him; maybe he was relieved that he could now go find another woman without any burden. And I, perhaps, had become a complete third party, a shining third wheel, ruining what should have been their passionate and romantic afternoon. I climbed the stairs, one step at a time, but didn't see any man waiting downstairs. A chill suddenly ran through me, and I listlessly walked home. Back in my apartment complex, I didn't go straight home. Instead, I found a wooden chair and sat down, my mind still racing. I wrote a text message to send her: "I made a serious mistake today. I shouldn't have gone to your place. Why did I go? I just couldn't resist seeing you. I never imagined it would lead to such a terrible mistake. In fact, I had already foreseen many things, but I just refused to believe it. I was burying my head in the sand, probably because I like you too much. Actually, I'm not really anyone to you. At most, I'm just a peripheral figure, someone who can understand you on a spiritual level, someone who likes you. Because I'm not anyone, anything I say would be superfluous." After writing it, I revised it, thinking for a moment, and added the salutation "Darling" to avoid making her feel too distant. This long message showed as three pages when I sent it. I figured she wouldn't reply quickly. Her phone was off because she was afraid to answer the call from that man earlier. I didn't receive her reply until around 10 p.m.: "I'm sorry, darling. Any explanation is empty, but my love for you is real." If we weren't very close, that man wouldn't have acted that way. Only she knew how close we really were. My personal views are quite open-minded. I don't object to having lovers, and I can have several, but it should be done one at a time, not all at once. Frequent emotional shifts are a very troublesome thing, especially for women. By nature, women don't switch emotions as easily as changing TV channels; there's a huge inertia involved. I can't forget that night last month when I texted her all night, but she didn't reply. I called her at 3 a.m., but her phone was off. I was worried sick all night. On my way to work the next day, I called again, still no reply. An hour later, I called again, and finally, her phone was on, but she was on the phone. Where did she go all night? It's a very uncomfortable memory. I'm starting to see her in a new light, and I even dislike her a little. To hell with love, to hell with emotional support! This woman, though not talkative, is eloquent and knows what men want to hear. She said her experiences had been very difficult, and I said, "Could you tell me about it?" She said, "No, that's my privacy." She said she had written about her experiences and found a magazine editor who was willing to pay her tens of thousands of yuan for her writing. But at the last minute, she refused, saying, "I can't sell my privacy to others." I thought that no matter how difficult a woman's experiences are, they can't escape the realm of emotions. Perhaps she's been hurt in a relationship, or even raped. It's best not to ask, but maybe these traumas have caused her psychological problems. I suddenly felt that she was a woman not to be trifled with, and that I was walking step by step into a well-designed trap, but I didn't know what that trap was. This hot southern city only began to cool down at the end of October. Standing in the air felt very comfortable, a gentle breeze blowing, pleasant yet tinged with ambiguity. Passersby hurried by, all rushing to work. I drove to a hotel in the city center to pick up some American guests for a visit to my company. Outside the hotel, several pretty girls were haggling with a taxi driver, trying to share a taxi home. They had probably just finished a long night's get off work and wanted to save money on their earnings. In the hotel lobby, a sexy, slender blonde woman walked back and forth. Her light blue jeans accentuated her alluring figure, drawing the attention of all the guests, both Chinese and foreign. She didn't look like a guest staying at the hotel; she seemed more like she was looking for someone than trying to seduce them. Nearby, a very tall foreign man in a yellow t-shirt was constantly texting. After some back and forth, the person he was waiting for finally arrived—a woman who, at first glance, was only two-thirds his height.But then a voluptuous Chinese woman walked in, said a few words to him in English, and then the two of them walked hand in hand into the elevator. Ten minutes later, I picked up my client and drove wildly towards the company along the highway. Sometimes the company didn't have enough drivers, so occasionally I would personally drive these "gods" of the company, provided they were my clients. My job was relatively flexible; when I wasn't busy, I would wander around and explore the new things in the city. When she wasn't working, I would go to her place, and we would get together and have sex. When I was calm, I would think, what right do I have to interfere in someone else's private life? As long as I'm well taken care of, what does it matter to me what she does? I always remind myself like a philosopher or educator: play around, do as much as you want, but don't go too deep, especially in matters of the heart. Why does my damn brain not listen to me at crucial moments? Occasionally, I