A prostitute and a driver

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

"
Fly Me to the Moon"—I've never heard this song again, nor have I dared to.
That day, he sat in the passenger seat, and I sat in the back. I said, "Play this CD for me. I haven't listened to it since I bought it; this is the only version I've ever heard." He didn't say a word the whole way. It was a three-hour drive, from Taihe in Guangzhou's Baiyun District, across the Liede Bridge to my apartment, then to Guangzhou South Railway Station and finally to Ronggui in Foshan. His driver only reminded him at the critical checkpoints. He leaned against the window, half-asleep in the car. Every now and then, he would wake up and light a cigarette. A few Yellow Crane Tower cigarettes, their ash drifting past me through the window. It was the champagne-colored afternoon sunlight unique to Guangzhou. The evergreen banyan trees cast their shadows on the glass window. It was a bit like the overlapping light and shadow of a midnight bathroom.
Last night, we only made love once. He said he was tired, and I lay on top of him. He said, "Twist back and forth." His eyes were half-closed, seemingly looking at me, yet also seeming somewhat resistant. “Deeper.” He didn’t turn his head, just shifted his gaze. My heart sank. I leaned closer, wanting to kiss him. He stared into my eyes, our gazes meeting for a long time. “Remember, don’t kiss anyone. Don’t kiss any man in this line of work.” I said, “Because there will be love.” He didn’t argue; he remained silent. “But I want to kiss you.” In that instant, I was childishly naive. Obsessive, just to challenge someone’s limits. If I hadn’t wanted to push my limits, how would I have met him? Now that I’ve met him, why can’t I try to push others’ limits more? Seeing his refusal, I felt a little unwilling, yet ultimately, a desolate satisfaction. The fleeting feeling of love belonged to a certain part of my body. I stared intently at him. He said, “No.” His eyes were sharp and bright. The bright light unique to a man in his thirties.
He said, “Don’t tell anyone I slept with you.” I asked, “Have you slept with them?” He answered, “You’re different from them.” He paused, as if about to fall asleep. The light was still on, the steam from the bathroom spreading outside. Perhaps it would have been completely transparent before I even left the door. But in my world, nothing is transparent anymore. He closed his eyes and said, "We only did it once, and we'll never do it again in this lifetime." I asked, "Why only this once?" He said, "You don't belong to me." I asked, "Why do it only this once?" He didn't answer. He said, "Your personality will make you endure. —But you don't belong to me. You're different from other girls. Some girls are prettier than you, but only when I'm with you do I lose my luster… You can't be my secretary, even if you're very smart, you can't be my secretary."
He spoke haltingly, like talking to himself, in a voice both of us could hear clearly, with meticulous logic. I like talking to people with clear logic. I like rigorous structure and norms. I just don't like assumptions and limitations.
II.
That song played many times. I wonder if he noticed. He took me to the hotel, and his driver carried my luggage upstairs with me. He no longer looked at me; he sat down to the side. He handed me a cigarette. Still, he didn't say a word. I went to put on makeup, to try on clothes, to try on rooms. I stayed in the next room, and he didn't even glance at me. He couldn't bear to look at me. In his life, he would never again look at me with focused attention. He became sharp, indifferent, and disdainful.
I removed the double eyelid tape the makeup artist had applied. I asked the woman, "Why did you put it on?" They all had the same expression. Indifferent, as if from another world. "It'll make you look more energetic." How vulgar. I muttered to myself. Then I adjusted my eyeshadow to my favorite light brown. The older woman was a little impatient and asked, "Can you work today?" I said, "I want to try." She handed me a banana and said, "Practice your mouth." She handed me a condom and said, "Put it on the banana with your mouth. Don't use your hands, don't bite the banana." The process wasn't smooth. I felt no apprehension. I began to learn to be like them.
Joy was the realization that I was still alive.
