dear comrades,

 

please don't scream if you see me on cctv.   at least it's not a porn flick!

dear comrades,

 

Please don't scream if you recognize me on the street. I don't know you.

 

My italian friend L learns half of his Chinese at the infamous gay cruising park -- DongDang Park, near Wangfujin.  I've known about this park for many years, especially since the release of the first Chinese gay movie "East Palace, West Palace", which supposedly took place here.  But this is the first time I came here.  Nowadays people cruise the net or hit the night clubs,  cruising in the park or public toilets are just so out of fashion ----free and laborious activities are out of fashion all together.

 

I came to the park to meet with L for dinner, also out of curiosity. It was surprisingly small and neat, equiped with newly installed exercise machines which are painted bright red, yellow and....pink.  very pink.  There was an artificial hill to my right, looking very much like the one in the movie even though I saw that movie 10 years ago.  As I walked along the path curved around the hill looking for L, I noticed some guy standing under a leafless tree, smiling down at me.  Oh this is so not my cup of tea.

 

L was sitting on a bench with a 3 or 4 guys sitting and standing around him.  Actually he was sitting on someone's lap, holding his Chinese text book and had a big smile on his face. Apparently he's very popular here.  The Chinese guys were poking fun at L's pronunciation,  tricking him into saying "MaBi", which actually translates into "Mother's Pussy".  As a gay Chinese who cruises the net and pays weekly visits to the clubs this is too real for me.  So I smiled and walked away to investigate those exercise machines, leaving L to his admirers.

 

It was getting dark and quite chilly, L finally decided it's time for dinner. To my horror, he invited 2 guys to join us.  Not only that, he insisted going to a Sichuan snack place across street. I've grown very sick and tired of these dirty greasy small eateries, but who am I to argue with L and his friends.

 

So we ended up in this little restaurant with a generic name: "Chongqing Snack".  We ordered drinks and simple dishes. 

 

One guy is young, in his early twenties and was quite talkative.  L would say something in Chinese and he would repeat it to the waitress or the other guy, acting as a Chinese to Chinese translator. I soon started to like his personality. 

 

The other guy is older, I would say in his late thirties. His hair was pushed back and glued together in a strange shape but looked strong enough to withstand any sandstorm. He didn't speak much, only answered questions when asked.  He always had to think for a moment before committing to an answer, no matter how trivial the question was, as if he was a diplomat being interviewed at a tricky international conference.  He smiled elegantly with closed lips when he was not speaking.  For budda's sake he was just cruising the Dongdong park on a cold spring afternoon...was it because L is a foreigner and he felt the obligation to look civilized and dignified?

 

He had on a pair of dark framed glasses.  There's a big Armani trademark on it but no doubt they're knock-offs.  They looked weird on him, especially with the hair --- some things just don't go together. 

 

L asked to see the glasses, and at the same moment I realized that they're just frames.  This guy was wearing a pair of glasses without lenses.   

 

L asked why, his answer was: "My boss asked us to."

 

He's a hair dresser.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was chatting with S on MSN and somehow this topic came up: when was the last time you cried?

 

I couldn't remember when was the last time I cried in real life, but I do remember last time I cried in dreams. I was traveling with my dad and my step mom in thailand.  I took them to the beaches and we stayed at modest but nice resorts. We usually played in the water during the day, went back to the hotel room to take a nap in the afternoon till dust and then headed out to the beach again for candle light dinners.  It was so nice and I couldn't help thinking that I would never be able to treat my mom like this.  She passed away almost 20 years ago.

 

I had a dream one afternoon while taking a nap in the hotel room, couldn't remember any details except that I was saying good bye to her.  For some reason we both knew it was forever,  we hugged for the last time, and I cried.

dear comrades,

 

Please don't scream if you see me naked, you're just plain lucky.

 

It's only been 4 days but I have already made friends with the Thai guy that I saw at the gym. I invited him to my apartment last night for a drink but he only asked for a glass of warm water once he got here.  He's actually quite sweet, better looking when dressed and very shy,  the warm water seemed to open him up as effectively as a bottle of wine.  So he told me his life story:  he's living   with his Chinese boyfriend in the building right next to mine.  His boyfriend apparently supports him because he doesn't work at all.  He doesn't go to school either.  He told me in broken english how he tried for 2 days:" it sooo far!  I hat to get up at 6 thirty!"

