0 comments/ 9892 views/ 2 favorites College Sex Diary Ch. 00 By: janevalenz August 23, First Entry! The number one thing everyone has told me to do to become a good writer is to read a lot of books. I usually just say fuck that because it just results in unnecessary copying and then you just claim that the writers you read are just an "influence" and that you're still original. In all actuality, original thought no longer exists. So I prefer to just live my life however and just write the way that comes naturally to me. That way I could just say that I hadn't read the book or seen the movie before writing my story. I'd be a pretentious asshole if I said that all of my thoughts are my own because like everyone else, I'm influenced by whatever I've seen, whether it's a nature documentary I saw when I was six or the idiotic hentai I watched with some of my friends last week. For all I know, I am not actually a person, but rather an amalgamate of my parents, television shows, movies, books, and a random notion God had. The second thing people usually tell me to be a good writer is that I should write every day, or at least whenever I can. Sometimes I end up just sitting in front of my computer or sucking on a pen with a notebook in hand spacing out. It sucks, but it beats not being in front of the computer or notebook and having my mom yell at me for not working or being more productive. Some writers even claim that inactive periods are all part of the creative process. Other writers look to mind-altering drugs or alcohol before writing. I have access to neither seeing as how I don't know anyone who holds or deals, and I'm not sure I'd try it even if I could. And I'm technically underaged. I have drunk before. Drunk. The only adjective/verb (that I know of) which is the way it sounds. Hell, most people sound drunk whenever they say the word drunk. But anyway, I was never really one for drinking. So this is where the diary comes in. It helps me exercise my writing skills and record my life, seeing as how I've had some trouble in the past remembering things that have happened to me or people's names or other important things like that. I'm not going to dramatize my life like the memoirs of some politician or celebrity or make it seem fiery and passionate the way Anais Nin did when she recounted her numerous love affairs. All I can do is write things the way I see them. I once drew a giraffe with a purple crayon when I was watching some kids. A little girl laughed at me and said that there was no such thing as a purple giraffe. I just said "says who?" and kept drawing. So, this diary adopts that sort of attitude. This diary is me and the world reflected through me. If anyone would ever come across this diary and be angered at the way I depict them, then I'll just draw them a purple giraffe to show them that people don't always see the world the same way. Where could I begin this story? I don't feel like going back to my first memory, especially since there were probably many more interesting things that happened to me beforehand. If I was telling someone this story, I would tell them more about myself and then pick up where my life is right now. I always hated describing myself. It seemed self-serving and ridiculous because usually the way people see themselves contrasts with the way that they are seen by those around them. For starters, I am a Filipino-American girl, 18 years old with the typical black hair, dark eyes and tan skin of my people. I had the awkward experience of looking different from all of the other kids since my family made the unfortunate choice of raising me in the Midwest. It was pretty horrible in elementary school when everyone was still getting to know each other and asking silly questions like "where are you from?" and "do you speak English?" but when I got to high school, everyone pretty much knew who everybody else was because of how small our town and high school were. My parents had the stereotypical attitude of pushing me to be my academic best and convincing me that the best thing I could do was go to med school at a good university. It is probably needless to say that they were disappointed when I decided to go into English and Rhetoric. They were even more disappointed when they found out that I received little financial aid. So this is where I started. I would like to think of the college experience as a renewal for me. The whole "today is the first day of the rest of your life" thing always appealed to me not because of the urgency to strike out and do something important, but the fact that tomorrow would be the next today, a new chance to start the rest of my life. I was about done unpacking my things when I came across something I probably should not have packed. I was about to put the photo album somewhere where I wouldn't find it until the end of the year when the phone rang. After stumbling through some empty boxes I found the cordless. Considering the fact that I had just moved in, and the only people who had my phone number were my new roommate, who had already called to tell me that she would move in tomorrow, and my parents. "Hi Mom," I said for what was probably the fifth time that day. "Hi, how did you know it was me?" the sad thing was that she actually sounded surprised. "How are you doing?" I already knew that things were all right since she had told me so four other times that day, but it was a natural impulse. "I'm fine, are you unpacked yet?" I wasn't able to throughout the day due to the phone calls, but it was all right since I was usually watching television on mute. "Just about, and thank God too. I never thought I'd get through all those boxes," I fingered the photo album and started to open it. As if on cue, she said, "Good. I know you've been trying to hide it, but you're in college now. You shouldn't dwell on some silly thing like that anyway. You should be concentrating on your studies anyway." Gee Mom, thanks. I thought as I stared at the perfect-looking couple in the picture, smiling widely to tell the world that they had everything going for them in life. The picture screamed of youth, privilege, and a bright future. I still had all of these things, with or without David. What could I say about David, the person who was once closest to me next to my own family, but now a tuxedoed stranger to me with glazed eyes from a 5x7 