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Love And Sex
Sex

I have never been interested in blonds," said Ted. "Never! I mean, I've
tried it, sort of the way gay guys have gone out with women, just to see
what it felt like. But it didn't work."
Ted and I were sitting outside on unsteady green plastic chairs at
a brew pub in North Beach. It was a freezing spring evening and gusts of fog were whipping up Columbus Street. He was here to talk about his penchant for Asian women -- a proclivity I'd started to notice in college among the frat boys, and as far as I could tell had pretty much evolved into an
obsession for certain white guys.
I had two feelings about this. One was complete revulsion. The other was relief, since the kind of men who went for Asian women were not men I
wanted to have anything to do with, so good riddance if they recused
themselves from my dating pool.
Political correctness and dating have never mixed, but that doesn't keep people from trying to maintain appearances to the contrary. So far, I hadn't found a single man who would go on record for having an Asian fixation. Ted was different. Our mutual friend Carol had told me to expect honesty, and I, in turn, was prepared to be confrontational with a guy I assumed would be an overfed, overgrown Delta Phi reject.
But even before I met Ted, Carol had revealed a few things that had thrown me. Despite being a bona fide yuppie, with an annual six-figure income from his job as a financial consultant, Ted did not own a TV or a car. For entertainment, he shunned the opera and blockbuster movies,
preferring instead fringe performance art and experimental dance, which he attended every weekend. He was attracted to this alternative culture, Carol said, because he felt it was so far removed from his own life and experience
growing up in Montana -- he couldn't believe people did those things onstage,
like strip, scream, sing, whatever. Afterward, if he was confused, he
would approach the performers and politely but insistently ask them what
the point of their show was.
Over a pitcher of pale ale, I tried to size him up. He was about my
height, with nicely pressed, Gap-type clothes and expensive wire-rim
spectacles. Occasionally, during our conversation, he would pull out a
Chap-Stick and rub it thoughtfully over his lower lip. He looked not so
much like Frat Boy Extraordinaire but like Bill Gates. And he seemed to find it
not in the least bit odd to chat with a strange woman about his sex life.
Taking my cue from him, I said, "I, um, find this refreshing that you
would talk to me openly." I took a sip of my beer and tried to appear
professional.
"Sure," Ted said pleasantly. With no further preamble, he began.
"I'm kind of a soft guy. I really find American women overly aggressive, and I've had some bad experiences."
"Oh?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear this. Had he been raped?
"I went on two dates with a Western woman recently. On the second
date she wanted to have sex. I mean, I think that's just too fast, but she was
pretty insistent. I went along with it, and it wasn't good at all. I
couldn't maintain an erection." He frowned at a group of drunken Scottish
tourists shouting at the adjacent plastic table, blowing cigarette
smoke in our direction.
"Really." I wrote that down, and then stopped. "Was she disappointed?"
"She had a good time, I mean several good times, if you know what I
mean. She did ask if everything was OK. I just told her I wasn't really into it that night."
"Why did you have sex with her if you didn't want to?" I tried to
control my irritation, which despite Ted's affability, I knew was going to hit me at some point during this exchange. I envisioned a blond naked woman,
stretched out alongside Ted -- a woman who had probably taken his softie a
lot more personally than she'd let on, and hadn't had "several good times,"
or at least as many as Ted seemed to think.
"Well, I am a man," Ted said mildly. "It was being offered."
I sighed. "Many white women find this very insulting," I said. I
suddenly remembered the black woman who confronted my blond friend Lisa and her
black boyfriend on the streets of Berkeley. And then an army of short men popped in my head." It seems a direct rejection of what American women are, or what they stand for or what they want to be -- strong, independent, assertive, equal. We assume that guys who date Asians are looking for a little docile maid."
"Really?" Ted seemed genuinely surprised. "Well, that's not the
case with me. If anything, it's me who's doing the serving. And they make all the decisions, like where to eat and what to do.
"There's two types of Asian women," he continued. "Those that were born
here, of immigrant parents, and those that were born over there. The ones
recently immigrated will date either Western or Asian men, but the
American-born tend to find Asian men too soft and effeminate. They want a
stronger kind of man, so I think I'm sort of a compromise." He leaned over
to the drunk tourist group. "Could you not blow your smoke over here? Thank
you."
I rearranged my notes. I wasn't sure where to begin. "What kind of Asians are we talking about?"
"Chinese," he said firmly. "Koreans are thought to be the most
beautiful, but I think they wear too much makeup. I remember when I was an adolescent boy, watching ABC's 'Wide World of Sports.' And those cute little Chinese gymnasts, with their small breasts. I remember being so excited by them. I don't like large breasts -- they're so sloppy or something."
I wrote that down. He added, "You know, I can't speak for every
guy, but for me it's a real personal interest in Asian culture as a whole --"
"Is that right?" I looked at him levelly.
"Uh-huh. I've spent a lot of time there, and I like the simplicity of their life, the family values -- because I don't have that in my own life. My parents are together and all that, but we're not close. And I like the idea of having someone who's not like me, who's not another professional who works all the time, being a part of my life."
"So you want a bossy housewife. And the servitude clichi -- that's all a clichi?"
"I don't know where that came from," Ted said. "The American-born
Asians, that plain doesn't exist with them. You serve them." He laughed.
"Sure," he said. "There is something more exotic about Asian women. The physical is part of my attraction, the sexual is part of it, too."
"Go on." A homeless man approached us suddenly with an outstretched
hand.
Ted smiled at him. "Could you not bother us? We're having a
conversation. Thank you." The man shuffled away. "OK, let's see, the sexual
part. Asian women: They don't have any sexual hang-ups. They'll do
anything, and I think it's because their culture wasn't based in
Christianity, with all the guilt and repercussions. They tend to be more
experienced sexually and anticipate what you want."
"That sounds kind of servile to me," I said, as Ted filled my glass. I
shivered.
"Well, it's not really. I think that's the biggest misconception.
On a day-to-day basis, I give in to whatever my girlfriend wants."
"Getting back to the sex thing," I said, wrapping my sweater around me
tighter, "how about I just throw out some more misconceptions? How about
hair?"
"Absolutely. I hate body hair. Hairy cooter, big soft-on."
I wrote that down. "Better stay away from French women," I said. "OK.
What else?"
He pondered. "They have beautiful, smooth skin. They age way, way
better than Western women. And of course the problem with large breasts, which
Western women tend to have, is that they never stay firm."
I scribbled that down, too. "Someday, Ted, you too will not be firm."
"I know. My center of gravity is already shifting. Oh, well."
I hesitated. "How about the rumor that Asian women are, well, tighter?
Because they're smaller?"
"No," he said, and emptied his glass. "And I lament over that, I
really do."
I read over my notes. Despite myself, and all my preconceived
notions of Ted, I had to admit I really admired him. He was completely, thoroughly and unapologetically honest, without meanness or guile. How many men would truly admit what they wanted from a woman, physically or otherwise? And he had a surprising gentleness that confounded me. I thought about him at the
performance-art shows, patiently but doggedly grilling the actors on their
creative choices.
"I just have to say one thing," I said, still looking at my scribbles.
"'Likes no hair. Small breasts. Tiny stature. Smooth skin. Ages
well.' Doesn't that sound like a description of, well, a 10-year-old?" I
hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "Do you think something in your
sexual psyche is connected to pedophilia?"
"Maybe," Ted said cheerfully. "I've never thought about it, but I
suppose it does sound like that." He seemed as unconcerned as if I'd just remarked on his taste in shoes. "Would you care for another beer? I'll be right
back." He made his way to the bar, and the formerly aggressive tourists
politely moved to one side, letting him pass.

