The taste of cheese

In the sweltering July heat, my father's desires soared. In the cramped space, I felt lost at a crossroads, wanting only to drift off to sleep. Yet, a slow, intense pleasure returned to my lower abdomen. The body, suffocated by clients hours earlier, found a soothing, scratching comfort. For me, sex felt like an existence, unlike client service, which was intercourse, not lovemaking. The bloated, middle-aged men, invariably heading in the same direction, pulled down their pockets, tore off the sheath containing their swords, and replaced it with another. Rough clients would pin my hands down like torture, basking in their victory, but I felt nothing. Conversely, some clients were quite elegant, seemingly embodying the "I'm a good man" attitude, indulging in every subtle fragrance of a woman's body. I was moved by this, but each time I finished and flushed, seeing the yellowish stain on the toilet bowl, I knew I would never lick it.

I looked at my mother across from me. Her face resembled mine. I remembered the first time my father saw us together; he seemed lost in thought, his hand instinctively reaching out to touch my mother's breasts. That was the first time he had ignored me. But my mother's body was different from mine. Perhaps it was the perfume, but I always felt that my mother possessed an indescribable allure, like a peach blossom among a sea of flowers, a sense of security that only mothers could provide, a feeling that tightly embraced men. Men derived Oedipus pleasure from her, a kind of paternal instinct that was murdered within them, a willingness to engage in the skin-to-skin contact of a nursing infant. I don't know how my mother viewed my father, but I know very well that for her, my father represented an unfulfilled desire for her son.

In that final, intense moment, Mother, exhausted, collapsed beside them, having completed her unfinished dream. Father, meanwhile, continued to offer his food in my sanctuary, the animalistic scent lingering on his arms as he greedily explored the depths of my groin. For me, lovemaking differed from intercourse because he wasn't "him," he wasn't a man, but "Father," and I was "Daughter." This role relationship was like eating out with anyone else—it was never the same as eating with Father. Every grain of rice felt like a warm winter blanket. Father's whip, rising and falling, inevitably stirred waves of emotion within the flesh. The "Father's scent," so different from any other man's,

rose with a climax, filling the small room with an intense, almost overwhelming, intensity. Every molecule swelled to the point of bursting, and the gushing liquid finally broke through all defenses, spilling from my mouth. My father's penis, after my climax, moved so quickly it felt like a weekend night variety show. Actually, there was a period of time, but I felt that impatient expression, and time passed without my awareness...

The sound of the fan was the final note in the exhausting atmosphere. The two people lying on the soaked sheets had transformed from humans into helpless lumps of flesh. I watched them, guided by the moonlight, completing their animalistic pleasure, experiencing the feeling of death. I immediately dismissed the thought, afraid I would end up like that. While rinsing, I deliberately avoided looking in the mirror, letting the water wash away my human skin, allowing my true self to breathe.

The view outside the iron gate wasn't actually bad, but I went out naked, gazing at the starlight, feeling that all the beauty in the world was on me, and everything else was just Christmas decoration. It got cold... I went back and put on a coat.

I recently discovered that looking back at my old diaries is quite interesting, even though they're just childish sentences. Like this one: "I went out with Xinyi today, but the big dog we encountered on the street was scary. I hope I don't encounter it next time."

And this one: "Lin Shaowei scared me again today. I hate him. I hope he'll be nicer to me next time, otherwise I won't be friends with him anymore."

Strangely, I didn't record the important things. When my father passed away, I couldn't write anything for a whole week. He wasn't a good father; you could even say that. In my heart, he was never a father, but a gambler. Although my mother is a gambler when she plays mahjong, it's a different feeling. I always felt that a father should act like a father; a gambler doesn't seem like a father at all. In any case, I was troubled by this thought for a whole week and couldn't write anything.

Until one day, my mother took me out to eat for the first time. She had never done this before; she always left me some money and told me to eat out. It was a winter night, and my mother seemed a little clumsy as she led me through the crowds on the street. I was puzzled; she seemed most helpless in the places she knew best. We went to one restaurant after another, but couldn't find anything satisfactory. Finally, I watched as she pointed to McDonald's, heading to eat the hamburgers she used to dislike the most. At the counter, the friendly cashier made my mother feel awkward, unsure of what to say. For me, however, it was perfectly natural. I simply ordered a cheese-filled hamburger. My mother looked at me in surprise. I knew it was because of my childhood... I hate cheese the most, and that's where the atmosphere started. My mother kept staring at me as I ate my burger covered in cheese, lettuce, and meat, as if I were a homeless alien she'd picked up and taken in. I ignored her, enjoying the juicy, delicious meat. When I reached for my fries, I noticed the ketchup was with my mother. Reaching for it, I accidentally grabbed it, knocking over the Coke on her table, spilling it all over her. My mother was shocked and immediately slapped me, dragging me out without even cleaning up. The meal ended in this unpleasant atmosphere. But for some reason, this was the first time, and perhaps the last, that I felt she was my mother.