 

So he doesn't work, doesn't go to school, and had lived in Beijing for 3 years.  Rarely goes to clubs, because his boyfriend gets jeolous. But he told me he's actually very busy: from monday to friday when hubby goes to work, he plays cards with his thai friends in the apt complex.  (There are quite a few thais in this neighborhood, mostly girls married to expats.) When hubby gets home, they'll have dinner together prepared by Ayi, and would sometimes go to the gym to play pingpong. He learned the chinese national sport from his hubby.  On weekends they would go shopping and cook dinner themselves because Ayi takes weekends off.  Sometimes they would invite friends for more card playing.

 

I invited him to come to my housewarming party this saturday, he said he couldn't because he's heading back to Thailand this friday. His boyfriend's mother is returning to stay with the son from New Zealand for a month or 2.  Even though she knows about them it's just not a good idea to live with your mother-in-law, especially when you can't produce a grandson!  He misses thailand very much anyway.

 

I know this is a boring piece, but it might be inspirational for my friend Denny.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear comrades,

 

Please don't scream if a hot naked smooth hunk grabbed you in the shower when you were only trying to pick up your fragrant soap, because you must be dreaming and you'll only wake yourself up.

 

So I went to the gym again tonight, this time after 9.  Did the same routine, swam for 5 minutes and hit the sauna.  But apprarrently at this hour the gym has slid into a middle-age-chinese-men-humming-in-the-shower phase from its previous shameless-gay-cruising phase.  The hot naked norwegian guy is nowhere to be seen, and not even a single blond or tattooed asian!  All there is are a couple out-of-shape chinese leaders parading around, of course naked, so comfortable in their pale skin they had to hum:

 

we're Siiiiting highhhh...on top of the piled haysacks

liiiistening to mama...telling an oooooold stooooory....

 

not without a pinch of trueful melancholy nostalgia, in this windowless underground gym, at a lonesome hour.

 

one a separate note:

 

Dear comrades,

 

Please don't scream if you see your own naked body in the mirror.

 

So I went to the gym in the club house again tonight.  Swam for about 10 minutes and hit the sauna. Dry sauna was empty, I went in with my wet swim trunks. Just before I got in, this blond-hair-asian-face guy threw a hard look at me as he passed the door.   I knew I was cruised, got kinda excited not because of the guy, but the cruising itself. I felt like home again for a few minutes --- gyms are supposed to be cruisy, it's heart-warming to know that even in Beijing it's not an exception.  Swimming pool, sauna, locker rooms, peeks in the shower.  All the familiar rituals.

 

The blond guy came into the sauna too after a short while and sat right next to me, in his shorts. He kept looking at me boldly, but never said a word. I returned a few looks but couldn't figure out what he is.  I wasn't even sure if he is asian although he could pass for a korean or japanese guy ---they love to dye their hair into a dirty blond.  At any rate, he is NOT attractive, so I kept to myself, enjoying the dry heat.

 

He got out. 

 

In came a naked guy. I saw him the first time I was here.  He's probably norweigian, muscular body, shaved head and very smooth body. Like first time I saw him, he seemed very comfortable naked, sitting down facing the entrance.

 

The blond asian came back. Naked this time and again sat next to me, blocking my view of the hot norweigian guy. 

 

I got out and went to the steam room.  Steam hissing quitely, moist thick and soothing, I had the room all to myself......but the blond asian had to come in again, and stand right next to me, this time with a half erection. 

 

I had to break the silence and asked in English: "Where're you from?"

 

He replied in English: "China. Are you Chinese too?"

 

"Yes." I swtiched to Chinese.

 

So we exchanged a few pleasantries but it didn't seem to kill it for him.  So I waited a little while, smiled at him and went out.  Just before I left, another naked asian guy came in.   He's got a southeast asian look, either vietnamese or thai but more on the ugly side.  Tanned body, inked.

 

What's with all these nakedness?!  Are these people really brave or have I become a prude staying in the US for too long, now ashamed of my body?   I don't know about the norweigian guy but the other 2 asian guys are obviously gay.  So it's a norm for them to cruise in nude, get aroused without any cover in a public gym?  What a sick twisted world this is and I must say I have to investigate more by coming here more often.

 

Special agent reporting from Beijing,

comrade chen

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear comrades,

 

Please don't scream when you're asleep, it'll only wake yourself up.

 

Eileen Chang, as we darlingly call her Granny Chang, has long been a favorite among Chinese gay readers, but now matter how popular she has become in the past 20 years, her fame never really reached beyond Chinese readers. 