glossy print photo? How could I start to tell the story of what most people would consider to be the perfect high school romance? He was the smart, athletic jock: tall, dark and handsome, and I was probably the nerdiest girl in school. The closest thing I did to athletics was academic decathelon, and even then, my hand cramped up from tensing up all the time on the buzzer. We never really spoke to each other until the beginning of senior year when we sat next to each other in some class. Like most of the other people in my high school, David was white. This was never really an issue with my family because my mom was happy that he was tall and planning to go to med school, and my dad needed another excuse to discuss sports to willing listeners. It seemed like one of those John Hughes movies where the most unlikely people end up together. Then again, we did the stuff that they don't generally show in many teenage romantic comedies. Handjobs in the backseats of cars, blowjobs in the bedrooms while housesitting, I guess these were things that were done in teenage romantic comedies, but never by the "good couple." Of course, we were the "good couple," if only in the yearbook. We weren't on prom court or anything, but it was generally assumed that we would be a successful couple with the happily ever after ending of marrying after college and settling down in a nice house in the suburbs with a nice minivan and a nice life driving our nice kids to a nice soccer practice or a nice piano lesson. Happily ever after, eh? Like most free-spirited feminists I knew, this was not my dream at all. Yet David was from a traditional upbringing with a stay-at-home-mom and a few notions about the way women should be, despite me proving that there are things that good girls can do and exceptional things that any woman could do with the right amount of effort. I wanted to go to college, travel the world and do something groundbreaking with my writing. It's funny how one of those dreams fell flat as soon as I looked at the future prospects for freelance writers. Now I'd just be happy if someone would print my work and pay for it. This didn't kill my dream of writing and world travel and freedom just yet though. My first taste of freedom was when I got my driving license the summer of my sophomore year. I'd borrow my mom's boat of a car and just drive around. There really wasn't much to do in my small Midwestern town than drive around, fool around, and fuck around. The fooling and fucking could sometimes be considered the same things, but when you're fooling around with friends, it usually means either getting high or loitering around town, and my friends and I were never really the getting high type. Even my friend Ben who had visited me from New Mexico didn't do much but smoke his smelly cheap cigarettes around me despite going to raves whenever he was back home at his mom's. It was fun just driving around with him and spending relatively no money to have a good time on the town, exploring back country roads and having inexpensive slices of pie in old folks' hangouts. There is nothing quite as sweet as seeing the look on a lot of elderly faces when a girl with orange hair and a kid with a chain hanging out of his pants holding a skateboard walk into their turf. That French silk pie was probably the best I had tasted and the only other time I had that pie was from the same restaurant. Ben was a lot of fun, but I hadn't heard from him since he and his dad moved out of town. But anyway, what was I talking about? David. Indeed, we were the ideal high school couple with more individual pictures in the yearbook from extracurricular activities than most other students. Yet nothing is ever as perfect as it seems. We both had little time together, and whatever little time we had was spent fumbling around in what were to be the first (somewhat meaningful in my case) sexual experiences of our lives. I actually cared about this guy, enough so to be more sad and angry than annoyed when he left. I still remember the mechanical sound of his voice on the phone, "You've been great, but this isn't going to work." Maybe it was the authoritative way he told me that things wouldn't work without asking my input, or just the insinuating way he said "you've been great." It was like a slap in the face, a "thanks for the sex" sort of thing. Maybe I should have told him that I wasn't a virgin, at least it would have been the truth and at most it would have wounded his ego to know that I had someone else to compare him to, possibly rank him lower than. As much as men love competition, they hate to lose to someone else. I spent the last two weeks of this summer slowly packing up my things, listening to Dashboard Confessional, and writing shitty poetry. This is what I meant when I was talking about influences in writing and why people shouldn't let themselves be influenced. Don't get me wrong, my 16-year-old self loves Dashboard Confessional for the angsty honesty of heartbroken lyrics and vocals, but the 40-year-old woman in me is asking "aren't there more pressing issues in the world than some whiny asshole getting dumped?" So there I was, sitting on my tiny dorm bed with a photo album in my lap and my mother on the cordless phone. Tears started falling down my cheeks and I sobbed, shaking on my bed. "It will all right, Anak. You'll find someone else," Mom reassured me. The thing was, I couldn't tell my mom that it wasn't David who made me cry. It was the realization that I was getting to be too old for Dashboard Confessional and the other emo music I had grown to love since my sophomore year. In my mind I was bidding goodbye to The Get Up Kids and Jets to Brazil. Then I thought about Ben with his adolescent antics and how amusing he was, but how he would probably always be that way with no direction in his life other than having fun. This led to my thought that just because I was going to grow up, it didn't mean that I had to become some deep and serious person just yet. I could still listen to Dashboard Confessional (but not in large doses) and still be pissed off that the economy is down the toilet and we're bombing the hell out of yet another country. "I know it will be all right," I smiled and searched the room for where I put the kleenex. "I better get to work," Mom said, and I could already smell the perfume she wore before