I said, "I'm just trying it out." She said, "You'll get the hang of it with practice. You can learn the other services later. Now, after signing the contract, you can go to the waiting area. You'll try out the rooms with them in a bit." I nodded. After she finished speaking, she told me what to pay attention to during the trial. When you enter, you should say, "Hello, sir, welcome." When you leave without being chosen, you should say, "Goodbye, sir, have a good time." If you don't like any of the girls in a row, you should say, "Excuse me, sorry to bother you." I practiced walking with a girl next to me. Simply stepping apart. It doesn't matter if you walk the wrong way; in a row of people, everyone is crowded together, and no one will stare at you. There were
many beautiful girls. Girls with heavy makeup. Half of their buttocks swaying in the wind, their breasts exposed to the air. They were all wrapped in a thin layer of gauze. None of them were older. Girls born in the 90s. A short, chubby young lady pulled me over and asked me what year I was born. I answered, "1992." One of her eyelashes seemed about to fall off, because her eyeballs trembled slightly. She said, "I thought you were born in '93 or '94. You're tall, but you look younger than all the girls here." Before I could guess, she said she was born in '96. "There's a girl two years younger than her who lost her virginity to a customer here." She giggled, like a teru teru bozu (a Japanese doll that has bumped into a car window). "But there's a fourteen-year-old who has stretch marks when she lifts her clothes." "She's had children?" I feigned surprise. "Who knew she'd be so desperate." She seemed used to it, with a touch of mockery.
Nothing surprised me anymore. I observed this world with a sense of wonder, this utopia so out of place with reality, yet containing the deepest pain and reality within.
I found a black strapless dress. I've always been good at using clothes to hide the fact that I'm flat-chested. A slender girl sat casually on the sofa opposite me. She was about my height, dressed in a slightly office-lady style: a fuchsia sleeveless chiffon blouse, a black knitted pencil skirt, and a wide white patent leather belt cinched at the waist. Her hips were well-proportioned. She looked very intellectual. Her eyes, seemingly smiling yet not smiling, seemed to steal your soul. Her shoes were Chanel, her clothes Versace, and her lipstick—I recognized it immediately as Dior No. 5, a true red. There
are always some picky customers. But in this line of work, there are always some women who are picky about their customers.
I thought, she must be a woman who charges high prices and is picky about her customers. She was still staring at me intently, not with affection, nor with any sense of wonder, but with a gaze meant to pass the time. A quarter of an hour later, a girl in a short blue-and-white porcelain-patterned cheongsam came in. She was full-figured, and although she wasn't wearing makeup, she was very pretty. I heard from others that she was a flight attendant. I couldn't understand what she had suffered that made her give up her nearly ten thousand yuan monthly salary to hide here. She was just hiding here. She walked straight up to me. She said, "Tell me anything you don't understand or need. Old Tang asked me to mentor you." She was gentle, like an older sister, her voice tinged with a Northeastern accent. "My life will only be better if I help you get ahead," she added.
Old Tang was the man I'd mentioned before. The man who was a pillar in this part of my life, but ultimately insignificant and fleeting in the grand scheme of things. I'd forgotten her name. Let's just call her the flight attendant. That slender girl was named Bai Su. What a beautiful name, like her—captivating without a word, vanishing without a trace.
When Bai Su saw the flight attendant, her eyes softened and brightened instantly. She said, "Yesterday I was waiting to die but I didn't get three orders. Today, I got two as soon as the sun set. One customer didn't want oral sex, so I didn't do anything, but I used my hand to get him to do it, and he even tipped me a few hundred yuan." The flight attendant didn't show much expression, but she seemed a little happy for her. She asked, "Was he handsome?" Bai Su said sullenly, "I don't touch men who aren't handsome. He was sitting on the bed hesitating. I was standing there, and he only glanced at me a few times. Later, although he looked at other people, I felt that he was interested in me. I was afraid that he would choose someone else, so I stared at him intently and gestured for him to choose me. He must have thought I was quite interesting, because that's why we ended up on the bed. As soon as we got on the bed, I chatted with him about this and that for more than half an hour before he remembered that we hadn't done the real business. So I used my hand to do the real business for him."
The girls next to her were all minding their own business and didn't say anything. But you could feel that every pair of ears had taken in every word.
Seeing everyone silent, the older woman turned to the 96-year-old girl and asked, "How was your job today?" The 96-year-old didn't want to answer. She stood up, brushed her hair behind her ear, her movements still clumsy and childlike. She replied, "It was an old pervert. He wouldn't let me scream. He stripped me naked and dragged me to the bathroom mirror, then started violently thrusting into me. It hurt, so I looked up at the mirror; his face was contorted with rage. I've never seen such a terrifying man. I immediately closed my eyes again. He was just a lousy old man; his thrusts were strong but short-lived. After a while, it was fine. But just thinking about it makes me sick."
