Crazy Chinese guys

As we cuddled and chatted after making love, there was a strange incident. She’d been getting a steady trickle of sms messages, which I had paid no mind to – until she visibly reacted to one. That was my cue to ask, and she told me. It was this guy who’s been after her maybe four, five years, having been introduced to her once, by her cousin; and that once was enough to convince him she was the love of his life. The spineless pussy.

He wanted her to marry him, and kicked off his wooing by claiming she was already his wife, by calling up her mother and declaring his love and so on. He had thrown over his studies to leave his hometown, Xi’an, and come to Shanghai to be near her, leading to him being disowned by his family, who are rich and powerful. And all this without having got to know her in the slightest.

In the way of the rich here, at one point this sap’s father, apparently having un-disowned him, had called her up to say if she would marry his son, he would buy her whatever she wanted, house, car, holiday and so on. Ah, China’s brash nouveau rich and their blunt, mercenary ways!

And so the grubby little worm of a guy has sent her a constant barrage of text messages, spite of her asking him to stop, spite of her asking his father to ask him to stop. She told me this rather passive, as if it was no biggie, but it made me pretty angry – it is harassment. And the fact she did not seem to mind it shows to me that women here are so used to getting a raw deal they can no longer even recognize it as such – it is just how things are, it is normality. Naturally I offered to wade in; I can just see the guy now, a timid, lily-livered yet mean, sour guy -- weak yet arrogant, a spoiled brat.

She said she’d told him she had a boyfriend but, cunt as he clearly is, he refused to believe this. So I offered to talk to him right then, in the bedroom with her, and she took me up on it. She called him, told him she was with her boyfriend, and handed over to me. And, in a mixture of very slow but firm Chinese and English, I warned him off, told him he must stop messaging her. He had little to say to me, as he would, me being another guy.

Talking to her, of course, he had no such problems. To her, a mere woman and thus to be mastered, he could show his lordliness. And he showed this arrogant attitude perfectly, by ignoring my warning – that he would do so was obvious – and texting her moments after the conversation ended to call her a whore, using the worst word Chinese for it there was, no mere `tart,’ but whore, whore.

The men in this country -- that she goes from his idol to a whore in a moment! And his racial pride too; he told her the fact she was fucking a white guy meant she was a harlot. It is no wonder than women here are so unhappy. Sure, women get treated shit all over the world, but they get a special brand of shit treatment over here – that’s why China has the highest rate of female suicide in the world.

That’s also why guys like me get so much pussy – Chinese girls just want to be with a guy who treats them with passion and respect.

Respect? Well, the ease with which we Western guys chop and change our women might suggest we have no respect at all. But when we chase a woman, when we are with her, we do indeed respect her; and though soon after we may move elsewhere, we never think of her as a whore, as easy, but rather with affection and friendship. Never contempt, as is so common among guys here with their fuddy-duddy parochial attitudes, their ill-concealed fear of women.

Lucy and I fucked some more after that, as I had still not come, holding it back to make our revels last; and when I did come, it was 2am… and at 7am we were fucking again, until 9. Then to Keven café for breakfast, after which I walked with her to the tube, parting there to go to my ‘lesson’ – nonexistent, of course, but I had invented it as an easy excuse not to have to spend the day with her - because I had a later rendezvous with Petra, a heart surgeon at a local hospital. She is a little older, maybe coming towards 30, and thus not as trim, fresh or svelte as Lucy or Mona, but yet more to my mind than they are; more mature, more complex, more interesting. She has no lover, and I am sure I could be hers (and am sure still, for though Lucy is now in my past Petra is still in my present). But, just like it would be with Holly, another woman I have thought of chasing, being her boyfriend could only happen on terms too hard for my selfishness; I would not cease to play around, and thus would only cause sorrow.

With women about 28 or so, love is a serious matter – marriage must be at its end; marriage is its reason. There is no sense of having a relationship just to see where it might go; marriage is the destination when the journey begins. And if sex happens, then it is even harder to get off the journey half way. But with women under 28, the relationship is usually open-ended. And this is a generation thing, not purely an age thing, for as those women now under 28 get older their attitude will not change much. For them, marriage is a maybe; for those born a few years earlier, marriage is a must.

In the days after this, as I chatted with Lucy online, our conversations became increasingly hard work. She wanted to spend much of the coming weeklong holiday together. I did not, finding her too pushy, and getting far too serious, wanting me to tell her I loved her. She asked this several times, and, seeing my hesitation, said `Just lie to me!’ – so I did.

That toad of a guy who’d been stalking her these past few years, as was obvious, couldn’t wait to ring up her folks and blab and whine and pule to them about how whorishly she was fucking a foreigner. I had told her he’d do this; of course he would, running to Mummy, bursting with the urge to snitch and blab. This is how it is – a man here faced with a setback will not take it like a man but will instead plot and cheat and twist and stab, get his revenge meanly, huddled in the shadows, sniping and smirking.

So I suggested that when he did call, and when her parents subsequently rang her up to demand she divulge everything they wanted to know about her private life (an attitude typical of many parents in this country) she say she and I had been in a bar. And so she did just this when, on the eve of mid-autumn festival, her mother followed up the family greetings with enquiries as to who this foreigner she’d heard about was. I’d suggested Lucy tell her mother I was her foreign pal; but instead she said I was her foreign boyfriend. Thus:-

darling:

Just now my mother called me to give her good wishes for the festival. Firstly I told her about my trouble, then she said she just wanted to ask me about something that he had told her. She asked me about who you were and why I stayed out so late with u. I replied in a joking voice that u were my bf and I was in love with you. I said that’s why we’d stayed together, sitting in the bar talking about lots of things, until he called me.

She was happy at last and asked me to take care of myself, and to enjoy my own life. She said if she could speak in German or English she would like to talk to u and wish you could look after me. Ha ha, she just takes me as a child in her eyes.

And this, of course, of course, just shut me down, made me lose all interest, made me want to shut her down. Love? O, no, no.

So I floated a lie, that my university wanted to send me to Shenzhen to teach a special holiday course. She laid it on how sad, hopeless this would make her. This, of course, had the opposite effect to that which she intended – she wanted it to make me more keen to be with her, but of course it made me less keen. But I lied, as was required, and told her I would try to get out of the course. Of course, instead I polished the fiction, made it more real, and thus got out of seeing her.

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