heading for the late shift at the hospital. "Ok Mom, good night," I said as I hung up the phone. Entry continued next morning: I went to bed last night on that lumpy mattress with the comforting thought that classes hadn't even started yet, but I had already learned something important outside of where the union building was. All though high school, everyone made a huge deal about how alien and impersonal college would be, especially at a large state university like mine. Graduation was a solemn affair, comparable to a funeral, but without the free food. In contrast, the parties afterward were huge orgiastic affairs so full of life and mirth, but bittersweet as if all of us knew deep down that we would never see each other again. Now that I'm in college, I realize how silly it all was, the anticipation and anxiety of making the grade and working so hard disappeared, for now at least. High school is not the end of all things. It is possible to write and call my friends and see them during breaks. Then again, I was never really close to anyone in high school. As far as people being cold or unfriendly, everyone I have met so far on campus has been open and helpful. I think I even caught a guy checking me out, so things will be cool here. I'm hearing a knock on the door, so I'm guessing that's my roommate and her massive amounts of stuff. That sense of apprehension is starting to come back... August 25 Yeah, I guess I skipped a day. I was never one for daily journal entries anyway except for when I was bored and had nothing better to do than ramble around in my notebooks. As for yesterday, it was so eventful that I had little time to sit down let alone make a journal entry. First off, I finally met my roommate, Samantha, in person. The first thing I learned about her is that she hates being called "Sam" because she thinks it's an "old man" name. I always thought it would be cool to have a boy name since I was always a bit of a tomboy, but instead I have a prissy girly name of French origin. I guess things are never quite what they seem, especially when it comes to names and appearances. In Samantha's case, she moved in wearing one of those cutesy sundresses that are considered fashionable now. I always hated dresses since they make it difficult to bicycle, and I had a feeling that I would be doing more bicycling than I had during the summers of my childhood due to the size of the campus. At first glance, it would appear that she and I were complete opposites. Still, after the experience of being the odd one out in high school, I wasn't judgemental. I was cautious, but not judgemental. Like about 70% of the campus, she was white. My parents couldn't really believe that the whites were still the majority due to the swarming groups of Asians we saw on campus. I figured that they hung out together for the same reason I hung out with the two other Asian kids at my high school along with the punk rock and other "weird" kids, to find a sense of belonging and community in a majority-ruled world. Samantha was nice enough, even though she looked like one of the girls I knew in high school who would have never given me the time of day. So, I guess things really do change after high school. I left the room to get out of the way as she and her parents unloaded her stuff. I went to the bookstore to buy my textbooks, and nearly fainted when I read the receipt. I was worried that using my check card was too easy and that I would easily drain my bank account without realizing it. Then again, this was stuff I needed. I couldn't be one of those kids who don't read but go to class or steal someone else's notes and still passes the class. In order to survive, I knew I'd have to do more than pass my classes. Still, I didn't want to think about class yet, so I made my way back to my dorm. As far as unpacking went, I'll just say that she made good use of her half of the room and the empty corner that I hadn't filled with my own stuff. For example, she had brought what she had claimed to be only part of her stuffed animal collection, but it filled a small hammock she had suspended from the ceiling with sticky hooks. I hadn't read the rules and regulations for the dorms all the way through since I'm usually a real stickler for the rules (if only in public) due to my hatred of dealing with authority and paying for damages, so I wasn't quite sure what she did was "legal." I really didn't care either way as long as I didn't get in trouble for it. After she was done decorating the room with various pop star and movie posters, it became obvious which half of the room (and one small corner) belonged to who. I had my plain, assorted blue bedcovers, and she had her pink side. I had art prints from some of my friends, some more "famous" works. One picture particularly disturbed Samantha. It was the self-portrait my friend Evelyn painted of herself after her third and last suicide attempt. When it had happened, my mom was afraid that me and my friends had formed some sort of suicide pact because of something she saw on Oprah or something. I had thought of death a lot during high school, but looking back on the first two years, they were rough, but the last two years were worth it despite the fact that I had distanced myself from the people who had taken me in as one of their own. Evelyn didn't die, and I was glad for it. After being locked up for awhile, she discovered art, particularly painting. Some of her work was so moving that she got a scholarship to a major art institute in Europe. I thought this was great since the one thing she had wanted most in the world was to get out of our small and small-minded town, whether escaping by death or travel. Nothing made me more happy than seeing her face as she was boarding the plane. I knew I would miss my friend, but it gave me hope that someday I would escape from my small town trap as well. When she gave me the painting before she left, I was at one of my low points, not just about David but with the fact that I was losing some of my friends and anxiety that I wouldn't make it out there. I told her that it was too beautiful and I couldn't possibly take it. She explained to me that it wasn't something that she wanted to take with her in her new life, but she thought it could help someone else with their pain. Evelyn told me that the painting was what she had seen in the mirror