The next day in class, it rained incessantly. Exhausted from the previous night's activities, I had no energy to pay attention to any words or phrases. The teacher was lecturing wildly, but no one in the class was applauding. Even though he's my father, I had to apologize to him. When I first started taking clients, I never expected that someone I knew would come. One day... it was early summer, I think. I saw a familiar, thin figure inside. He asked my mother in a lewd way if she had any young children. My mother pointed to my room. I habitually lay back on the bed, ready to welcome another intruder. But as soon as he came in, I wanted to shrink back. As soon as I recognized him as my teacher, I hugged him without saying a word. I understand my teacher's desires; they are like an unyielding tide. I want it to keep pounding against me until every nerve in my body enters another world. My legs, like ivy, surrounded the armed warrior, swaying rhythmically, yearning for a passionate duet, a hazy tango, snake-like eyes, cunning toes, to crush the rational soldiers one by one, revealing the marshal's true face. The marshal's conquest was brutal, blasting every inch of the enemy's land, leaving behind red bloodstains...

After that, the teacher often visited. I guessed he had never played with any girls; he felt no guilt whatsoever about having sex with little girls. This room of debauchery was the way out of his dreams. After the weather turned cool, we also played around in various parts of the school because of class. I found that the school rooftop could push a person's senses to the extreme. Imagining the whole school below gave me a thrill of being spied on. And the fantasies about the toilet made me interested in the smell of urine. Only at this time did I find the toilet lovely, white jade sprinkled with gold. Like a cat, I spread my tongue and made intimate gestures towards the yellow, cat-like thing, as if we were the same kind.

Perhaps it was because of the passage of time that the teacher realized her foolishness and began to seduce the mother. Unexpectedly, they hit it off immediately, and their mating under the moon was blessed by the whole class. Unfortunately, they didn't know it was a sordid transaction.

So the three of them became one bed, both slaves, endlessly whipped in the midnight haze, every emotion squeezed dry from their bodies, then thrown into the infinite, deathly, silent air.

You can take a closer look at the class I'm teaching now; how many truly understand this hunger-like loneliness, the constant devouring, the constant tearing, the constant screaming, ultimately escaping only the satisfaction in their hearts? Whether satisfied or not, I hope for an answer.

The answer's endpoint is irreplaceable. I dreamt of someone sharing this with me—Ya Yi, who actually sits next to me. In the dream, she is very far away, but the illusion of vision makes us very close. We are holding hands a hundred feet apart, with an unfathomable chasm between us. When we reach the agreed-upon place, we jump together. As we fly, I feel she is as happy as I am.

Thinking of this, I pulled her back, but she refused. I knew her father treated her like a pet bird, and one day he would tear her apart. I thought…

When I told my father about this plan, I believe his expression was hungry, but he turned his back to me, saying nothing. The next day, the bird was to be released. At that corner, the struggle of the trapped bird couldn't escape the lust of the beast. And so, she spent her first week of growth in our house, enjoying the rollercoaster of entertainment without any other stimulation. In the second week of her release, as the shackles of her soul were broken, I already knew she was her lover. The only difference was the way she looked at my father; it was different from how she looked at me. I only learned one day at dinner that he was her father, not her lover. This confused me greatly. I had thought my father considered her his second lover, but he treated her like one of his three concubines. This was a family, but not a place for me.

I only learned before leaving home that Ya-yi had been used as a birthing woman. It seemed the teacher and Ya-yi were the real lovers. I thought about it for a long time on the way. I heard Ya-yi's father was looking for her. I wondered if this couple who eloped could truly stay together.

The flowers surrounding the grass were more magnificent than I had ever seen. Even the bookstore, which I had never been to before, seemed graceful and charming. The relaxed atmosphere was natural to those who understood it; to those who couldn't, it was like a secret garden behind a door. Wandering the streets for years, I never imagined I would one day hear their innermost thoughts, their whispers in my heart. I stood for a long time in front of a doll in a shop, and then, completely unable to comprehend it, I burst into tears, for the life I had once had.

Returning home, I found a lump of dead pork on the floor, its swirling blood soaking the flowers that should have been blooming. Three people had perished like dirt, only the infant in my womb had been torn away. I stared for what felt like an eternity, then suddenly remembered my diary. Holding a handful of flowers, I went outside to find my love…

(Original author retains copyright; please credit the reposter.)