heard her say that she would go to a clinic near her residence for IV drips; probably her medical abortion hadn't completely healed yet and she needed to consolidate it. I asked her what kind of IV she was getting, and she said it was amino acids. Sometimes she would mention bleeding down there, and her description was quite amusing: "Another bright red stain on my white underwear." It was like a poem written in a hazy, poetic style. I couldn't be too heartless, so I had to offer words of comfort: "Get some rest, honey. Your health is the most important thing; everything else is secondary. I really wish I could shed this precious blood for you, but there's nowhere for it to flow. It's my fault that you, a girl struggling to make a living, are experiencing such emotional turmoil and haven't been able to recover properly. This will never happen again; I'll treat you well." After reading these touching words, she also reflected on herself: "Thank you, dear. You reap what you sow; I have to bear the consequences of my own mistakes." When the car arrived at the company, I ran into A-Yi before even going upstairs. He looked dejected and said, "I'm out of work. The boss has handed over all my tasks to others." I said, "That's a good thing! Weren't you always thinking about just getting paid without doing anything? Look, your dream has come true without you even realizing it. Be happy about it!" "Don't joke around. What's there to be happy about?" "What? Are you going to be fired?" "Maybe. I know too much." He really thinks he's something special. He thinks he knows too much? Does he think he's some kind of informant for the mafia, about to be silenced? A-Yi asked, "Are you still seeing that girl?" "Rarely." "Brother, listen to me, stop now. You may not be young anymore, but you're still a novice when it comes to relationships. She's a seasoned player. A middle-aged man like you, with a wife, kids, and a relatively successful career, can't afford to play this game, and you can't afford to lose." A-Yi, though rough, was right. I thought, there's no need to deliberately say goodbye. I have my own strategy: create a transition period, let things cool down slowly, and then I'll gracefully withdraw, rediscovering my lost self. For her, it won't be sudden, nor will it cause too much emotional turmoil—it's perfectly human, good for both of us. That evening, I treated my guests to dinner at the city's most upscale restaurant. During the meal, several Americans kept praising the Chinese food. I said, "If it's good, eat more." That sounded like a food advertisement. Emerging from the restaurant, I found myself surrounded by brightly lit streets. I glanced at my watch; it was nearly nine o'clock. Suddenly, I felt a bit tired—it had been a busy day. Fortunately, the guests were very satisfied with the company, so we sat down for substantive negotiations. The boss concluded by saying that today had been very fruitful and that I should treat the guests well that evening. After dropping them off at their hotel, I found a place to park and headed towards a newly opened leisure center. I went in, took a shower, then a steam room, rinsed off the moisture, and changed clothes. The manager at the door warmly led me into the room. I lay on the bed and waited quietly. Then a tall, burly girl with dark skin walked in. I guessed she was the massage therapist the center had assigned to me. She bowed and said, "Sir, may I serve you today?" Although I wasn't satisfied, I was too lazy to change, so I nodded listlessly, "Okay." To be honest, I felt a bit cheated to have such an average-looking girl touching me like that. I wasn't interested in talking to her. While she was massaging me, I let her knead and rub me, but it didn't arouse any excitement in me. Eventually, she also became quite bored. I closed my eyes for a short nap when my phone beeped. It was a text from her: "Are you home?" Of course not, but I couldn't exactly say I was getting a massage. I had to come up with another excuse. The best thing about texting is that it gives you plenty of time to think. Many people who are not good with words write exceptionally well-crafted texts, thanks to this time difference. "I'm having dinner with clients." She didn't reply as quickly as usual. Did she think my reply was too abrupt? I waited a while longer, but still no reply. I felt she didn't enjoy texting with me as much as before. Maybe she didn't know what to talk about anymore, or maybe we had grown distant. Actually, I didn't know what to talk about with her either. This leisure center was nicely decorated; the massage therapists said it was the most luxurious and largest in the area, with over two hundred rooms. I noticed the therapists' uniforms were quite distinctive: short-skirted cheongsams that exposed a lot of their chests. When the therapists bent their heads or lifted their legs during massages, glimpses of their cleavage were inevitable. When I came out of the shower room, I saw some therapists walking in the corridor; some looked very sexy, with deep cleavage that was quite eye-catching; the more conservative ones wore tight-fitting underwear under their cheongsams to avoid any exposure. The therapists said they were reluctant to wear these uniforms, as they had to make many large movements while massaging clients, which was