every time she cut her wrists. The darkness of the painting, the shading and the blood balanced perfectly with the light reflected in her eyes and the "inner light" that was almost extinguished due to her inner turmoil. I don't really know much about art, but there was something so lifelike, but surreal about the pleading in her eyes and the surroundings blurring into her, as if she was being swallowed up by something she couldn't control. Not only had she captured her own feelings, but my own in that painting. In a way, that girl in the painting was me. "Is there any way you could not hang that painting there? I mean, that's not exactly the first thing I want to see when I wake up in the morning," Samantha made a face as she stared at my wall. College Sex Diary Ch. 00 "No," I said simply. Even if I did explain the significance of the painting, there was no way she would understand. I was worried that this would be the first major argument we would have and it was only our first day living together, but Samantha's cell phone rang and she ended up leaving the room to talk to one of her friends. To ease the remaining tension I felt, I wandered off in the hallway watching people move in. I saw a green-haired girl down the hall wearing a miniskirt with fishnets and combat boots, probably the only remotely "feminine" outfit I ever really wore in high school other than my medieval/fairy tale style prom dress. Before I could tell her to watch out, the ball rolled out from under her, causing her to fall backwards onto the floor and drop the box she was holding. I ran over to help her pick up her things when I noticed her cds. Some of them were from bands I had heard of, and others were refreshingly from bands I had never heard of. "Hey, so you like Eve 6 too?" their self-titled cd was what got me through freshman year, not to mention that "Open Road Song" made me wish that my mom's car had a cd player so I could crank it up with the windows down as I drove down a back country road at top speed. "Yeah, have you heard of the Subterranean Explosion?" she asked, gathering her other items and tossing them in the box. "No? Do they sound like anyone I might know?" I was a bit worried when she started laughing at me since it had been awhile since I had been in the indie rock or punk scene. "They're not a group, it's a concert they have here every year before school starts to hook the new kids on the local bands," she explained, "My sister told me it's a decent time for four bucks." "Where is it? And where is it?" I asked. It was about time I got back into the game. "It's actually tonight at The Rusted Nail," she said, handing me a flier, "It's a couple of blocks from here, so if you want to, we could walk there together." "Sure, I'll knock on your door a little before 7:00, ok?" Hey, this making new friends thing wasn't as hard as I remembered. "Ok, but from what I hear, there are a lot of shitty bands who open, just to warn you," she smiled as I opened her door to let her in with her box. "By the way, I'm Frank, short for Francesca, but my dad always wanted a son, so he started calling me Frank," she said. "I'm Genevieve. Sometimes people call me 'Jen,' but it gets confused with Jennifer too much, so I go by Vi," I said. The phone rang in her room, so she had to go. I returned to my room feeling a lot better, and got a phone call from my friend Kat from high school, which was funny since I noticed that she just lived a couple of doors down from me. She said that she wanted to meet my roommate and that she wanted me to meet hers. So, we all agreed on eating dinner together. That night, after I had gone out to dinner with my friend Kat from high school, her roommate, and my roommate to introduce each other, I got ready for the show. After a couple of years of getting beer spilled on me and getting stomped on at shows in local bars, I learned that dressing up wasn't exactly the best way to go. I went through some of my favorite t-shirts before learning that the more you like an article of clothing, the more it will be ruined at a show. I came home one night with a cigarette burn in my pleather pants and decided that I would stop trying to be cool and just go as I was in my grubbies. I changed one thing though, my shorts would probably guarantee a groping or little protection against another cigarette burn so I put on a pair of jeans. Frank and I just talked about more bands and small town stuff on the way to the Rusted Nail. I loved the atmosphere of the place, the stale beer and cigarette smoke with a hint of weed in the air felt like home to me. The walls were painted in an abstract sort of way, which oddly reminded me of a car accident. Frank told me that to her, it looked like a smashed in television set that was still projecting images. I'm not a psychology major, so I couldn't really interpret what either of those meant, if there was any meaning to them. True to her prediction, the first couple of bands sucked. The second one so much that people started booing. A chant got started to the effect of "You fucking suck!" It was straight and to the point, and effective after an empty bottle nearly clocked the lead singer in the head. "Ok," the emcee cautiously approached the stage as the much reviled opening band left, "This next band has been dear to the hearts of this campus for a few years, so let's welcome Mom, You Never Understood Me! to the stage!" I was shocked to hear everyone cheering. I expected some sort of emo or other incarnation of indie rock band to take the stage. I was somewhat right since they had the scruffy, yet boyishly charming appearance of most of the other bands I had seen before. Then the opening chords rang deafeningly through the amps and everyone started jumping around. Frank had gotten us up close to the front, so I felt the swell of the crowd, tossing me about like a wave on the sea. Their opening chorus was their namesake, repeating "Mom, you never understood me!" over and over again to a fever pitch, a bit lacking in creativity, but delightful nonetheless. There was something about a common 3-chord song that moves me as much as a Beethoven Sonata, especially in the throes of moving with and against the crowd. I don't really remember the names or lyrics of their other songs, or any of the other bands that played, but it was an evening I wouldn't forget. The sweat, a