Another short girl stood up. She was the only one not wearing a skirt, but a small black suit, her makeup impeccable, her hair loose, with large waves swept to one side. The bulge of fat on her stomach was etched into her suit trousers, like two icebergs facing each other across a river. She wanted to laugh but held it back, walked to the table, peeled a chestnut, and said, "Why do you always run into perverts? Didn't you say yesterday's guy wasn't that great either?" Jiu Liu didn't seem angry, but his words were clearly meant to offend her: "At least there's money to be made, much better than no business." The most beautiful girl in the room wasn't Bai Su.
There were two girls more beautiful than the models in Rayli magazine. One had no sense of aesthetics, wearing dark green eyeshadow and a white powder puff that made her look like Sadako. Even so, her beauty could still be seen through her heavy, disastrous makeup. The other was simply beautiful, almost unreal. She happened to be wearing a royal blue tulle dress, her slender waist and exquisite breasts seemingly tailor-made for her. Her legs stood there gracefully, silent, like an elegant and beautiful fawn. Smoky eye makeup, excessive false eyelashes, and only a touch of lip balm—perhaps she had just eaten. There's always a type of woman whose wantonness in a man's heart isn't a noisy desire, but rather a gentle, pure lake. The girl in blue was that kind of woman, and the only time in my life I've ever realized the existence of such a woman. Her name started with "one," meaning her room rate was a little over a thousand yuan, with a few hundred yuan being the extra room for adjustment, varying from person to person. Her name was Lina. A very ordinary name, but it was her real name. Every woman named Nana has a story. Because there are many women named Nana. Some Nanas have special stories. Even if she stood there like an ordinary blank sheet of paper, she would be a sheet filled with beautiful stories.
The girl with green eyeshadow was named Mengyao. She was extremely lively, jumping around, and she liked to search the room for Lao Tang. But I'm sure they never slept together. Two people who have slept together have a strange tacit understanding, a tacit understanding that is both close and distant. Some outsiders can't see through it and always feel they are strangers; some people who can see through it also feel they don't seem to know each other. The two of them stood together, yet their eyes were filled with longing. Sex at work doesn't produce love, but it can in a one-night stand. Or perhaps, it's just a one-sided attraction. Perhaps, there was a sliver of pity.
The woman in the suit placed her arm around Lina's shoulder, and Lina leaned back slightly in agreement. "Say it to me." The woman in the suit's expression vanished, replaced by a dry, serious look. Lina didn't laugh. She made a sound, more alluring than any porn star's. The woman in the suit said, "Some men love loud noises, but others get aroused by them." Lina didn't speak, her eyelids lowered. "Do whatever the customer likes, as long as it's over quickly." Lina casually pushed the woman in the suit away, turning her body to one side, and pulled out a Double Happiness cigarette as she approached the table. It was a unique Cantonese brand, eight yuan a pack, Red Double Happiness. Shanghai also produces Double Happiness, but the taste is different.
Lina put the cigarette in her mouth and lit it. The older woman looked at her, her sharp tone revealing some emotion: "You used to smoke, didn't you?" Lina exhaled smoke rings, beautiful as a white lotus floating in a pond before a Buddhist temple. “Just killing time.” Her eyes were crescent moons. The older sister lowered her voice: “Smoking will corrupt you.” Lina said: “This line of work is already corrupt enough, how much more corrupt can smoking make?” The older sister was a little angry: “You’re already corrupt, why do you want to be even more corrupt? If you want to be corrupt, go do drugs.” Lina’s tone remained unchanged, somewhat cold yet seemingly warm: “I only do this because I have no money. A pack of cigarettes costs a few dollars, and drugs would squander all the money I earn. Even if I squander it all, I still can’t afford it.”
The older sister was speechless. The room fell silent. Just like at the beginning.
Three.
The colorful lights on the corridor were always new, lit in every fresh night. The attic was the girls’ room. Two of them shared a room, not staying in hotel rooms. Perhaps, profession and life should be separate. Even if they are inextricably linked. A small wooden door led down the stairs to the luxurious hotel corridor. Winding like a palace, with European-style decorations and high ceilings. The stark contrast to the desolation of Foshan. A twenty-minute motorcycle ride from the hotel to the subway station. A row of motorcycles parked in front of the hotel. Did they know this hotel was the most famous red-light district in the area? Did they know the hotel owner managed dozens of entertainment and banquet halls in Guangdong? The hotel offered foot massages, baths, and massages. Various services, both erotic and non-erotic.