extremely inconvenient. The leisure center hadn't consulted them when making the uniforms, and they all seemed bewildered when they received them; many had never worn such revealing clothing before. I asked if the uniforms were meant to attract customers, and she said that's what their manager thought too. While paying the bill, I overheard two people commenting on their experience. One asked, "How was it?" The other replied, "It was just so-so." "I think we should just make do. Most legitimate leisure centers do this. Many men like to have the masseuses help them with their physical needs when they get a massage at a leisure center. Men's physiology is strange like that; every few days they get uncomfortable and need to find a place to release their pent-up desires. Of course, they can do this openly with their wives, but most men prefer the side door to the main entrance. The feeling of releasing their pent-up desires with other women is certainly fresher and more exciting, so many men enjoy it. This is why more and more leisure centers are opening up. Legitimate leisure centers are called 'legitimate venues' in the industry. Venues where you can use your hands to release pent-up desires are called 'small flying venues,' and venues where you can have sex are called 'large flying venues.' The owners of large and small flying venues usually have powerful backers; at least the police are on their side." The city's leisure industry is highly developed, with leisure centers springing up like mushrooms after rain. Due to fierce competition, saunas and massages, originally a luxury for the wealthy, have gradually become more accessible to the general public. Previously, masseuses could earn a lot of money, but now it's barely enough to make ends meet. A massage therapist's income is generally based on hourly commission plus tips from customers, with no base salary or job security. Sometimes, they are even subject to deductions by the boss. Everything depends on their strength and looks. If they become physically weak or old, they should leave as soon as possible. If they can't find a better job—the reason they chose this profession is precisely because they can't find a better one—then while working as a masseuse, they should find a man willing to provide long-term financial support, provided that they are attractive to him and willingly provide him with satisfying sexual services. Otherwise, they can only return to their hometown, which they no longer respect, with regret. With more stingy commoners frequenting the industry, the technicians' tip income naturally decreases. The meager hourly commissions leave them with a bittersweet feeling, but it's still far better than working in the sweatshops scattered throughout the Pearl River Delta. The work is relatively easier, the working conditions are better than most factories, and the income is naturally higher. If they're attractive, they might even meet a devoted man who's willing to pay them—whether he'll be their mistress, concubine, or wife, it's up to him to choose. The only downside to this line of work is the public's inherent prejudice against it. Prejudice and contempt always view things through a biased lens. Although people are happy to gather in small groups to enjoy themselves, this profession, where men are constantly being touched, is still deeply despised. Even the women themselves are reluctant to talk about their work. You can ask any of them; at least when they call home, they'll tell their families that they work in a restaurant or a factory and are doing well, so please don't worry. They won't say they're a massage therapist at a leisure center—the kind of woman often mentioned in negative news stories, the kind that sounds extremely offensive. I occasionally go to a leisure center for a massage when I'm extremely tired. I enjoy real massages; a full session leaves my muscles relaxed and my mind refreshed.Relax completely. The massage therapist serving you should be sweating profusely and panting, not just chatting, taking the opportunity to slack off, and then asking for a tip afterwards. I don't like it when they offer me so-called sexual services during a massage. Although this is extremely rare in reputable leisure centers, and some frivolous girls are willing to do so—of course, they're doing it to earn more tips—in such cases, I usually ask for a different therapist. Sex, whether it's a service or not, should be based on a certain level of affection. Only such sex can bring a truly satisfying experience for both body and mind. You can call me old-fashioned, or even mentally ill, but I will always hold this view. I find myself still thinking about her, and the man she had an affair with—that's what I used to think. I never actually witnessed them having an affair; all my assumptions were baseless guesses. I need to correct my previous judgments about them. As the days go by, my longing for her grows stronger, and the negative impression I have of her fades. I went to see her as before. She opened the door with a smile, and we embraced and engaged in sexual activity until the heart-pounding climax arrived. I almost forgot about the man who had cast a shadow over us. Being with her was so pleasant, so exhilarating. Where else could I find this feeling? People always think infidelity is wrong, but