lot of it probably not my own, the smoke, the heat of the moment: all of these things will stay with me as long as I remember what it's like to be young. It's great to be surrounded by people who will push you down but also help you back up before someone steps on you. Frank and I hung out a little more, she trying to get the lead singer of the second to last band, Ruptured Appendix to sign the ass of her pants with a sharpie, and me just wanting to live in the moment a bit longer. I stumbled back into my dorm room around 3:00 a.m., nearly waking up my roommate. I ended up collapsing on the bed, blissful and not caring that I forgot to brush my teeth, change my clothes, or take out my contact lenses. Today was a bit anticlimactic. It was yet another orientation, the same tour pointing out where the library is and the various historical points and urban legends about the campus like "Suicide Tower" where five people had taken the plunge into collegiate legend immortality and the haunted English building where someone had drowned in the pool that had been there when the building was once a dormitory. We sat in a huge auditorium listening to the Dean droning on about pride and such. I had lunch with Kat again and introduced her to Frank. She introduced me to a girl named Jean who lived in our same building. Samantha ran off with her friends and I didn't see much of her today. With any luck, we would see little of each other during the year. I don't have anything against her, but I have the strange thing that the differences between us might cause discord at some point. So, I'm a bit tired now...thus ends the entry? August 30 I had my first day of class three days ago. I guess I couldn't expect to just hang around with my friends forever, right? Still, things went much better than I had expected. My Latin teacher was a bit impressed with me, and some members of the class have already labeled me as "the overachiever." I guess that's one high school trinket I wouldn't mind taking with me here. We're reading some things in my English class that are impressive since I had never heard of some of the authors. I had heard of Pablo Neruda, but I hadn't read anything by him until that class. It made me wish that I had taken Spanish so I could read the original words. Still, I like Latin since it's nice to know that you're the future of what is considered to be a "dead" language. I hung out with Kat, Frank, and Jean a bit more. My friend Max from high school had gotten me into anime my junior year, and I learned that there was an anime club on campus, so I decided to check it out. I was used to reading subtitles from watching French films (my favorite of all time: "The City of Lost Children"), so it wasn't hard to adjust to the subbing on the newer shows. I liked one of the sampler shows despite the fact that it had giant fighting robots, something I consider to be a cliche when it comes to anime. It was clever, much moreso than most cartoons in the States. I was a bit afraid that my new friends wouldn't be into it, but I was glad to find out that they were either into anime before, or they were pleasantly surprised at how different it was from Pokemon or the other crap they show on television. While I was walking through campustown, a woodcut sign caught my attention along with the smell of tobacco, good tobacco. It reminded me of the good cigars my dad used to smoke on special occasions. I admit, I had smoked cigarettes in high school, but quit briefly afterward due to how awful it was. I was curious about cigars though, so I went into the shop. A pleasant old man stood behind the counter helping another college student pick out some pipe tobacco. When he was finished, the old man walked toward me and asked what I would like. I wasn't sure, but I asked if he had something mild. He had some flavored cigarillos, so I picked a tin of vanilla flavored ones. I love local businesses, so it made me feel good to buy something from a nice old man in his shop. As I was walking home, I realized that I didn't have anything to light them with, so I ended up buying a 99 cent lighter at a convenience store. I remembered that cigar smoking was different from cigarettes since people didn't usually suck the smoke all the way down into their lungs since they were unfiltered. I took a slow drag, it was a warm pleasant feeling and the hint of vanilla was nice too. It was hot outside, but I didn't care. Some people stared at me as I walked back to the dorm, but I didn't care. I know smoking is bad for you and the environment and everyone else around you, but it wasn't like I was lighting up in my room with my roommate there to suck up the second hand smoke. I passed by a building with a playground next to it. There were small children playing on the slides and swings behind a fence. I was delighted by how innocent they were and how much fun they were having. There were a few kids in the sandbox, and to my surprise, what appeared to be a college student, crouched down helping them build sand castles with buckets. When he stood up, I gave him the natural once-over with my eyes safely hidden behind my sunglasses. He was fairly tall, with short, gelled black hair, tan skin. He wore glasses and khakis with a t-shirt which said "Child Development Research Center" on it. At first glance, he could easily pass for white, but I knew that he was at least part East Asian, I just didn't know which country. I felt a bit sheepish staring at him, but he was rather cute...until he opened his mouth. "Hey, would you mind doing that somewhere else?" he asked, looking at my cigar, "I don't want to have to give these kids the anti-smoking speech just yet." "I'm sorry, but the last time I checked, this was a free country," I would have added "asshole" to the end of that, but I remembered that there were little kids around. Nothing pisses me off more than when someone tells me what to do. "I realize that, but the kids here should have the right to breathe clean air," he said, "Either put it out, or move on." The 16-year-old in me wanted to flip him the bird and perhaps hit him with my bookbag. The 18-year-old didn't give a fuck about him at all and figured that he wouldn't be worth disciplinary action or potential expulsion and jail time. "Fine," I said and walked away. What a prick. I wasn't going to let him ruin my day, so I continued