He grew up in downtown Wuhan, his house facing the Han River. He was addicted to hot dry noodles; the chef's specialty was hot dry noodles. A few of his Hubei buddies would gather to drink, smoke, and play mahjong, seemingly busy until dawn and then sleeping until the afternoon. He eventually became a boss, his son attending Guangzhou's most luxurious private school. Tuition fees of over ten thousand yuan a year. Divorced. Unable to find a suitable wife again. A bunch of beautiful, sexy women flirted with him behind his back. He flirted with them, and he also had sex with the relatively safer girls among them. He liked quiet girls. Intelligent, humorous, and unassuming. But he dared not marry again. The girls around him, those in the industry. Even those not in the industry, who could be trusted? They always knew his profession; they were only with him for his money. He had no taste in art; he still listened to slow, sentimental online songs. He still couldn't appreciate famous paintings or antiques. He still slept with his thick, rugged beer belly. A rather striking black mole drooped under his eye. In truth, he had nothing, except money. Of course, there was also a life of debauchery and an emptiness accumulated over centuries of longing.
The intercom crackled in the room, like wisps of grayish-white smoke spreading to every corner, every inch of skin, every ear. Room 30808, Section A. The girls immediately stood up, hurriedly grabbed their bags, and rushed out. Plastic handbags studded with gold sequins, the extravagance of the Paramount Ballroom in the 1930s. High heels clattered as they ran forward, their white teeth exposed to the air. The small wooden door opened, and the girls ran nervously and rhythmically onto the red carpet of this palace that belonged entirely to them. They are always the passive, yet always the controllers. Once they lose their initiative, their entire lives crumble like this palace that could vanish at any moment. The crystal chandeliers come alive, and male waiters in white suits line the corridor, their eyes filled not with contempt, but with envy. They can't afford the prices, but their eyes see through all the beauty. Half-suspended breasts, pert buttocks, delicate skin, skirts in vermilion, sapphire blue, and fluorescent pink—each a tulle skirt—and pointed stilettos that seem to pierce the hearts of those around them. Crooked false eyelashes, slightly chapped and cracked magenta lip gloss, and slender earrings whose light flickers until they dim. There is no perfume. I'm certain, no perfume. Based on my judgment and sensitivity to various perfumes, only the delicate scent of roll-on and antiperspirant. Enough to be overwhelmed by their vibrant, full makeup. In that instant, you feel it's no longer a newly fallen night, but a dawn that opens up desire and hope for these girls.
In room 8308, the girls stood in a line. A middle-aged woman in her forties, wearing a black shirt, her hair tied back and only lightly powdered, was expressionless. She looked at the edge of the bed and began introducing herself.
564, from Jiangxi. 676, from Hebei. 658, from Anhui. 899, from Hunan. And so on, up to 1123. The girl named Lina. One and a half hours, 1100 yuan, 300 yuan of which was the room fee, the rest split 50/50. If Lina got the job, she'd get 400 yuan in an hour and a half. If the customer liked the girl, he wouldn't give all the money to the hotel; he'd give her some money at the end of the time—a tip. A flight attendant once received a Swiss gold watch worth 100,000 yuan, but unfortunately, the customer never came back after giving the watch. The flight attendant never mentioned him; she was always quiet, especially about the men she'd had relationships with. This is the noblest sentiment among young women.
A man of medium build lay on the bed, having drunk a little but still sober. Two other men sat on the sofa nearby, smoking; one was thin, the other a young man in his early twenties, fresh out of school. They politely yielded for a few minutes. The thin man picked a similarly petite woman in her sixties and left. The young man didn't look at her much, pointing to a woman in her eighties next to Mengyao and telling her to go out for a late-night snack. The remaining middle-aged man, still lying on the bed, shifted his position and sat up, displaying an air of arrogance. The customers here never split the bill, so he was sure he'd end up paying, and he wouldn't let himself be taken advantage of. His eyes were somewhat glazed; for a moment he seemed to have his eye on someone, then his gaze flickered, his mind racing. He called the old woman over and said, "Let's get another batch." The women lined up and left in an orderly fashion. Some of the shrewd ones even managed a flirtatious wink.
He was still deep in thought. Sometimes, your attraction to someone is based on a fleeting first impression, but after that initial spark, you can't see anything particularly appealing about them. No one chooses someone solely based on big eyes, big breasts, or a fixed gaze on the waist and hips. Being picky about a facial feature can be seen as a form of aesthetics, but forming a unique judgment about a particular body part can be somewhat distorted and perverse in sexual behavior. Most girls don't care about these things; as long as they're chosen, that's enough. Being chosen means money; everything else is a test of intelligence and physical strength. Earning money makes the day worthwhile, and all the waiting becomes valuable experience. For most, however, they might not get a single customer all night. They don't earn money, but they still enjoy good food and drinks at the hotel. What can they do? Several days of youth are wasted waiting. The girls who get picked up here are generally not bad. No one will have the mercy of keeping a bad one. Even if you've been put on a waiting list, those without business will be sent elsewhere. If you don't want to leave, there's always somewhere to keep you.