who can endure a life without desire for long? Under the weight of morality, you either endure it or you're wrong. I wavered between enduring and wrong, but at each point, one side always had the upper hand. My relationship with my wife remained unchanged, but it didn't worsen either. I didn't know why she was like this. I even avoided mentioning sex in front of her, lest she accuse me of being lustful. Did she really have some problem? Maybe she had already found a way to satisfy her sexual desires without my help. We just lived our lives peacefully day after day. Wasn't this good? There's a saying that goes, "Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Do we really have to be like those characters in TV dramas, constantly going through twists and turns, spending all our time dealing with relationship problems? Excluding all distractions and unpleasant thoughts, living a peaceful life with one wife and one concubine—just to give an example—wouldn't that be quite enjoyable? She was good to me, and I reciprocated. One day, I told her, "I want you to feel secure. I want to save some money for you as your retirement fund." I spoke very seriously, my expression and tone formal. She smiled and nodded. I continued, "I plan to open an account and deposit a certain amount of money into it every month. In ten or twenty years, the amount will be quite substantial. When you need it, I'll give it to you for your retirement." She seemed touched, but also worried: "When I get old and ugly, you'll hate me." I comforted her, saying, "No, I'll take care of you for the rest of my life, whether you're married or not. Of course, you'll have to support yourself when you're young. If you find a husband and you're happy together, you might not come looking for me." "Then when we're old, we can use that money for a round-the-world trip." Her suggestion was excellent, but too far-fetched. I had this idea a few days ago, and I felt it was feasible. Today, I formally told her, as a promise to her. A man like me, having worked for over ten years, changed jobs several times, and now, I have everything I need, a stable family life, and I feel hopeless about promotion at work. In short, I lack the motivation to move forward. But a person without motivation, once given new motivation, will still choose to strive. This promise, at least, adds a sense of responsibility and concern to my heart, keeping something active in my mind, constantly urging me forward like a carp leaping out, spurring me on, helping me overcome laziness, and encouraging me to work hard. This month, I deposited two thousand yuan into that newly opened savings account; of course, the account is in my name. Overall, it's a suitable and safe plan. It's apt because I was determined to make her my lover for life, and she wanted the same. What women ultimately seek is a man who loves them and the security that comes with it. "No one has ever been this good to me," she said with a touch of emotion. I replied, "Then let me be the first, so you can live a life without worries." It's rare to find such a relationship in one's lifetime; to give up easily would be like a great man dying before achieving his goal. It's safe because the money is in my hands. Even if something unexpected happens in the future, I won't lose everything; at most, I can use the money to start a small business. A man in his thirties isn't as impulsive as a young man. He cares for her while leaving a way out, he attacks while remaining defensive—it's a well-planned adventure, not just a gamble for the sake of adventure. I don't know why I sometimes think about her so passionately, considering everything for her, and planning her future. I'm very concerned about whether she has other men. Although I've often said in bed with great composure that I hope she'll marry well, sometimes the thought of this soft, affectionate woman lying in my arms eventually leaving me fills me with sadness. The more we discuss this topic, the more unhappy she seems: "What do you mean? Do you hate me? Are you eager to sell me off?" It's strange; I don't particularly care whether my wife has affairs. I don't know if this is normal, and I don't know if she has similar thoughts. For most men, even after the seven-year itch and no longer loving their wives, they don't want them to cheat. What's the reason for this? Maybe living with my wife for so long has become too bland. How else can I explain it? We both now see each other as partners raising children, not as loving partners. We used to love each other passionately, but now that love has faded like time. The promises I made to her have already broken the rules of the game, which means I'm deeply involved, and it will become increasingly difficult to get out. When it comes to affairs, the man involved usually thinks it's best to enjoy the process without any consequences, everyone having their fun and then going their separate ways. While people like me do exist, they are rare. The most typical example is Prince Charles of the British royal family, who maintained a 30-year affair with Camilla, ultimately leaving his tens of millions of dollars estate to her. When his two sons questioned why he didn't leave it to them, who needed the money more, Prince Charles replied, "That's my own business." Women, however, are very