my walk and put out the butt before tossing it in a garbage can. Still, my head muttered thoughts like "the nerve of that guy" and "who does he think he is?" Eh, I got back to my dorm without any other incident and told my friends about what had happened, the nice old man in the cigar store to the asshole at the playground. They sided with me, despite admitting that he had a point. Sure, he had a point, but it didn't mean that he had the right to be a dick about it. So anyway, that was my first real encounter (other than the violent orgy of the rock show) with the male population of this campus. I hope that the next one goes better than this one did...but as my mom would tell me, I'm here to learn, not to date or fool around. But then I'd think to myself, "Yeah, that's what high school was for...fooling around." I could fool around here too, I guess. Mom doesn't need to know everything. College Sex Diary Ch. 01 Date #1 Roger September 7 There is a running joke among the Asian female population about what could potentially be the most annoying problem in dating: the Asiaphile. I first received an email forward in high school from my friend Anne, and I couldn't believe it. I mean, I've dated assholes, but I never thought that I would ever meet an asshole who specifically targeted Asian girls. The stereotype is that Asian girls are more docile and subservient, know a lot of sexual secrets and other shit like that. As for the stupid asshole who buys into this, he's usually white, pretends to be into "Oriental Culture" and the next worst thing to a pedophile since he's a middle-aged guy who probably watched too many animes with girls in skimpy school uniforms and action movies where the white guy gets the Asian girl simply because he's the white hero. I never believed these assholes existed until I met Roger. My friend Kat had met him in her Psychology class and they had studied together for a few weekly quizzes. When she told him about me, and specifically the fact that I was Asian, he wanted to meet me. Kat thought that it was about time that I started dating again. The mere fact that the guy was excited about meeting me, only after finding out that I was Asian should have tipped me off. Then again, it wasn't like I had much better to do that Friday night. So, I agreed to meet him at the local Thai place. Strike number two... Although, I first thought that it was a bit unfair of me to judge this guy before I even met him, so I went in. I saw several occupied tables in the small restaurant. There was a bar by the register were I saw a guy chatting with a girl who looked away from him until her group of friends came through the door. She signalled to them as if she was on a deserted island and they were a plane flying overhead. I kept thinking to myself, "Please, don't let that be Roger." I was about to turn around and walk out the door when he started waving at me. He asked, "Are you Genevieve?" "Yeah," I said and sat down next to him. We ordered, I insisted on paying for my Pad Thai since I never believed in letting the guy pay for anything. He protested, but I was never one to back down on an argument. The shock on his face from seeing a female, an Asian female no less, take charge was well worth the $6 I paid for my food. I started eating the noodles, and the awkwardness of the silence proved to be too much for him. "So, Genevieve, where are you from?" I explained to him that I was born in a small town two hours away and that I had lived there all my life. Then I asked him where he was from. "I actually grew up here. But anyway, I meant, where are you really from? What is your nationality?" I explained to him that since I was born in the States, I was an American. Roger gave up and got a bit frustrated, "Wow, Kat didn't tell me that you were such a smartass." "So, what did Kat tell you about me?" I slurped up my noodles and continued being as obnoxious as possible. "She said that you were Asian and one of the smartest girls in your class," I groaned inwardly, Kat should have known better with the whole stereotype of the quiet, smart Asian chick. "I've always thought that Asian culture was fascinating." This was when I realized that Asiaphiles weren't limited to gross old guys who hang out at the mall. They could be anybody, even a seemingly shy, socially-inept college student. Strike three... although technically, I could have eliminated him after the "where are you really from?" bit. "Excuse me, could I get this wrapped up to go?" I asked the bored-looking girl behind the counter who had probably seen this guy in the place many times before. There was no sense in wasting perfectly good Thai food. "I don't get it, what's wrong?" he asked, puzzled. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm your type. You might want to go to the local video store and rent a porno to find what you're looking for," I picked up my purse, thanked the girl for my food and left a piece of paper on his plate. The paper didn't contain my phone number or any other personal information. Instead, it had a list of the traits of an Asiaphile and other information dispelling the idiotic stereotypes about Asians. It was my one last "fuck off" to Roger in the hopes that maybe he would come out of the experience a bit more educated. So, this is the list for "How to tell if you're an Asiaphile": 1. Do you prefer the company of Asian women compared to women of your own race? Why? Because they are more docile and beautiful with their porcelain skin and silky black hair? What you're looking for is a doll, not a human being with an individual identity and a mind of her own. Interracial relationships are all right, but when they are reduced to seeing only the superficial traits of a person, it becomes an unhealthy fetish. 2. Do you sign up for Asian culture-related courses in order to meet members of the opposite sex? The culture of a country is not something to be used as sexual currency. It is a source of pride for those who are lucky to bear such ancestry. 3. Do you exclusively view pornography featuring Asian women depicted as mere sex toys with exotic and erotic knowledge? Pornography is just about images, the women in these films are acting and are not representative of every Asian or Asian-American female out there. 