If you can't stay in Foshan, stay in Dongguan. Dongguan is too professional; the best girls in Guangdong are here. Men from Hong Kong and Macau also come here to pick girls. Hong Kong also has girls from the north, but none can compare to Dongguan's quality and low prices. Getting caught by the police will result in a fine. The police here need to eat; the government can't support them, so they're supported by big bosses. You don't need to put in much effort; a little effort yields many times the return. Getting a number is also a skill; there's a reason this hotel has been here for over a decade—it's in Foshan city. The guests from Shunde and Guangzhou are extremely wealthy. Standardized, integrated service; every activity undergoes assessment and refinement. Every girl's training—while both good and bad can get jobs, half-finished products always suffer. Who will take care of you if you get sick? If you get pregnant, you have to have an abortion; no one will reimburse you or provide insurance.
Newcomers who set prices don't get a number; those with numbers are people who have accumulated hundreds of clients. There are also those who haven't accumulated that many but have stayed longer. There was no deposit, only withheld wages. The initial 5,000 yuan was only paid after you quit. After that, it was paid out every 5,000 yuan. If you needed money urgently, you could tell Old Tang, the manager. Once you reached a certain number of jobs, the 50/50 split stopped. Someone who initially received 400 yuan could now receive the full 800. So some girls endured this for two or three years. They earned over 300,000 yuan, enough to go home, buy a house in a small county town, and leave it for their families to retire in. They could marry an honest man and live a stable life. Even if they were pretty, any physical disabilities could be repaired over a few years.
Most girls left unnoticed, but when they arrived, everyone crowded around to see what kind of competitor they were. By the time they left, their faces were already familiar. With makeup, they were stunningly beautiful; without makeup, they looked like ordinary country girls, their faces pale and lifeless. They couldn't save money to buy supplements, and there weren't many on the market anyway. It was better to buy more clothes, entertain more customers, and earn more money to escape this misery sooner.
Sex is different from drugs. The more you have sex, the less addicted you become, while drug addiction is rampant and impossible to quit. Prostitutes possess a kind of decadent, lowly beauty. They are extremely proud yet vulgar when they smoke, and they are intoxicated by their own reflection in the mirror. It's a distorted, broken, primal attraction. They gradually become intoxicated in aimless waiting. Most girls in long-distance relationships don't flaunt it. A girl born in '96 was on the phone when the older woman called out, "321, try out the room!" The girl in the suit next to her nudged her, urging her to hurry up and try out the room. She immediately snapped out of it, hung up the phone, and tossed it aside. Sighing, she ran off with the group of girls in front of her in her high heels. Seven or eight minutes later, she returned, tears welling in her eyes.
"I was on the phone with my boyfriend, why did he call for a try out room? I clearly wasn't going to get chosen." She made a scene for a while, but no one paid her any attention. She sat down and cried to herself. Seeing that no one was there to help her, she wiped away her tears and sent a text message. Men, after all, are insensitive to these things. For some men, having a beautiful girlfriend is a blessing for life; who cares about what you're busy doing every day? A little mystery can be a good thing.
Bai Su returned after her third relationship. The flight attendant was still sitting on the second row of wooden chairs, her arms hanging down, embroidering a cross-stitch. The third peony. Crimson. Bai Su took out a Wrigley's Spearmint cigarette and chewed it, as if preparing to rest for a while. She was quiet for a few seconds, her deep eyes darting around. The flight attendant told her, "I've taken the day after tomorrow to go back to Dalian." Bai Su didn't look at her, turning away to find some dried fruit. With her back turned, she asked, "When are you coming back?" The flight attendant replied, "I'm going for two days. I booked a ticket to Chongqing, stayed one night there, and then came back here." Bai Su seemed to struggle for a moment, suppressing her temper as she turned towards her. "Do you know what you call this? You're offering yourself up for free! You haven't seen me for a month and you're going to spend a night with someone. Is that interesting?" The flight attendant remained seated calmly, as if everything was within her expectations.