different from men. From what I've heard and read, most women seem to need consequences, which is probably related to women's personality and their often vulnerable position in society. I once read about a woman complaining online that because she was divorced, she no longer believed in marriage and found a lover, a university professor with a high income but who was very stingy. He not only didn't support her financially, but she also mostly paid for their extramarital affairs. This made her hesitant about the relationship, yet she couldn't leave him, suspecting that he was only interested in sex. Women are born with a natural tendency to seek support and stability. Although they may be hesitant to express it openly due to embarrassment, this desire is deeply ingrained and innate. In a relationship, a woman may not think much at the beginning, but as time goes on, it's hard to guarantee she won't have thoughts. "We've been together for so long, there has to be something in return, something tangible. You can't give me stability, but you should at least provide some financial support." Sex is temporary; love is also finite; only material things are reliable and eternal—this seems to align well with Marxist dialectical materialism's theory of matter and consciousness. It's been almost a month since she started taking her medication. Seeing her wearing sanitary pads again, I assumed she was bleeding again. "This time it's my period," she said definitively. I'm curious, how do women tell the difference? To me, all bleeding is blood. The timely arrival of her period indicated that the medical abortion was successful. We had been worried about this issue because medical abortions can sometimes result in retained tissue or incomplete embryo removal. In such cases, a dilation and curettage (D&C) procedure is required, essentially another surgical abortion. The failure rate of medical abortions is around 5%, so while this method is discreet, it carries inherent risks. Fortunately, it was successful again this time. After this abortion, we were hesitant to have sex with her again. The importance of condoms was brought back to our minds. Although clinical practice has shown them to be uncomfortable, no one wants to experience pregnancy again. Often, especially in these situations, we only realize the need to avoid or minimize sexual activity when problems arise, leading to the need for remedial measures. These are all common-sense practices, but they have their unpleasant drawbacks. However, the pleasure comes at the cost of other problems; it's a matter of what you're willing to sacrifice. The responsibility of buying condoms naturally fell to me. I was very reluctant to buy these things, but fortunately, many supermarkets and pharmacies are now designed to be user-friendly, knowing what you want to do and what you're embarrassed to do.What? You can choose your own condoms? You just pick one from the shelves and pay, avoiding the embarrassment of asking the clerk. It was noon, and I went to a small 24-hour convenience store. I always feel like I can't be too straightforward when buying these things. I wandered around the store absentmindedly for a bit, casually picking up a box of chocolates and a pack of chewing gum from the shelf. Just before paying, I casually grabbed a box of condoms. Condoms are usually placed next to the checkout counter. The cashier smiled and said, "Would you like a pack of cigarettes too?" I was puzzled by her question. Did people who buy condoms like to buy a pack of cigarettes as well? I don't deny that smoking a cigarette after sex can relax the nerves and relieve fatigue, but it seemed a bit inappropriate for the cashier to say that. It was as if she had seen through my privacy. I felt extremely uncomfortable; my face was burning, and I wanted to pay and leave as soon as possible. “I know you,” she persisted, becoming even more aggressive. She then called me by name: “We were colleagues, actually. I used to work at the same company as you, but I quit and went back to my hometown. After I came back, I found a job here.” “Ah, ah, hello.” I didn’t know what to say to her, feeling incredibly awkward that an acquaintance had seen me buying condoms, even though I had absolutely no recollection of her. “You definitely don’t know me. You’re in a high position, while I’m just a lowly employee, but I know you.” I felt a strange mix of emotions, but still maintained a polite demeanor, asking, “Working here must be good, right?” “It’s alright, a little better than my old company.” She said, putting the items into a bag and giving me change. Just as I was about to leave, she added, “You can enter a prize draw when you buy something here.” “No thanks.” I wanted to leave quickly. "Give it a try, maybe you can even win some cosmetics to take home as a gift for your wife. I've seen your wife before, she's so beautiful! I was so envious when I saw you two walking together." What did she mean by that? It was really weird. She was probably thinking, why buy condoms at noon? Don't you work in the afternoon? Are you so desperate that you want them at noon? Does your wife happen to be off work in the afternoon? Or are you buying them to use on someone else? Seeing her enthusiastic manner, I felt embarrassed to leave immediately. "Okay, let's try it then." She took