4. Do you root for the white action hero after he singlehandedly defeats a bunch of stereotypically-portrayed Asian male villains and wins over the Asian heroine (who is usually a prostitute or something equally as sexual) just because he is white? Asian men are not always evil martial arts masters or even nerdy, socially-inept math wizards just as Asian women aren't always prostitutes or damsels in distress. It's probably a naive thought that a piece of paper could change someone's mind and the way they operate. Roger would undoubtably be trying to pick up girls in the same restaurant or perhaps a Chinese or a Japanese place with the patrons and operators looking on in disgust, but saying nothing. But anyway, I ended up renting "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," again, not so much for the action sequences, but because I loved the romance of it all. From the painful, unfulfilled love between Chow Yun-Fat's character and Michelle Yeoh's character to the volatile passion between Zhang Ziyi's character and Chang Chen's character, I was in love with the story. I saw myself in Zhang Ziyi's character, the rebellious teenager wanting to escape family obligations and obtain "forbidden knowledge" about swordplay as well as experience reckless love at its finest. That, and the soundtrack by Yo-Yo Ma was pretty darn good. For some reason, after watching any romantic movie, I come away from it disappointed that things like that don't happen in reality. I'm not saying that I want someone to die before we can express our undying love for one another, or run off to the desert after the guy who stole my comb, but still, I'm bored and lacking in companionship. College Sex Diary Ch. 02 Date #2 Oliver September 28 Sometimes I wonder if I put too much detail in these entries. Granted, the details concerning dialogue might be a bit off, and I might add my own bias (this is my journal after all), but I try to make sure that I can get as much information in as possible. Then there is an occasion like this, when details fail to completely capture the moment, but you need to write down as much as possible so you will never forget. Hell, there are a lot of things that have happened that I can't forget, but I forget the details, what made it unforgettable. To think, I don't even indulge in mind-altering drugs which may end up destroying vital brain cels which store such memories, but I end up forgetting things anyway. I met Oliver in my Classical Mythology class. He was a classics major, ever-obsessed with the good old days of empire and conquest. Perhaps it was the Brit in him, as he would often say to me. We would have conversations about the mythology, since it was the little bit of Classical Civilization that I could remember. Of course, we often talked about the amorous exploits of the gods and goddesses. I would have been uncomfortable with such an up-front approach to sex. Even though I was often like that, it unnerved me a little whenever I met guys as forward. Maybe it was that soothing British accent, or maybe it was because I was a bit enamored with him, but it seemed perfectly natural to talk about sex with him. I just don't think that the people in the library where we often studied approved of our conversations, or our impressions of the gods and goddesses during the throes of coitus. One day, he invited me to his apartment to study for a midterm. I was a bit hesitant due to my parents' constant warnings about meeting males in their private residences. Still, I was entirely trusting of Oliver, perhaps a fault of mine since I'm a sucker for a British accent. That, and he had this warm, well...buttery is the only adjective I can think of to describe his smile, except that his teeth were not yellow as butter or crooked as per the stereotype. But sometimes, in our discussions, or even in class, he could be absolutely snarky. There was this sort of gleam that would get into his steel-grey eyes from beneath his floppy brown hair, as if he was saying "You left your knickers in my flat last night." Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if I didn't see him direct the same gaze at other girls in the class. I figured that even if things were going to go where my darkest suspicions led to, it could be quite an adventure. So, I allowed him to write down his address...on my knee. "Hello, luv," I heard his muffled voice behind the door, wondering how ridiculous I looked through the distorting peephole. "Hi, I brought my notes," which was probably the silliest thing I could say. Perhaps I was just reassuring myself that we were going to study...and do nothing else. "Good, let's get started," he motioned to his couch, which was next to a coffee table covered in notebooks, textbooks, and a rather interesting nude sculpture of who I presumed to be Venus. I sat down, looking around the apartment. It was rather well-decorated for a college student's, with shelves filled with books and sculptures and other objects of art. There were posters on the walls of various ruins. It was good to know that he was into his studies. I wondered where he had gone to when I turned around and saw him in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of red wine. "I don't know about you, but my studying ability is generally impeded by alcohol. Then again, I don't generally bring my books to keggers," I joked. "Well, I happen to find that the opposite is true. I know that you are technically underaged, but I won't tell if you won't," ah, the snarky bastard had returned. "How do I know that you didn't slip something into the wine like Circe did to Odysseus's men?" I asked, shrewdly examining the glass. "It's not like I'm a goddess who lives on some island looking to ensnare men and turn them into swine, now am I?" his lips curled into a smile to match the glint in his eyes, "Now, perhaps you're just making accusations based on your subconscious desires." "Since when are you a psychology major?" I swirled the wine in its glass and smelled it, "Besides, it wouldn't take much to turn men into swine, considering some of the displays I have been witness to." "How about this as a display of faith," he took my glass, brushing his fingertips against the back of my hand, and took a sip, "See, no pink ears, no curly tail." "Yes, but I see another sort of tail showing," I couldn't help but laugh when he looked down, as if thinking that I had made some sort of double entendre, but I couldn't