I guessed what had happened, imagining her first words being something like, "I can't bear to part with him, I miss him," or "I don't care at all." She didn't speak for a long time, nor did she freeze, as if she hadn't heard. But she must have heard it clearly. She replied, "It's nothing. Just treat it as a day of fun, at least it's with someone I like." Bai Su retorted, "You think you've severed all worldly ties and become detached from worldly desires?" Seeing her lack of reaction, I knew she was upset. So I didn't bring it up again.
From
the moment I entered this story, I was destined not to be a bystander. My work bag was on my left, filled with bottles and jars of disinfectant and various sizes of condoms. The exterior was still made of golden plastic tiles. Shanghai jazz style, 1984. I went back and forth like this several times at night, initially just finding it fun, the dazzling lights like seeing the flower market as a child. I was chosen after trying out the room four or five times. The man took a liking to me from the start. Light brown short-sleeved shirt, somewhat like terry cloth. Shirt collar. Washed jeans, nearing forty. A few shallow wrinkles struggled on his forehead. The girls looked at me with envy, then walked out of the room one by one.
He seemed drunk. He lay on the bed, his body stiff. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and he asked, "Why?" "It seemed like he was asking me, but it didn't seem like it. I asked, 'What?' 'Why?' he repeated. I didn't know if it was because I was sad, or because he was sad. Or perhaps, drunk men are always sad. I said, 'I had no choice. I didn't want to choose.'" "He understood.
He said he'd had too much to drink. He spoke to me in broken Mandarin, sometimes forgetting whether he was speaking Cantonese or Mandarin. He said he'd drunk whiskey, red wine, and baijiu. With his friends. He said they brought him. I didn't want to look at him. But I kissed him. He kissed me. Like the parrotfish in the fish tank that kept kissing each other when we were kids. But I really hated that metaphor. Not because of love. With my innocence and childlike wonder, I simply experienced what prostitutes never felt: kissing a client. No love, no need for love. If love is fleeting, then it is love. If love is unique, then this is unique too. Because the feeling of kissing different people is unique. But in that moment of kissing, we all crave a unique love, don't we? I felt like his lover, and I asked, 'Why did you choose me?' He answered simply, 'I like you. I liked you the first time I saw you walk in.'" Then
he kissed me again. I quickly took off my skirt, tossing my underwear aside. I awkwardly put on a condom and began. Bai Su said that when having sex with a client, you must be proactive. It's best to be on top; once he takes the initiative, you can't just enjoy it with your eyes closed. I tried hard to recall that sentence. But I didn't know how to take the initiative. My mind was full of Bai Su. The intense pleasure and fear of insecurity in my body were mixed together. It made me completely forget whether it was pain or pleasure at the time.
Making love is an enjoyable thing; it's about creating love. Because love is so rare in this world, only during sex can we be incredibly close, truly feeling love and being loved. It's too fleeting; once it ends, it's forever over. We search for love in countless such moments, in countless different people. We feel the hope and fulfillment of love. I don't know how many times we made love that night. Later, he tried to kiss me, but I dodged him, responding with my body. I didn't want to kiss a stiff body anymore. I couldn't accept that they were two corpses in love. I only knew that they were two corpses yearning for release, one enjoying primal urges, the other longing to end the entanglement.
For an hour and a half, he didn't ejaculate, and several times I pulled away from him. I went to the bathroom to wash my hair and dried it with a hairdryer. Then I sat on the edge of the bed. He added another half hour. The story then became agonizing and powerless; the light remained bright and clear, lovely, but every moment felt like a knife cutting through my body. A faint regret rose from some corner, shattering the glass and freezing the last vestige of tenderness. He glanced at me as he left. There was no mockery in his eyes, yet I felt a deep affection. A man's affection can be terrifyingly sudden, and terrifyingly fleeting. Perhaps he will come back, perhaps he will come looking for me again.
A prostitute's love is a kind of waiting; a prostitute's love is also fleeting, not passionate, but simple and slow. Because the nature of their work is waiting; most of their time is spent waiting. It's somewhat similar to ordinary people; everyone waits. Some wait for opportunities to succeed, some wait for their soulmate to appear. Waiting for the bus, waiting for wages to be deposited, waiting for customers, waiting for superiors. Because waiting itself is the value of life. I can accept this kind of waiting, yet I utterly loathe it. Even if it's far less than others' waiting, I struggle in profound pain. I am just one night, one customer, and it feels like all the strength of my life has been exhausted.