 

This is going to change soon. Her stardom is expected to enlighten the shadowy corners of gay movie-goers in western countries, or at the least, western country.  As  Mr. Brokeback Ang Lee, the latest hero of gay cowboys, recently announced that his next project with Focus studio will be a feature film adapted from Eileen Chang's short fiction "Lust, Caution". 

 

Spoiler alert starts----In case you haven't read it, the story is about a big breasted cantonese girl's failed attempt as a femme fatale. Big breasted female spies might be plentiful in 007 movies, but it would never work in China.  Remember Sausage Mao taught us?  Revolution is not at all like dinning out with guests!  Big breasted women has no brain. --- Spoiler alert ends.

 

....anyhow, that's besides the point. My point is, now that Mr Ang Lee is THE most respected and expected director among gay audience, it's not unlikely that the same audiences of Brokeback Mountain, including a lot of closeted cowboys, red-necks, their admirers... and whatnot, who have never heard of Granny Chang, would go see this movie which already has a sexy title.  If Mr. Ang Lee makes a decent enough movie and manages to embed into a little x-men like gay agenda, Granny Chang may very likely become the next underground gay icon of Americaaaa!  Gay men already liked big-breasted divas anyway.

 

Dear comrades,

 

Congradulations!  You have just stumbled into my world famous,so-precious-that-I-have-not-updated-it-for-6-month" english blog! This is really wonderful. You should give yourself a warm hug since I won't be able to do that from your computer screen.

 

A lot has changed in the past 6 months. I'm no longer working on european projects.  Even my boss is relocating to London. No need to get up at 6am to catch a conference call with european office, but on the down side, no more trips to Denmark or Norway either... but then I'll be spending a lot of time in Beijing for the next 2 years, might even need to move there...kinda scary and exciting at the same time...personal life wise, still single and hanging, though I've dated, hooked up, experiemented... with various people. sometimes fun, sometimes not so fun. Still gay, but a bit tired of it.

 

Denny moved back to New Jersy after spending 3 years in so cal. Miuco went to India last November after my recommendation and she's still there, somewhere in the south, training herself in yoga.  Fuge came to visit but I happened to be in Beijing so we totally missed each other.  Rumor has it that he's finally going to publish a book or two, or three. He'll become so famous and as his friends we'll all become glorious. Hui found a new job, stable but seems boring...we watched a really silly hongkong kongfu flick together in her apartment last weekend...none of us has become millionnaires or billionnaires.

 

Dear comrades, forgive me for being a bit sentimental here.  True, destiny is starting to show its path for each of us, but as least it's not yet certain.  The rest of the chapters may suck as bad as the ones we've gone through, at least it's still an open book.  Listen to Sausage Mao's teaching:  Human beings shall prevail over destiny.  Besides, according to the fortune teller's report, I'll be rich and successful, I've got to be alive to see that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think I understand now what the so-called "india nostalgia" is. If you ask me where I'd rather be now, I'd say Varanasi without a second thought.  The pungent smell of cow dump, urine, wood burning, body melting.  The foggy mornings and evenings, the unpenetratable Ganges. The forever talkative indian locals.  Chai in a dirty cup. Lonesome travalers.  The farthest place on earth from here, the most removed culture from Chinese or American. I'd be so fascinated by it that I forget about myself, my life as ME.

Leonard Cohen is stuck in my car stereo. Ever since I put him in, I was not able to get it out. It's been more than a month now, the longest a CD had stayed in my car.

 

If I get sick and tired of radio commercials, or depressing news about political or natural disasters, I press a play button and tune to him. Strangely I never get tired of his songs.  it repeats:

 

"If I, if I have been unkind

I hope that you can just let it go by

If I, If I had been untrue

I hope you know it was never to you"

 

Still saddens me, no matter how many times I hear it.

 

Dear car stereo, please release him. I think I need something cheerful for a change.

dear comrades,

 

When you say "deep pleasure" you're probably thinking about anal sex, but for David Hockney it means art, not that he doesn't know about the other pleasure you're so fascinated with. In his latest "Hockney's Pictures: The Definitive Retrospective" he said "I have always believed that art should be a deep pleasure". Check it out next time you go to a book store, it really is very pleasurable especially when you can finish the whole book in the store without having to buy it.