out the lottery box tool, which was a spinning wheel with a pointer in the middle. Around the pointer were listed the prizes, including drinks, food, cosmetics, and other inexpensive items. You spin the pointer, and whichever prize it lands on is yours. I spun the pointer; it spun wildly a few times before finally stopping on a can of Coke. I took the Coke she handed me and said, "Thank you." She said, "Hope you come often and support our business. We're old friends." I thought I'd never shop here again. The worst thing is being seen by an acquaintance buying something you don't want anyone to know, and that cashier actually shouted that she knew me like a megaphone. She's either an idiot or has ulterior motives. Could she be a gossip, spreading rumors about me buying condoms at her store, eventually reaching my wife's ears through various channels? I don't know how I'll explain it to her then. I can't exactly say I bought them for a colleague—doesn't my colleague have hands? Do you really need to buy condoms for her? Many things are like this: you think you've kept it a secret, but everyone finds out anyway, and you don't know why. It's not a big deal if others know, the key is that my wife can't know. When we arrived at her apartment, I told her about my experience buying condoms. She laughed for a while, then said, "You're a grown man, yet you're so suspicious. What are the chances that something like this would happen and reach your wife's ears? We were walking arm in arm on the street, and she didn't even notice." I said, "Are you hoping she finds out? We weren't arm in arm; we just held hands in private, and quickly let go when we got to a crowded place. The news is probably still on some gossip's lips; it hasn't reached her ears yet." She said, "Was that cashier who used to be your colleague secretly in love with you? Before, you weren't on equal footing at the company, and she never even had a chance to talk to you. Today, she finally got the chance and kept talking to you." I hadn't expected her to say that earlier... She was still laughing heartily, but now she's starting to get jealous of the cashier. I've never seen her jealous of my wife before. I said with a grin, "Maybe. I don't know what she thinks unless she says so. It's good that she has a crush on me; the more people who do, the better. I dream of having a harem, a different woman every day—that means I'm attractive." "A harem? Dream on! See how your little brother feeds them," she said, hitting the nail on the head, flicking her finger. She continued, "What does she look like? Pretty?" "So-so, looks a bit like Zhang Ziyi," I replied calmly. Honestly, that girl really did resemble Zhang Ziyi—a small, narrow face. Zhang Yimou would definitely be attracted to her. "So pretty! Did you fall for her on the spot?" she pressed. I said, "Do you think Zhang Ziyi is pretty? I've never seen anyone with such a flat chest." "I don't think she's pretty either, but she's a star. Having small breasts doesn't stop her from being a star, right? —Are you implying my chest is flat?" "No, your breasts are just the right size, not too big or too small. I mean, breasts aren't the most important factor. As long as you're willing to offer yourself, there's nothing you can't do." I put my hand inside her clothes and started rubbing her breasts as I spoke. She shook off my hand: "Stop changing the subject. Let's talk about that woman. I noticed her attitude towards you is very different. Is she trying to seduce you into having an affair with her?" I felt she was being a bit unreasonable today: "What do you mean, 'have an affair'? You're being so rude. Aren't you being too sensitive? If you keep this up, I won't talk to you anymore." I felt she had something on her mind, which was why she was behaving so strangely today. I asked softly, "Honey, what's wrong today? Did someone bully you?" She didn't try to hide anything and said, "He called again this morning and said he'd treat me to dinner tonight." "He" refers to the man who knocked on the door last time. Maybe they still have contact. "Great, someone's inviting you to dinner and you're not going? I want to eat but nobody's ever invited me." I was a little jealous, but I didn't want to interfere in her private life. She said, "Why don't you come with me?" "No, you should go alone. I have to give you face. It's not like I'm losing anything by having a meal. I've said it before, and I'll repeat it again today: if you meet someone good, don't miss the chance." She said, "Why do you always talk to me like that, as if I'm really going to never get married? Can't you change that habit?" "Change it? Forget about it. You're already so old. I'm doing this for your own good. You can't be with me forever. Go find someone who loves you and live a good life with him." She smiled, like a blooming chrysanthemum, and said, "No, I want you." That made me a little excited. I said, "Today I'm going to give you a good time." As I said that, I pushed her down. She groaned and reached for the ribbed condom I had bought today. She struggled to tear open the packaging, and like a blind man feeling an elephant, she put it on me. Then she pressed down hard with both hands, and I began my dreamlike journey into the abyss. [End of article]

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