The Fall of a Modern Girl

I never had a boyfriend until I graduated from university. It wasn't because I was ugly; girls ten times uglier than me had suitors. It wasn't that I was unwanted; it was that I didn't give anyone a chance. I don't know what the worst insults men can say about women are, but I know those men I ignored must have said them. I don't care what they say, as long as they can't call me a "slut"—because they never had a chance to possess me. It's said that a woman's greatest weapon is beauty. Some women use beauty to adorn the world around them, but I don't. I use beauty as a weapon. I was born weak; I have no strength, only beauty.
I enjoy tormenting the men who love me with my beauty. Have you ever seen a cat catching a mouse? I'm like a cat that has found its target. I cruelly and slowly play with them until the next victim appears.
At 26, I was still a virgin.
At 23, I let a man into my bed. I lay there all night, legs spread wide, shamelessly letting him ravish me. But by dawn, I was still completely virgin. He smelled my scent, what he called "the fragrance of a virgin." But he didn't know how to steal my fragrance. He was just a handsome man with a good physique.
I finally understood what was most important to a man. What they were most proud of and most ashamed of. During the six months we were together, that impeccably dressed diplomat would undress me every time we met, but he couldn't. He was good at making money, but not at enjoying it. His thing was less than a finger. We tried in almost every place: his office desk, the back seat of his car, the sofa in his living room, my kitchen… We never succeeded. He said, "Let's do oral sex." I laughed and left him.
He said his last words were that he loved me.
I said my last words were, "Go to hell!"
I hate men. Ever since I was ten.
For a long time before I met the diplomat, I thought I wasn't a virgin.
A man had molested me. His surname was Li, and he was my dad's driver. The night before a field trip in fourth grade, my dad asked him to drive me to buy food. On the way back, he said he had to go to his office. It was past eight o'clock, and there was no one in the whole yard. The office was on the third floor. As we came down the stairs, he said, "Let me carry you," and then he placed his hand on my genitals and lifted me up. Even though I was only ten, I knew what he was doing was wrong. I struggled and begged him to put me down. But his hands became even rougher. There were no motion-activated lights back then, and the stairwell was pitch black. I couldn't see him, but I felt his cold hand slip inside my pants. With a stinging pain, a finger pierced my body… I screamed, desperately pushed his hand away, and ran downstairs.
I lived in fear for a whole month. I tasted the bitterness of depravity far too early, so I never looked down on prostitutes or so-called morally corrupt women. Without bad men, where would bad women come from?
Out of shame, I didn't tell my father. Telling him would likely result in a beating; he was always cold and heartless.
That night, I knelt in the moonlight by my bed and swore I would never mention him to anyone again, and I vowed to take revenge on him. But from then on, I began to hate not only him, but all men. From the oldest to the youngest. In sixth grade, I tied the hands and feet of a second-grade boy who came to my house to play with rope, pushed him to the ground, and then straddled him. I wanted to break his back. He cried and screamed desperately, but all I felt from his cries was the pleasure of being superior. Ten years later, I experienced that pleasure again: I seduced the man who had violated my chastity, and let his wife see him flirting with me in her own bed. I even wanted his doll-like daughter to suffer the same fate as me, but in the end, I let her go. I didn't want her to end up like me. I don't hate women; I am a woman myself.
I'm not shameless, I wasn't born a devil, I wasn't born a pervert. If it weren't for that driver, I should be innocently holding my boyfriend's hand, smiling, just like any other girl. I should have married a man who loves me long ago, had my own little home and bed, instead of rolling from one strange bed to another. I wasn't born
with a cheap fate.
I abandoned men, I was promiscuous. But I still fell in love with a man. I want to marry him. He was good to me, and I wanted to give up my hatred for him. I thought loving someone meant being honest. On Christmas Eve, I told him my whole story. Then I quietly waited for him to comfort and forgive me, like in novels.
Subsequent experiences made me understand men again. They say love makes people foolish, and I had a foolish Christmas.
Before I started telling my story, he looked at me deeply and said he didn't care about my past; he wanted my future. But after I finished, he was stunned. After a long pause, he said, "You're not a virgin anymore." I said, "I am." He said, "You've been played by men." I said, "I'm the one who played men, but I can't do it for you." He said, "Whether you're a virgin or not, I can't have you." I said, "I'll prove it to you." He stopped me, saying, "No need. You've already fallen from grace." I said, "I love you." He said, "You're a whore."
I climbed to the twenty-fifth floor; I wanted to die. But in the end, I didn't. It wasn't that I was afraid to die; it was that I couldn't die for a man. I cried and cried. From that day on, I thought my love had died like a stray dog. I didn't jump, but my feelings had.
Many people think I'm a lady.
In a sense, I am.
Others only see the Ports suit and Joy I'm wearing .

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The Fall of a Modern Girl

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