 

David Hockey likes LA a lot, because it's the "most spacey city in the world". ( I think he meant "spacious"). He lives on hollywood hills,of course from up there LA does look spacious...but trying driving, anywhere in LA, it's a whole different story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dear comrades,

 

I want to share with you a heart-vibrating, positively exciting news: I've found a new apartment and will move in early next month!  This beautiful one bedroom apartment is located at the foot of hollywood hills, directly under the Hollywood sign. If by any chance you come to visit LA and got lost, don't panic and don't scream. You can just raise your head and look for the hollywood sign.  If you find the sign, you find me. You'll come to my apartment, finding the door always open to a comrade like you. Tea will be served in big bowls, rice and pickles always plentiful for your refill needs, soy sauce cabbage soup always as warm as my hospitality.  After you stuff yourself, you can take a walk around the beautiful neighborhood. Don't miss the Scientology builiding right across street on Franklin, they're such architecture gems!  You'll see cult members  with permenant smiles on their faces cruising the street up and down, giving you free printed paper.  Don't be scared of them, take the paper and you can later on scribble a poem on or wrap a sausage with it. However, do not, I repeat, do not take their personality test.

 

special agent

comrade chen

reporting from hollywood hills

 

dear comrades,

 

please don't scream if you have food in your mouth: my roommate is a sleep walker!!! One evening, a few days before I left for copenhagen, he walked into my room again without knocking. I told him to piss off and he did, closing the door behind him.  I could hear his foot step, stomping into the kitchen and came back right away. Much to my surprise, he opened my door again and walked right in!  He was more confused seeing me than I was annoyed seeing him. He tried to explain, more to himself: "I just wanna get those two plants," he turned around, "let's try again."  He walked out, and this time didn't return. It was past midnight.

 

The next day when I got back from work, he asked me if he had walked into my room:"...I think I had a dream..." he said.  I confirmed. He then started to explain that he often sleep-walks and talks in his sleep. He said:"Sometimes I talked so loud I woke myself up."  I told him I couldn't hear a thing since I wear earplugs (not ass-plug, you sicko!) to sleep. 

 

Fabulous.  I have a roommate who sleep walks at night and I can't lock my door. I must keep my flying daggers under my pillow.

 

 

Dear comrades,

 

Please don't scream if it has past 11pm in your time zone:  my proletarian roommate turns out to be an alcoholic!!!  I have long been suspicious about this but only confirmed it this morning when  I accidentally walked into his room and saw 4 cases of beer stacked agaist his TV stand on the floor. They were strategically placed so one can't see them from outside -- my poor proletarian roommate is ashamed of his alcoholism, so sad.

 

He normally gets home earlier than I do.  Recently he's being spending most of his afterwork hours in his tiny bedroom. The door always ajar as it's too hot to keep it shut.  I could see his feet on his bed and I could always smell beer whenever I pass by.  His tiny TV set always on -- only companion he's got... poor guy, it's not even commercial free.

 

A couple weeks ago, he was so drunk in the middle of the night he walked into my room after using the bathroom. He looked puzzled at the sight of me. I thought he was going to sexually attack me---which by the way is such a laughable idea because I could easily kill him with my special training in QiGong--- I calmly and authoritatively reminded him that he had entered the wrong room.  Only then did he wake up from his daze and apologized before making his exit.

 

Another night, I found chicken bones in the bath tub. It was quite a disturbing scene as animal bones were often used in voodoo rituals.  Was he trying to curse me or what!   But maybe he was just eating chicken while drinking and was so drunk that he had mistaken the bath tub for a giant trash bin?   The next morning, those chicken bones were gone.

 

My poor proletarain roommate works in a nursery. Goes to work at 6:30 in the morning, 6 days a week.  He asked his boss for a raise last week and was rejected. He is a single 42-year-old gay man living with a roommate who is much younger, prettier and have a much brighter present and future than him.   (the roommate refered here is me in case you don't know. )

 

Dear comrades, I must confess that there is a certain excitement in living with an alcoholic.  It's all so unpredictable and mysterious.  I fear, and also secretly hope , that one day he would be found dead in his bed while I'm still his roommate. It would be very sad indeed, but also so exciting!  Imagine me calling my boss:"...so sorry sir, but my roommate was found dead this morning...can't come to work today....must go now, media's here."

 

special agent Comrade Chen,

reporting from hollywood hills

 

 

 

 

 

 

I bought a copy of "the master" by colm toibin,  a fictional biography on Henry James, which was shortlisted for the Booker prize last year.  "Line of Beauty" won, and by synchronicity as Jung would put it, is also a book inspired by the "master"---more specifically the aesthetics of homosexuality so masterfully implied in Henry Jame's writings.  I rarely buy new books, but this book is saved for a special occassion: for the long flight from LAX to CPH...but I started reading the book tonight feelign too restless to sleep.