In the sweltering July heat, my father's desires soared. In a space as small as a can, I was trapped at a crossroads, unable to distinguish left from right. I longed to simply drift off to sleep, but a pleasure slowly returned to my lower abdomen. My body, dissatisfied with entertaining clients hours earlier, found a soothing comfort. For me, sex felt like an existence, unlike entertaining clients, which was intercourse, not lovemaking. The bloated, middle-aged men, invariably heading in the same direction, pulled down their pockets, tore off the sheath containing their swords, and put on another. Rude clients would pin down my hands like torture, feeling a sense of victory, but I never felt anything. Conversely, some guests are very elegant, seemingly adopting a "I'm a good man" attitude, wanting to inhale every subtle fragrance on a woman's body. I was once moved by this, but every time I finished urinating and flushed, seeing the yellowish stain on the toilet bowl, I always felt I would never lick it.

I looked at my mother across from me. My mother's face looked very much like mine. I remember the first time my father saw us together, he seemed lost in thought, his hand instinctively reaching straight up to touch my mother's breasts. That was the first time he ignored me. However, my mother's body was different from mine. Perhaps it was the perfume, but I always felt that my mother had an indescribable allure, like a peach blossom among a thousand flowers, a sense of security that only mothers possess, tightly enveloping men. Men derive Oedipus pleasure from her, a kind of killing of a man's inner paternal instincts, a willing submission to the skin-to-skin contact of a nursing infant. I don't know how my mother viewed my father, but I know very well that for her, my father was an unfulfilled desire for her son.

In that final, intense moment, Mother, exhausted, collapsed beside them, having completed her unfinished dream. Father, meanwhile, continued to offer his food in my sanctuary, the animalistic scent lingering on his arms as he greedily explored the depths of my groin. For me, lovemaking differed from intercourse because he wasn't "him," he wasn't a man, but "Father," and I was "Daughter." This role relationship was like eating out with anyone else—it was never the same as eating with Father. Every grain of rice felt like a warm winter blanket. Father's whip, rising and falling, inevitably stirred waves of emotion within the flesh. The "Father's scent," so different from any other man's,

rose with a climax, filling the small room with an intense, almost overwhelming, intensity. Every molecule swelled to the point of bursting, and the gushing liquid finally broke through all defenses, spilling from my mouth. My father's penis, after my climax, moved so quickly it felt like a weekend night variety show. Actually, there was a period of time, but I felt that impatient expression, and time passed without my awareness...

The sound of the fan was the final note in the exhausting atmosphere. The two people lying on the soaked sheets had transformed from humans into helpless lumps of flesh. I watched them, guided by the moonlight, completing their animalistic pleasure, experiencing the feeling of death. I immediately dismissed the thought, afraid I would end up like that. While rinsing, I deliberately avoided looking in the mirror, letting the water wash away my human skin, allowing my true self to breathe.

The view outside the iron gate wasn't actually bad, but I went out naked, gazing at the starlight, feeling that all the beauty in the world was on me, and everything else was just Christmas decoration. It got cold... I went back and put on a coat.

I recently discovered that looking back at my old diaries is quite interesting, even though they're just childish sentences. Like this one: "I went out with Xinyi today, but the big dog we encountered on the street was scary. I hope I don't encounter it next time."

And this one: "Lin Shaowei scared me again today. I hate him. I hope he'll be nicer to me next time, otherwise I won't be friends with him anymore."

Strangely, I didn't record the important things. When my father passed away, I couldn't write anything for a whole week. He wasn't a good father; you could even say that. In my heart, he was never a father, but a gambler. Although my mother is a gambler when she plays mahjong, it's a different feeling. I always felt that a father should act like a father; a gambler doesn't seem like a father at all. In any case, I was troubled by this thought for a whole week and couldn't write anything.

Until one day, my mother took me out to eat for the first time. She had never done this before; she always left me some money and told me to eat out. It was a winter night, and my mother seemed a little clumsy as she led me through the crowds on the street. I was puzzled; she seemed most helpless in the places she knew best. We went to one restaurant after another, but couldn't find anything satisfactory. Finally, I watched as she pointed to McDonald's, heading to eat the hamburgers she used to dislike the most. At the counter, the friendly cashier made my mother feel awkward, unsure of what to say. For me, however, it was perfectly natural. I simply ordered a cheese-filled hamburger. My mother looked at me in surprise. I knew it was because of my childhood... I hate cheese the most, and that's when the atmosphere turned sour. My mother kept staring at me as I ate the hamburger covered in cheese, lettuce, and meat, as if I were a homeless alien she had picked up and taken in. I ignored her and enjoyed the juicy, delicious food. When I reached for the fries, I noticed the ketchup was with my mother. As I reached for it, I accidentally knocked over the Coke on her table, spilling it all over her. My mother was shocked and immediately slapped me, dragged me out, and didn't even bother to clean up. The meal ended in such an unpleasant atmosphere. But for some reason, this was the first time, and perhaps the last, that I felt she was my mother.

