New Year's Day
This is the first New Year's Day that I've woken up with a strange woman in my bed. The previous night didn't start out like that -- indeed, quite the contrary.
I had spent about 3 weeks working the phones and e-mail trying to spark the interest of a young woman named "Jone" whom I'd met a MoonDance. I liked her style - she's a limber modern dancer, a yoga devotee and also says she's an artist, though I haven't seen her work. I finally got her to commit to a New Year's Eve date and was already fantasizing about how many pretzel positions we could attempt when - about 90 minutes before we were due to meet - she called and asked if she could bring some friends.
This is never a good sign - especially in China. "Friends" means "chaperones" and also means that however avant garde somene like Jone might appear what with her Martha Graham aspirations, she's basically a virtuous, traditional Chinese girl and you're gonna have to spend months of painstaking 19th century-style courting before you're rewarded with something other than a peck on the cheek. Hand holding in these cases usually doesn't happen until Date #4 or 5. Actual sex? Four to six months is a conservative estimate. Along with the assumtion that you're going to marry her.
Nonetheless, I gave her a hearty "Sure! Great!" as affirmation and met her and her two pals, "Miss White" and "Miss I Can't Remember Her Name, But She Had Great Tits."
We left the might Shenzhen Press Tower at about 10 p.m. and went to MoonDance where I spent most of my time dancing with Jone and feigning rapt interest in whatever Miss Great Tits happened to say.
No kiss at midnight for me. Though, from outside MoonDance's locked opaque bathroom door where I'd gone in an attempt to take a piss I was able to watch a British guy named Lawrence put it doggy style to his date. Her breasts, hands and side of her face were smooshed up against the glass as Lawrence worked her from behind.
It made me nuts.
I didn't know whether to stay and watch, or leave.
So I did the only polite and decent thing one can do in a situation like that and stayed and watched.
I also congratulated Lawrence - who done it with a fedora on, and tipped it in acknowledgement - when he and she finally emerged.
Then I found Gary, the MoonDance owner and told him that his restroom had been formally dedicated.
"See that guy, Lawrence with that girl?" I said. "They just fucked in your bathroom."
"They what? How do you know?"
"I watched them. You could see it through the door. It was great, but I reallly had to pee."
"Why the hell didn't you tell me? I would've loved to have seen that. It's about time someone did after all the work we put into that bathroom. But I'm also pissed. I wanted to be first."
After Jone, who always went to the bathroom with at least one of her friends and never me, left I went to another, larger nearby disco called the V Bar in search of a reasonable facsimile of Lawrence's example
Confetti and streamers littered the floor and the place was emptying out. I lingered though and finally honed in on a lone woman wrapped in a down coat who looked semi-promising.
Her name was Li-Li and she said she knew an underground after-hours place we could go. We swung by the Lucky Number where I picked up some more money and then let her guide the cabby to a district I'd never been to before.
The club was up several flights of a nondescript building housing about 87 other sundry operations and - at 3:30 a.m. - it was jammed with Shenzhen's most decadent, bored, spoiled and wealthy brats all writhing to house music and weird remixes of stuff like Sister Golden Hair by America and Pat Benatar's Because the Night with the vocals at 78 rpm and a heavy 4/4 bass bottom.
Mao's granchildren, I thought. What would grandpa think?
Li-Li and I ordered some beers, she gave me some oily fish sealed in an aluminum pouch as a snack and then we joined the others.
With the strobe, her face - impassive - looked like a classical kabuki or Noh mask image. The other bodies more or less forced us together and we locked hips and arms and ground together in rhythm for what seemed like an endless amount of time. I just drifted, enjoying the contact and trying to maintain some semblance of approximate dancing.
By 5:30 a.m. the brats were still going strong but we called it quits and went back to the Lucky Number where she took the world's longest shower, washed her lingerie, hung it up to dry and finally met me in bed where we continued what we'd begun on the dance floor.
It was sweet and slow and I was sorry to wake up at 11 a.m., though she was as beautiful to behold in the hard morning sunlight as in the strobe's stuttering flash. I sent her home with cabfare and a red plastic net bag of mini-tangerines, a banana and a cold Coke for her brunch. She said she'd come again tomorrow night, but I'm not counting on it. I have no idea what she does for a living, where she really lives or any other details, except she was wearing what might be a Chinese wedding ring. It's hard to tell here. Most married women don't wear rings and the ones that do wear them on almost any finger.
She did leave me her cell phone number, though. I think I'll be in touch.
  ¶ 10:21 PM