 

The book starts with a narration of one of henry's dreams, in which he saw his long dead mother and aunt but both looked in despair and alienating.  It brought back a dream I had just a few days ago. I don't remember anything solid about it, but one detail I do remember is that I was asked to embrace my dying grandma in that dimly lit room she had spent most of her life in. I reluctantly obeyed and went up to the cot where her thin body curled up, facing the wall.  When I scooped her up in my arm her face turned. I saw a wet green face, already half rotten but still alive with her last breath. It was a horrid scene only seen in cheesy zombie movies.

 

I can't interpret this dream as I don't even remember most of it. But I do know this is also a dream about homosexuality, more specifically the "unaesthetics" of homosexuality.

dear comrades,

 

today I learned a new phrase:"anal bleach".

 

I was strolling down santa monica blvd to my usual lunch place when a girly blonde man stopped me and cheerfully handed me a flyer.  I saw him many times, standing behind a desk set up on the sidewalk in front of a spa tailored to gay men, but this is the first time he passes me the flyer, chosing me as a potential patron.  Had the news of my promotion reached south from sunset to santa monica? or was it the merciless time had started to show signs of aging on my face?  I don't know.

 

Anyhow, I took a glance at the flyer on which a list of services were printed.   Besides the usual facial and waxing services, the last item on the list says "anal bleach".  dear comrades,  what a strange, mysterious word that is. 

 

I had not so long ago came across a porn site that showed a few introductory screen snaps from a video, where a straight guy's hairy ass was bleached by some naughty fraternity brothers.  But I don't think they were naughty enough or technologically equipped to bleached his anal...and what for?  To lighten the skin color of his anal?  Even Michael Jackson won't do that.  Is it a procedure that we chinese call it "irrigate intestine"? If it is, why don't they call it so?  Did they name it so to attract certain clientele with its erotic undertone?  What benefit would it bring, if any?

 

I must investigate.

 

special agent commie chen,
reporting from hollywood hills

 

dear comrades,

 

Please don't scream if you're at work, but I've decided to get a tattoo----a permanent tattoo that can only be obtained through a painful procedure preformed by some scary freaky yet strangly sexy guy.  yes I know this is a reflection of my inner desire for transformation and transcendance and it's a rite of passage that every spiritual being has to go through, etc. 

 

But what pattern of scar is worthy of acompanying myself for the rest of my life?  This is a very serious question...only second to the eternal "to be or not to be".   Dear comrades, I must confess here, the first thing that came to my mind is the chinese character "钱" for money...... I know, I'm such a hopeless romantic.

I'm going to denmark end of this month for a week. 

 

I started this new position only yesterday and the same afternoon my boss told me to book a ticket to denmark in two weeks. I was like, err, but I need to get a visa first and it takes about two weeks to apply for one.  He pushed the trip to one week later. I went to the finland consulate (apparently finland is taking care of visa apps for denmark, so brotherly!) this morning and presented myself as an avid backpacker and got myself approved for a tourist visa---a business visa would require an invitation letter and a host contact letter and all sorts of additional paper work.  I pretended that I had never been to denmark and was so prepared to proclaim my enormous interest in seeing "the country of Hans Christian Anderson and the Little Mermaid". 

 

Well, I have seen that half-human half-seafood thing, or the "human fish" as we chinese call it, and never expected in a million years that I would be back again. Denmark is not exactly an exciting country to visit...but then it is this seemingly dull country  that produced the sick twisted Mr. Anderson, whose sad dark stories tramatized many innocent kids including me. Who knows? maybe it's the weather...I know I would go nuts if I stay a winter there...thank god I'm going in the summer and it'll probably be the coldest summer I'll ever experience.

I wrote this story in Chinese about 4 years ago. It was first posted in my own column on gstage.com and then published by City Pictorial, a magazine based in Guangzhou. Early last year I started working in IT again. To fight off my frustration and the extreme boredom I had at work, I made an attempt to translate it into English as a brain exercise. The outcome would've been more disastrous had it not been heavily edited by Hui and Mark. So here it is, a chinglish erotic story: the Missing Clown.

***************************
the missing clown

 

1.

 

The paparazzi managed to snap a picture of him stepping into a van outside of a motel. He wore shorts over a bulging stomach and sported vintage sunglasses. The van drove south along Interstate 5. Occasionally a tinted window lowered and cigar butts danced along the hot freeway.

 

He does not smoke. Someone else must be inside.