The next day in class, the rain kept pouring down. Exhausted from the previous night's activities, I had no energy to pay attention to any words or phrases. The teacher was lecturing furiously, but no one in the audience was applauding. Even though he's my father, I had to apologize to him. When I first started working as a prostitute, I never expected anyone I knew to come. One day… it was early summer, I think, I saw a familiar, thin figure inside. He lewdly asked my mother if she had any young children. My mother pointed to my room, and I habitually lay back on the bed, ready to welcome another intruder. But as soon as he entered, I wanted to shrink back. I recognized him as my teacher and, without a word, embraced him. I understood his desires; they were like an unquenchable tide, I wanted them to keep pounding against me until every nerve in my body entered another world. My legs, like ivy, surrounded the armed warrior, swaying rhythmically, yearning for a passionate duet, a hazy tango, snake-like eyes, cunning toes, to crush the rational soldiers one by one, revealing the marshal's true face. The marshal's conquest was brutal, blasting every inch of the enemy's land, leaving behind red bloodstains...

After that, the teacher often visited. I guessed he had never played with any girls; he felt no guilt whatsoever about having sex with little girls. This room of debauchery was the way out of his dreams. After the weather turned cool, we also played around in various parts of the school because of class. I found that the school rooftop could push a person's senses to the extreme. Imagining the whole school below gave me a thrill of being spied on. And the fantasies about the toilet made me interested in the smell of urine. Only at this time did I find the toilet lovely, white jade sprinkled with gold. Like a cat, I spread my tongue and made intimate gestures towards the yellow, cat-like thing, as if we were the same kind.

Perhaps it was because of the passage of time that the teacher realized her foolishness and began to seduce the mother. Unexpectedly, they hit it off immediately, and their mating under the moon was blessed by the whole class. Unfortunately, they didn't know it was a sordid transaction.

So the three of them became one bed, both slaves, endlessly whipped in the midnight haze, every emotion squeezed dry from their bodies, then thrown into the infinite, deathly, silent air.

You can take a closer look at the class I'm teaching now; how many truly understand this hunger-like loneliness, the constant devouring, the constant tearing, the constant screaming, ultimately escaping only the satisfaction in their hearts? Whether satisfied or not, I hope for an answer.

The answer's endpoint is irreplaceable. I dreamt of someone sharing this with me—Ya Yi, who actually sits next to me. In the dream, she is very far away, but the illusion of vision makes us very close. We are holding hands a hundred feet apart, with an unfathomable chasm between us. When we reach the agreed-upon place, we jump together. As we fly, I feel she is as happy as I am.

Thinking of this, I pulled her back, but she refused. I knew her father treated her like a pet bird, and one day he would tear her apart. I thought…

When I told my father about this plan, I believe his expression was hungry, but he turned his back to me, saying nothing. The next day, the bird was to be released. At that corner, the struggle of the trapped bird couldn't escape the lust of the beast. And so, she spent her first week of growth in our house, enjoying the rollercoaster of entertainment without any other stimulation. In the second week of her release, as the shackles of her soul were broken, I already knew she was her lover. The only difference was the way she looked at my father; it was different from how she looked at me. I only learned one day at dinner that he was her father, not her lover. This confused me greatly. I had thought my father considered her his second lover, but he treated her like one of his three concubines. This was a family, but not a place for me.

I only learned before leaving home that Ya-yi had been mistaken for a mother. It seemed the teacher and Ya-yi were the real lovers. I thought about it for a long time. I heard Ya-yi's father was looking for her. I wondered if this eloped couple could truly stay together.

The flowers surrounding the grass were more magnificent than I had ever seen. Even the bookstore, which I had never been to before, seemed graceful and charming. The relaxed atmosphere was natural to those who understood it; to those who couldn't, it was like a secret garden behind a door. Wandering the streets for years, I never imagined I would hear their innermost thoughts, their whispers in my heart. I stood for a long time looking at a doll in a shop, and then, completely unable to comprehend it, I burst into tears, for the life I had once had.

Returning home, I found a pile of dead pig meat on the floor, its swirling blood soaking the flowers that should have been blooming. Three people had perished like dirt, only the unborn child in the womb had been torn away. I stared for what felt like an eternity, then suddenly remembered my diary. Holding a handful of flowers, I went outside to find my love… (

Original author retains copyright. Please indicate the source if reposting.)

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The taste of cheese

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