  All You Need is Love
Dear Justin,
Based on what I read on Shenzhen Zen and the alternative mix version it seems that you spend most of your free time in tawdry bars and massage parlors with women of dubious virtue. Have you actually gone on a real date with a respectable woman in China?
Curious Reader
P.S. How are the orphans?
Dear Curious Reader,
The orphans are fine and feeling especially happy with Christmas approaching. Thank you. But I'm glad you asked, please allow me to answer the rest of your query. Actually, I've had about half a dozen "stateside- style" dates since arriving. None have resulted in a lasting union, but the latest one kind of wraps up the experiences so far.
Peter-the-SZ-fixer had bemoaned my lack of a Chinese girlfriend so far and with my consent had posted a plea for me on a Chinese language-only Shenzhen website specifying that an American was looking for a college graduate with English skills interested in meeting for "friendship."
The response was less than overwhelming, but I got a promising one from a woman whose English name is Monica. She works for an import/export firm and has dreams of owning her own international business someday.
Phone calls, e-mails and repeatedly rescheduled (at her behest) dates for a get togehter ensued. After much Sino-U.S. shuttle diplomacy we finally agreed on a date and time.
Because I have no clue where anything is here in terms of addresses, I convinced Monica to meet me at the entrance of the SZ Press Zone tower at a specific time. It's a notable local landmark that most locals - except for many taxi drivers, especially when a foreigner shows them the written address and repeatedly repeats it in bad Chinese - seem to know.
"I'll be the only foreigner there," I said. I had no idea what she looked like, other than she was a 20-something-Chinese woman.
So far, so good.
Hint no. 1. If the woman suggests she's bringing a "friend" (i.e. "chaperone") you're fucked.
She showed up only 5-minutes late and she was alone.
We had a sumptious lunch at one of restaurants nearby that specializes in seafood. She ordered, and we both ate. I can't read the menus and one of the bonuses of these dates is that I'm always guaranteed a different meal, based on the woman's tastes. So far, I've sampled an amazing array of land and ocean foods (and a few stinkers) using this method.
Conversation flowed and as she had ordered much more than two or even three could consume (a common custom) I had the remains boxed and told her I'd have to drop it off at my apartment before we went elsewhere.
Hint #2: If she freezes and/or gets really distant at any hint of visiting your apartment on a first date, you're also fucked.
Monica, I am happy to say, neither froze or drifted away. We got there and she acutually lingered, exclaiming at how "big" my kitchen is and marveling at my array of books (thank you, friends and family).
We went shopping for a boombox for me, went back to the Lucky Number Apt. to store it and then went for a long walk, talk and mini-boat ride on a lake at a nearby park that was jammed with weekend locals flying kites, soaking up a flower show and just hanging.
Despite the crush, she was thrilled, or seemed to be. I was merely quite content.
"It was very happy time. I have not have had a day like this ever."
I felt like a king. And we never even held hands.
We returned to the Lucky Number, plugged in a CD mix from a friend in Boulder, some Emmylou Harris and then played the Who's Quadrophenia. Monica asked if I had any Carpenters, and I let her down. Didn't seem to matter. She was leafing through a New Yorker on the couch and I was smoking a cigarette and musing while gazing through the kitchen window at the view below.
I looked back at her sitting on the couch and for a moment it felt as if we were a real couple, married and blissful. It felt so good and normal to see a woman reading and enjoying music on a Sunday afternoon with no strain to make immediate conversation or anything else for the moment. Just enjoying the moment. Pure magic.
Her cell phone rang and it was a friend, desperate to meet her for dinner.
I escorted her to the world's slowest elevator, and waited til it arrived. We shook hands and she descended.
I have no idea if anything else will transpire with her. But it was nice while it lasted.