 

The man was first spotted having lunch at the sole Chinese restaurant in a small town in central California. No sooner had he finished his soup than the restaurant owner accosted him with a magazine asking for his autograph. On the cover of that magazine were an old picture of his entire family and a separate portrait of himself highlighted with red Chinese characters across the top.

 

The owner claimed that he's a big fan of his mother, he had even paid a special visit to her grave in Hong Kong last year.

 

The man replied without any trace of emotion: "You got the wrong guy."

 

Leaving a few creased bills on the table, he took off without speaking a second word. The restaurant owner called the magazine's contact in San Francisco, and the hunt by the paparazzi is on.

 

His is a normal Asian face but for a two-inch scar beneath his right eye, like a stretched teardrop. A result of an altercation with his hysterical mother over a knife. After the stitches were removed, the photos of his battle scar, still pink and fresh, were plastered across the Hong Kong newspapers at the time. The previous night, his father had died of a heart attack in an infamous hot-spring ryokan near Kyoto. The man became the sole heir of the billion-dollar empire of the Gu family.

 

By now, six months had passed, and they were still searching for him. No ransom notes were ever received and Gus was going crazy with worry. How could someone vanish into thin air?

2.

 

In his childhood the man had been a late bloomer, which is quite common among asian kids. Always the favored son among his siblings, he still retained his boyish baby face, with round eyes on smooth unblemished skin.

 

He had owned a lot of toys but never quite liked them. Instead, his favorite pastime was to watch the circus.

On a summer vacation to California, his mom had taken him to a circus show to celebrate his 13th birthday. His father was never around for birthdays, either too busy with his business or women.

 

The circus tent was pitched at a huge parking lot by the pier. A black and yellow striped flag with a skull stamped at its center could be seen from far away, flipping about in the moist ocean breeze. The circus was run by a French Canadian group called "the Flying Pirates".

 

They had sat in the first row, almost at the center of the tent, facing the half-moon shaped stage. He remembered a funny character named "Macho Sailor" in the show. Tall and muscular, a giant in a kid's eyes, he wore a brightly colored vest and tight white sailor pants, and his face was covered with heavy makeup. It was a supporting role, but the sailor made frequent appearances in between skits, amusing the crowd with funny tricks.

 

He remembered being fascinated by the sailor, eyes fixed on his every step and maneuver. At the start of the magic show, macho sailor had emerged into the spotlight and addressed the crowd asking for volunteers for the magician's trick. He remembered how the macho sailor had turned to him, as if noticing him for the first time, and paused with exaggerated surprise, pointing at him with an arm shining with tiny beads of sweat in the blinding spotlight. The sailor had made an inviting gesture to him, silently. The audience paused with anticipation. He had stood up, suddenly filled with courage his father had often accused him of lacking. Macho sailor put a purple clown hat on his head and scooped him up high.

 

In that moment he had felt buoyant and transported, riding the Macho Sailor in the full glare of the lights and the bemused audience. The experience had been fleeting and he soon found himself landed back on the stage, standing alongside a few other kids.

 

He did not hear what the magician had said. Macho sailor was standing behind him. Without looking back, he knew the sailor's bulging crotch was at the same level as his head. All his senses were drawn backwards for that magnetic place, he could sense the pulse of it, alive and beating. He had difficulty breathing himself because now the air around him was filled with the sensual smell of it. He looked up, saw his mom waving to him merrily from far away, some indescribable numbness traveled towards him like sound waves, combined with the incessant screaming coming from the audience pierced through his heart, growing louder and stronger, until finally he'd lost consciousness and passed out on stage.

 

He had been sent to the best local hospital. After an examination, they were told that the defect in his heart was minor and would most likely heal itself over time, thereby rendering an operation unnecessary. He was thrilled that he wouldn't be cut open.

 

His mom had made a big fuss about the whole deal, inviting many of the performers from the circus to visit him in the hospital, to make up for his loss at the show. She was disappointed when she found out most of the performers had removed their makeup. He was excited nonetheless. He had noticed a tall muscular guy with short blonde hair. Still in a tight vest revealing well-shaped muscles, his light green eyes seemed almost transparent, like the crystal beans he used to play with. He knew that that was the macho sailor.

 

With the same exaggerated gesture, the sailor had put his hand on his chest and exclaimed: "Kid, you really scared me" then bent forward to give him a little hug in bed.

 

The sailor must have felt a tiny firm erection beneath the white sheet, for he quickly cast a strange glance at him, one that could only be seen between two adults. At that moment their faces were only inches apart, all those fear and zeal in his eyes must not have escaped his.