torture him that much, "Soft, but bristly. Never trust anyone with the tail of a fox." "What was that from?" he asked. "I just made it up," I took a sip from the wineglass in his hand, gathered my books and walked to the door, "Now if you'll excuse me, I believe that I shall continue studying...alone." "Wait a minute," to my surprise, I actually paused at the door, "Turn around." I looked at him, feeling slightly uneasy. Perhaps he had slipped something into the drink after all. He sat on the couch, steel-grey eyes examining me, cutting into me like a scalpel. "Take off your clothes," his voice barely whispered, eyes locked on mine. "I..." what was wrong with me? I couldn't turn around and open the door like I should have. Instead, I put down my books and started unbuttoning my denim dress. "Very nice," the scalpel-steel of his eyes sliced me from my eyes down the length of my body. The cool air in the room caused my nipples to pucker. I shivered slightly, realizing that it was probably a bad idea to go braless that day. "All of your clothes," he gestured at my red panties. "I can't do this," I choked. "But you want it, don't you?" he stood up and walked over to me, his footsteps pounding in my ears, "You knew very well what would happen if you met me here today, yet you came anyway, prepared, no less." Damnit, he had found the condoms in my pockets. I hated it when I couldn't talk my way out of a potentially bad situation. Still, I couldn't see any bad in this situation other than the fact that I would probably never see Oliver again after such an encounter. Snarky bastard. "Seeing you like that, defiant, but then tamed..." "You haven't tamed me," I found my voice again as he went to his knees. "Indeed...and that is why I wish to worship you...Oh goddess!" I couldn't believe it. A guy who I was attracted to beyond all reason was at my feet, worshipping me. Oliver started by slipping off my sandals, kissing the tops of my feet and then my ankles. I had the one thought that would probably cross any girl's mind in this sort of situation, "Gee, I hope my feet don't smell." I never particularly liked my feet, but the softness of his lips on my ankles made me feel weak. He stroked my calves and tickled the back of my knees, to which I could barely contain my ticklish laughter. Oliver kissed my thighs, parting them slightly, but I held them shut. "No," I denied him more sternly than I had expected. I took his chin in my hands and lifted his eyes to meet mine. He kissed my navel, ran his tongue up between my breasts and kissed my nipples with the same reverence one used to receive Communion. I felt his fingertips brush against my shoulder blades as his tongue grazed my collarbone. The subtle touch reminded me of the time I touched a marble statue in a museum when no one was looking. I was curious, but I didn't want to risk breaking the statue or dirtying it with my fingerprints. When Oliver finally kissed me on my mouth, I understood the taste of ambrosia. I felt immortal, like one of the statues. Yet, I felt the warm blush come over me, like Galatea's marble turning into flesh before she descended from the pedestal Pygmalion had placed her upon. I extended my arms to hold him, but my hands met something they did not like. He was still fully clothed. "Stop," I pushed him away from me. "But why?" Oliver pleaded. "Take off your clothes and sit on the couch," I ordered. He happily complied, knowing very well how goddesses rewarded those who revered them. It was amusing to see him stumble, forgetting to take his shoes off before his pants. Still, I would think that since he was such a snarky bastard, he would know how to slow down, how to tease. Yet after I saw the full length of his cock, erect, standing at attention, what have you, I knew that enduring his snarky nature would be well worth it. When he was seated, fully-nude on his couch, I walked over to him slowly, inhaling the scent of his anticipation as I straddled him. I licked his upper lip and then nibbled on the bottom one. My fingertips traced the lines of his defined body. I cradled the back of his head, ruffling through his already-tousled brown hair and sucked on his earlobe. I knew that he was enjoying himself from the occasional soft groans he would emit. "Please..." he arched his back, thrusting upwards with his hips, "I need..." "What do you need?' I asked, taking a condom from the table and unwrapping it. "I need to be inside you...now..." his face contorted as I brushed my fingertips against his length. I slowly unrolled the condom onto his cock, savoring his agony. I teased him slightly before taking him inside me as slow as possible, making sure every nerve ending fired off in pleasure. I started riding him slowly, making circles with my hips and arching my back. He tried to increase the speed, but I made sure that he knew that I was still in charge. His hands would roam from my neck, down my back, negotiating the curves from my ass all the way down my kneeling legs to my feet. I could taste the sweat on his skin and the heat of his breath. I felt the first slow wave build so high that I could not contain my pleasure. Oliver took advantage of this and regained control. He did not allow me to come down from that great height, but held my hips with his hands and pushed me down as he thrusted upward. I thought that my heart would explode from such excess, and through barely-opened eyes, I could see that the strain was wearing down on him as well. With a few final thrusts and sharp gasps, he had finally found his release. Usually, mortals underwent some sort of painful, yet just death, for even having a glimpse of a goddess in the nude. But I was not a goddess, and we both descended from our cloud, drenched and spent on the couch. I put my clothes on, ran my fingers through my hair for a quick combing, and checked my pocketwatch, "I better go." "Why? Give me a few more minutes...we'll give it another go," Oliver chased after his breath, but couldn't quite seem to catch it. "I have a meeting to go to," I smiled, kissed him on the cheek and left him dumbstruck and naked on the couch. In the end, I'm not quite sure who won this conquest, but it was a lot of fun... ...At least until the next class period when he snuck up behind me, tossed a pair of red panties on the desk and said, "You left your knickers in my flat last night."