  ¶ 7:35 AM

  Orgy Pt. II

Suffice to say that Buffy was intended to warm the atmosphere for whatever Mr. Yang and Wanda had planned. It had precious little effect on me, but judging from the way Mr. Yang was gulping his drink and staring fixedly at the screen it was working its magic on him.
Wanda finally emerged just as Buffy was preparing to either slay or service several night denizens. The phrase "slipped into something more comfortable" is a generous description of Wanda's attire, though Fredrick's of Beijing by way of the North Pole of is perhaps closer to the mark. Heels, and a shiny red body stocking of sorts trimmed with synthetic white fur around the breast and neck lines.
Mr. Yang said something to her and turned Buffy's panting and screams down before hitting some more buttons and allowing the strains of a Chinese singer doing Unchained Melody filled the Den o' Love.
"You dance? You dance!" he said, urging me to get up for a romantic spin around the rumpus room.
Wanda looked less than enthusiastic by now but not wanting to offend my hosts I got up, took her hand and began trying to do my best slow dance. The fur on her collar tickled and I approached any hint of intimacy with caution, especially when, as I turned around midway through the song and saw Mr Yang.
He had donned sunglasses and was fumbling with a video camera.
"No camera, no camera!" I hissed.
"Camera ok!" he said.
Wanda failed to weigh in on the debate, but did pull me closer and spun around so she was facing her director hubs.
The song ended and I saw that Mr. Yang had also unloosened his belt. With sunglasses still on and camera in hand he said something else to Wanda .
She took my hand and pulled me through a hallway into their bedroom which looked something like a Hugh Hefner knockoff circa 1972. Round bed, mirrors facing two sides (though mercifully none on the ceiling) and more bad "adult" art.
Wanda slipped her suit off one shoulder so half a breast was revealed and began unbuttoning my shirt and actually moaning in a bad approximation of what she'd apparently learned from repeated viewings of Buffy. Mr. Yang raised the camera again and I tried batting at it with one hand as Wanda sighed with feigned passion: "Kiss me. Oh yes. Kiss me."
I laughed nervously instead. Mr. Yang circled trying to focus for his imagined money shot.
Suffice to say, I'll never cut it as a porn star. It was all too ludicrous, especially the sight of Mr. Yang now seated in a white leather chair across from the bed with his sunglasses still on, pants around his ankles, one hand working his midsection and the other shakily trying to point the camera as Wanda grabbed my head and planted a big wet one on me.
I returned the kiss, briefly fondled Wanda's now-fully exposed breast and then said something about having to go to the "W.C." as they call bathrooms/toilets here, pulled from her grasp and staggered down the hall to the front door with my shirt untucked and only half buttoned.
"Whoops, I forgot. Gotta go! Thanks!" I shouted over my shoulder as I fumbled with the bolt and fled into the Shenzhen night air. I heard Mr. Yang yell something incoherent just as the door slammed behind me.
My alcohol intake hadn't helped. I could see the SZ Press Tower directly across the six lane main boulevard, but had no idea how to get to it. Several things stood in my way, including a lot of foliage, a fence or two and numerous cul de sacs. The clearest way out seemed to be the opposite direction - the golf course - at which point I hoped I could circle around for a clear exit.
n the dark, I thrased through several hedges and straight into a sand trap and then narrowly missed a water hazard in a journey that seemed to last hours before I found a security gate with a dozing guard.
Acting as if I belonged there, I simply strode up to the guard house and rapped firmly on the window. He looked startled enough to push a button and let me out.
The Lucky Number Apt. is not Millionaire Row, but it felt a whole lot better when I finally limped in at about 4:30 a.m.. I can see Millionaire Row below when I look out the window of the smoking lounge on the 37th floor and I stood there bleary eyed at 9 a.m. trying to pick out Wanda and Mr. Yang's love nest. No luck, but it's just as well. I just hope our aborted antics don't wind up on some Chinese website. Believe me, I'm a much better dancer than the video would indicate.  ¶ 2:36 AM

  Orgy
Well, I may have sunk as low as one human being, American or Chinese, can go. But where to begin, gentle reader, where to begin? Maybe from the beginning.
Setting: The Chicago bar, familiar to some readers as the place that has no Chicago-related decor. Like every night of the week, this Monday it was wall-to-wall writhing bodies doing their best to recreate a post-Studio 54 vibe, minus the blow . I was there alone and trying my best to flirt using eye signals like semaphores through the disco fog and cigarette smoke with a 30something Chinese fashionista who seemed to be alone and willing to dance.
Turns out she wasn't alone and was eager to do more than dance. But I'm getting ahead of myself....
We danced til I was nearly ready to drop. I shouted "XIE-XIE!" (Thank you) over the dine and went back to my table to swallow the last of a Tsingtao. She kept dancing solo while still making eyes at me and then I lost her in the crowd.
A few minutes later someone I felt someone grab my ass and squeeze it. Turning around, I saw it was the mystery woman.
She laughed and then began moving away through the crowd and I followed like a salmon fighting upstream to spawn We paused at the foot of a small stairway leading to some tables on a deck and she pointed up at a table occupied by a guy in a dark sport coat and a bottle of Chivas.
"My husband," she said.
Uh oh, I thought. "Sorry," I said and turned to try my luck elsewhere.
"No, you come. Meet."
Um...OK.
Her husband rose and shook my hand. I bellowed my first name and he shouted "Mr. Yang" and my dance partner introduced herself as "Wanda."
She looked very un-Wandaish, but it had been about 35 years since a strange woman had grabbed my ass, so I wasn't going to complain.
I declined the scotch and sipped a bottled water as we made the usual strained small talk which was abruptly ended with a sudden invitation to go to their home.
The needle on my juju meter jammed into the red zone but in the spirit of international friendship and carnal curiousity, I graciously accepted.
I sat in the back of their upscale Toyota wondering what would transpire next and if my partially nude, dismembered body would be found in a SZ dumpster tomorrow when I finally spotted the lighted tower of the SZ Press Zone approaching and the car began slowing a bit.
At least I know where we are, I thought.
Turned out Mr. Yang and Wanda's cozy domicile was across the street from my employer in an upscale gated development known locally as "Millionaire Row" bordering a golf course. I don't play golf but I would have a rude introduction to the course itself in a few hours...
Inside we sat on a white leather couch surrounded by the some of the worst art to be found in the East or West. Badly porportioned bronze nudes and animals that looked like they'd once decorated a Venusian biker bar.
Wanda disappeared into another room and Mr. Wang asked me if I liked DVDs.
"Sure," I said. He laughed nervously and asked if I liked "yellow movies."
Um, yeah. We don't call them that, but I catch your drift. I might've seen one or two in my time.
He found a disc, hit the remote and the plasma screen came to life with the words: Buffy the Vampire Layer!.
To be continued. I'm going on a company-sponsored jaunt to a local hot springs on Friday and will finish this tawdry saga upon my return.  ¶ 1:34 AM