 

The sailor had quickly regained his dramatized manner. He remembered his forehead being kissed and the words:" take care and get well soon, kid." But he also recalled hearing the sailor mumbling to himself in French: "little whore!" and seeing a thin smile crawl up onto the edge of the man's lips.

 

The sailor did not know that this son of a billionaire, this fragile little china boy, had studied French all through his childhood.

3.

 

He had been sent to England for college with the fresh scar. As soon as he left Hong Kong he started searching for a circus named "flying pirates". He had even hired a private detective, only to be told that the "flying pirates" had been dismissed years ago, most of its members disappearing with it. Some of the performers might have joined other circus groups, scattered about all over the world. Circus groups were always on tours, spending years on the road just to do one complete tour. They were the modern gypsies, living without permanent addresses. It was quite hopeless to find someone who didn't even have a name.

 

He'd never had a girl friend in college, nor, for that matter, any friends at all. He'd often vanish during weekends, but he would always show up on time for classes the following week. He'd have strange bruises on his neck or arm, but he acted as if nothing had happened. His family guardians in London did not know what to make of him, and did not inquire directly, respecting his right to keep his personal life private. He would be a very good businessman.

 

He had returned to Hong Kong shortly after graduation to start managing his family's business. Before reaching 30, he had already been elected twice as one of the ten most influential people by local magazines even though he had deliberately kept a low profile. He wedded once, married the elder daughter of the Li family. On the date of their engagement, the stock price of both families businesses went up by ten percent.

 

They divorced after three years. It was rumored that his wife had made several unsuccessful suicide attempts during their short-lived marriage. It was also rumored that the Gu family somehow took over the most prominent logistic division of Li's when their divorce lawsuit was concluded

 

It was then that he had flown west to Canada for vacation.

4.

He did not expect to see him again at this stage of his life.

 

At a highly exclusive private club in Montreal, a young lad he had made a reservation for arrived late and kept apologizing. The man had become quite easygoing over the years, only nonchalantly asking the youth where he had been. The handsome boy replied, not without any bashfulness, that he'd been to a circus show. The man smiled. The agency had long known of his peculiar "hobby", but seldom did an escort they sent behaved as professionally as this one, going out of the way to see a circus show to familiarize himself with the role. Maybe he had heard that the patron could be very, very generous, albeit with an unpredictable temper.

The young man took out some paper from his backpack and unfolded it for him.

 

It was a poster. Across the top it read "Flying Pirates, legend revives. Old members reunited under the same pirate flag..." Under the flag were the old members, and among them the third from the right, stood Macho Sailor. Eighteen years had elapsed, he himself had grown from a small boy to a boyish man with terrible scars in seen and unseen places, but here Macho Sailor was still macho sailor, with his face covered in heavy makeup, exactly as he had remembered him on stage so many years ago.

Next to his pillow he still kept that purple, fluffy clown hat. He liked its company, but he rarely wore it now, even when alone in bed, for he had once seen himself in the mirror wearing it, with that tear-shaped scar below his eye and he looked too much like a real clown. He didn't like to scare himself.

 

Over the years, he had frequently dreamed of himself watching a show. A sad looking clown went up to the stage to present his "precious", announcing to the audience that he's got something of the most precious value to show them. It turned out to be a broken bucket, a pair of hole ridden socks, and a faceless photograph...As he scurried about, moving his various assets from backstage for the audience, they just kept laughing and making funny noises, incredulous at his stories. He seemed annoyed and eventually became quite angry. He threw his clown hat to the floor. The audience still did not take him seriously. Facing his audience, he started to loosen his pants as if to remove them. Only then did the audience quiet down and attend to his performance.

 

He was a bit suspicious about the dream. He might have actually seen such a show, but he couldn't remember where.

 

5.

He had rented a small van, following the course of the circus tour, from Montréal to Toronto, to Vancouver, Seattle, San Francisco. He showed up for every show, buying the most expensive VIP tickets. He'd discovered the circus had a certain reputation of treating its VIPs quite well. For such a high price they ought to offer something extra.

 

Occasionally, he would show up at the pre-show receptions for VIPs, ask for a dry martini and silently stand alone away from the crowd. Performers had noticed him after the fourth show. He was a bit too old to be a circus chaser, with his scarred oriental face. That was a first even for them, the self-acclaimed freaks.

 

Performers only mingled within their own small social circle, rarely did they intervene with the life of outsiders. Why would they mind if he would keep to himself.