I can't imagine myself becoming a prostitute with a work number, and I can't accept that after having such a formal profession, I can still believe in all the beautiful emotions in this world. But perhaps genuine feelings exist among prostitutes. They compete with each other, yet understand each other. They know that only by taking care of each other can they feel safe. The sense of security they find in this struggle far surpasses that of men, and even surpasses that of their own families. When they choose this profession, they abandon all their kinship and attachments.
The late-
night snack arrives, as lavish as ever. The lion's head meatballs are a bright red, like the second brew of ripe Pu'er tea. Dried vegetable and pig lung soup sits on the next table. A plate of stir-fried rice noodles is piled high. Few girls are willing to touch it. They linger in their rooms, their noise subsiding. Girls who haven't received any customers sit to the side; wasting time is a form of spiritual emptiness. The late night is the most vibrant time in their hearts. Now the clock strikes twelve. In another hour, they will all be like dust lying on the ground—dry, quiet. Or, like a withered butterfly—the color of autumn leaves. Most girls will stay until four or five in the morning. After one, very few people will come.
The girls in the hotel don't stay overnight. They weren't like the girls in nightclubs; they needed a title. Even so, they were still considered technicians in foot massage parlors, freed from the constraints of aging women. They were the most beautiful foot massage girls on the mainland. The older woman smiled at me, like the tenderness of a lover. She still seemed like a stranger to me. A layer of somewhat dim yet vibrant expectation shrouded her. "You're pretty good, extending the time on your first time."
I wasn't shy; people become surprisingly calm after an unexpected experience.
When you cut your wrist, you can only see the blood slowly seeping out, splashing onto the white marble floor. I imagined that pain, but I couldn't feel any pain at all. I had no extraneous thoughts. I wanted to stay, yet I also wanted to leave. The hour and a half I'd spent left my genitals a little dry and slightly sore. But if it were connected to my heart, my heart would surely distrust it, despise it, and be indifferent to it. I could only look up at her and respond with a smile. She continued, "Are you tired?" I answered, "Quite tired." Actually, I wasn't very tired. Seeing my lack of interest, coupled with a childlike arrogance and naiveté, she didn't dwell on it or say anything unnecessary. She said, "Go to sleep if you're tired."
After a while, she added, "Don't rush things on the first day. You'll gain experience and won't feel this exhausted anymore." I nodded again, reverently accepting her advice. She must have gone through the same thing. Every girl goes through the same thing. Enduring hardship. Conquering themselves, not by men, but by themselves. Emptying their hearts, then replacing them with solid ones. Every profession is like this, hollowing out a person and then filling them in. Like an inflatable doll. A Barbie doll in her teenage years. Still young, still beautiful. Even when she's old and can only be a mother or a sister, she still possesses an unyielding aura, a disdainful air.
I picked up some chestnuts from the table and turned to leave. I didn't see Meng Yao and Lina; the flight attendant was waiting with Bai Su, diligently embroidering, just as before. Old Tang stood in the corridor outside, seemingly waiting for me. I didn't see him when I left. He must have gone out to take care of other things. His daily work consisted of having his driver take him around to inspect various places, arranging for new employees to join, and resolving disputes among old employees. He always said things that sounded particularly serious but were also incredibly frank and persuasive. Sincere words always have a persuasive quality. He never forced these girls to leave; he used more thorough methods to make them feel that they had no choice but to go. Some girls felt the treatment was poor and talked to him repeatedly. Perhaps leaving him would actually improve their situation.
He said, "Ask around, I, Old Tang, am famous throughout the entire Guangdong entertainment industry. You won't be wronged working here. Otherwise, you can go elsewhere. Since I don't want you, who else would dare to hire you? Do you think someone with your looks can become a star in the film industry? Even if you had the opportunity, you don't have the background or the brains." These words were unpleasant to hear. But when the girls heard them, they all quieted down. No one questioned the truthfulness of these words. Truthfulness didn't matter. In this world, nothing is definitively true or false. It's all just a fantasy, as long as the listener can accept it. Everyone in this line of work is just looking for a stable life. There are also those with a high sex drive who do it. Those are truly reckless.
Why did I do this? I'm not exactly a woman with a strong sex drive. I don't even consider myself a woman. I have a heart that transcends gender. I live in too much pain, I suffer agonizingly in this mundane world, I can't choose death. I have no sense of responsibility, I feel I don't have any duties to the world, but I can't die. I sat by the Pearl River all night, and it rained in the middle of the night, so I took shelter under the bridge. Homeless people slept there. I dared not stay, yet I didn't want to leave. It was so cold. That night in Guangzhou was especially cold. I wanted to die, but I dared not die. Dying isn't so difficult; I walked down the steps, soaked by the light rain, to the middle of the bridge. In seven or eight minutes, I was standing on the Haizhu Bridge.