 

The circus captain was an old woman, a former beauty with a tender demeanor and almond shaped

eyes. One night she stopped him politely at the exit after a show, and asked him whether he was the one who had left a ten thousand dollar check in their suggestion box. He nodded, modestly.

 

The captain offered him a drink at a nearby bar where performers usually hung out after late night shows. He went along, carrying his never-finished glass of martini. He was not in a hurry. The captain sat on a stool with her legs elegantly crossed. Softly leaning against the bar counter, she smiled at him, not saying a word. He smiled back in the same muted language.

 

The "spineless" Russian girl, famed for her body-twisting talent, was smoking a cigarette at the door. The captain signaled to her. She gyrated over, and teasingly placed one hand on his shoulder. He shook his head with a smile and offered her a drink. She grinned, then walked away in the same manner as she had come.

The old captain raised her eyebrows to him. He gestured instead at the sailor, the one on the other end of the lounge, playing pool. The woman quickly gave an understanding chuckle. "Very well." she said.

 

Even with some trace of make-up left on his face, the macho sailor looked very much the same. He was focused on the balls on the table, his eyes tracking the rolling colors on the felt surface, still green, but as if they had been diluted from being soaked in alcohol for too long. The sailor's blonde hair had thinned considerably, though the shape of his face remained solid, dignified. The woman approached the sailor and whispered into his ears. He looked up, still in his bent-over position at the pool table, and saw him. A look of surprise gave way to a look of familiarity, and a thin smile crawled up his lips. The same smile he'd remembered.

 

He was told that his name was Eric.

6.

Macho sailor was Eric, 45 years of age, born in Quebec, Canada. He had barely finished high school when he joined the Flying Pirates at the age of 18, and then was dismissed nine years later. He moved around mostly in north America. A certified masseur. Nick-name "the blonde colt". Starred in two rather unknown pornography videos. Jailed briefly for participating in a drunk fight. Rejoined Flying Pirates after being released.

 

The private detective had enclosed those two videotapes in the envelope. The motel room was not equipped with a video player. He was not interested anyway. Eric was now changing into his costumes in the bathroom. Eighteen years later, the macho sailor's costume was still the same, the only material that did not change over time.

7.

 

"Now, choke me." He gave Eric his instruction. Eric quietly wrapped his thick arm around his neck from behind, did not stop his movement. They had agreed upon what to do. His heart had healed well as the doctor had promised in that California hospital. If anything, he would rather have his heart fail here, now.

 

"Harder...harder." His face had gone red now, the color of his scar even darker, almost bloodlike. The ever-increasing pressure at first cornered him to an uneasy place but soon he felt safe there. Not enough though, he needed harder, tighter, firmer, till all senses ceased flowing, till nothing but pleasure overtook him like hidden flames spreading all over his body, burning from within; till his blood burned out all its carnal heat and turns as light and cool as a feather.

 

He moaned and choked intermittently. Strange imagery flooded his consciousness. He had long heard about an old urban legend of the hanged prisoner, who, while still dangling on the rope, ejaculates all remaining sperm before his last breath. There in the dust, where the sperm had fallen and dried, would sprout the following spring a small plant called mantra, blossoming with beautiful white flowers. If you pull out its root, you would see the shape of a small human figure or figures, small, poisonous mini-humans. As in an old rhyme:

 

Mantra, mantra
Hidden in the earth
Beyond any search

"You little whore". He muttered these barbed words through his closing throat before finally losing consciousness. Joyful tears and sorrowful sperm, those tainted or pure liquid drops of his, erupted.

 

Since he knew if he woke up he would see macho sailor by his side, this time, he did not hesitate to take the dive into darkness. In the snug darkness, he saw himself at thirteen, with that purple clown hat on his head, his young face smooth and shiny, free of any tear or scar. Just like a newborn clown. His mom waved to him merrily from a faraway seat among the cheerful audience.

8.

 

When he was nine years old, he fantasized about running off with a circus to the end of the world. That summer when he was thirteen he swore to himself that he would become the whore of Macho Sailor. At the age of thirty-five, all his wishes were realized.

 

It was at the Mexican border that the Paparazzi snapped a last picture of his van. South to the border, a long narrow stretch of land extended towards the ocean, all the way to the south, and further...till it finally ended abruptly, where there was nothing but vast blue water.

 

Young master of Gu family was never to be seen again.

 

***END***

I have so many new starts this year I lost count, hopefully I'lll stay here long enough to call it home, home sweet virtual home.

 

comrade chen@hollywoodhills