Guangzhou's oldest bridge, it has stood on the Pearl River for nearly a century, it has seen all kinds of life and death. It is the only steel bridge itself, it has been repaired countless times, it doesn't want to die. Standing on this bridge, I felt even less inclined to die. At worst, I'd give my body to that homeless man who'd never have sex. A good deed for myself, an early death and reincarnation. But that's a joke, a huge joke. Do you really expect him to become successful and marry you someday? If you want something real, go make money. If you want physical torment, become a prostitute. Prostitution is a sexy profession. Aren't you sexy? Yes, I'm a beautiful girl. And, my personality is sexy, I'm sensitive. Sexy to the bone. And
that's where the story ends. I don't know how I ended up sitting on the back of Old Tang's car. I deliberately went to see Old Tang at night. I went to see him at night, even if he didn't want to sleep with me, he wouldn't pass up a freebie. Besides, he likes me. Any slightly normal man would be attracted to someone like me. Especially someone as worldly-wise as him. My skills aren't good. I'm not a professional prostitute, how could my skills be good? My skills aren't good, but I'm innocent enough.
Innocence is the most priceless thing a prostitute possesses. Yet, I am destined to become a prostitute. I cannot erase my innocence. How can I retain it after becoming a prostitute? I am tormented by this unanswerable question, more thoroughly and painfully than the struggle between life and death. It's not pain. What is it? Is it helplessness? I don't know. Suddenly, I know nothing.
He must have seen me. He must know I came back as a customer and even stayed an extra night. But I know I don't love him. I don't have love for men, only testing. I only want what I want. This kind of thing is primal longing and attraction. I don't want anything lasting. Things that last aren't intense enough. Intense things must be burning fiercely. They can burn a person to ashes, burn them to nothing. They will never exist in this world. The most enjoyable. The most worthy of respect. For example, burning desire. Human desire. Primal greed.
He didn't turn around. I felt he was aware of my presence. But he didn't know what to say. It was a little awkward for him. It was awkward for him to have sex with me and then hand me over to a group of men. A cruel and helpless awkwardness. I chose it myself. He fulfilled my choice. And by the way, fulfilled his own. Fulfillment and acceptance suddenly seemed to be full of humanitarian spirit. Our humanitarian duty to others is a confession of our own lives.
I stopped overthinking. I wanted to take a break. I went up to the attic, didn't turn on the light, took off my clothes and went to sleep. I slept soundly. A dreamless night. At six o'clock, as dawn broke, I naturally opened my eyes. It wasn't the pale light of early morning, but rather the soft glow of white lotus blossoms. I went downstairs. No one was there. I walked along the long corridor I'd walked through last night. The stairs turned, a path leading to the back kitchen. I didn't need to go through the main entrance; I could reach the street. I could see the trees growing outside.
I could see pedestrians and motorcycles passing by. I don't know why, but instead of excitement, I felt strangely calm. An inexplicable, unusual calm. Completely different from the night before. This calm was like being on a heroin overdose; I felt life was exceptionally beautiful, my surroundings exceptionally beautiful. I felt that being alive and breathing was an immense blessing. Just thinking this made my breath feel closer and closer to my heart. I hadn't opened my suitcase last night. I hadn't put on makeup, nor removed it. I hadn't changed clothes, nor retrieved them. I simply checked. No one was around. Six o'clock to noon was the dead of night for everyone except the receptionist. Don't go through the main entrance. Don't go past the reception desk.
I picked up my suitcase, silent, like a passenger just off a plane. I followed that path, repeating the steps I'd taken before. I reached the street. It was that simple, just walking on the street. I took the subway back to Guangzhou. I texted Lao Tang on the subway. He called me back. He asked my name. He asked, "You need to tell me your employee number so I know." I said, "I don't have an employee number."
He didn't know my name, and I didn't have an employee number. He knew this person existed, but he didn't remember. He remembered there would always be such a person, but he would never know her name. She didn't need a name. She existed, simply existed. No need to leave any trace. And afterwards, there was never such a person. But mine truly exists; I'm still alive. Not for freedom, but to shorten the waiting time. Or, to wait somewhere else.
Only in this place can I be acknowledged. Waiting can be acknowledged. To have existed is to be recognized. But they could never be recognized.
They never existed in this world.

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A prostitute and a driver

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