Copyright © 2022 Salon.com, LLC. Reproduction of material from any Salon pages without written permission is strictly prohibited. SALON ® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office as a trademark of Salon.com, LLC. Associated Press articles: Copyright © 2016 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.




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CW: This essay discusses sexual abuse.
“Truth or dare?” Russell, our babysitter for the night, demanded. Russell was the oldest cousin. He was 17, and deemed responsible enough to babysit. Every Saturday night my parents dropped me off at my cousin’s split level home in suburban Detroit, while they went out for dinner and maybe a show with my aunt and uncle. Every Sunday morning they came to pick me up, and we would all have breakfast together before we went home. My mom made tomato sauce for my Aunt’s scrambled eggs and we kids took turns shaking cinnamon sugar out of a plastic bear dispenser onto our toast.
Shortly after the adults went out, we gathered on the brown shag carpet of the master bedroom and closed the door. Playing there with the door closed felt clandestine and was a little bit exciting. “Truth or dare?” Russell pressed his sister, Lizzie. She and I were both six, and Neil, Lizzie’s other brother was eight. Lizzie had lost a hand at Blackjack and the rules were that if you lost, you had to choose a truth or a dare. Since Russell was the oldest, he always got to deal and make up the rules. For some reason he almost always won; Neil, Lizzie, and I took turns losing. With each loss we removed an article of clothing. Once we were naked, when one of us lost a hand, we had to choose a truth or a dare. Our choice could be overruled by the dealer, so essentially we were always dared to fulfill his fantasy. It was a punishment for losing.
TRUTH : Childhood sexual abuse can be defined as any activity that engages a child in sexual activities that are developmentally inappropriate.
DARE: Lizzie was flat chested and hairless. The veins that stood out on her skin were as blue as her eyes, her six-year-old body a stretched-out version of a toddler. She instinctively used one arm to cover her nipples and the other to cover her private parts. She cowered next to the bed. “Dare!” Russell decided for her, and challenged her to walk atop his spread-eagled legs as he reclined back on his elbows. His penis stood in the nest between his legs, threatening all of us with its presence. We knew if she could not complete the dare to his satisfaction, she would have to perform another task until he was appeased. I watched, afraid for her, but stimulated at the same time. The woolen carpet scratched my own private parts and I liked how it felt. At least I still had my shirt on.
Lizzie was graceful and slender. She was able to walk the length of his legs without falling.
TRUTH : One in three girls and one in seven boys will be sexually abused before their 18 th birthday, regardless of race, religion, or socio-economic status.
DARE: Next hand. Russell dealt and before I knew it, he called “21.” He showed us his hand. There it was, another 21: an ace and a king. Neil was still mostly dressed and guarded the door. I noticed that Neil was sometimes able to get out of stripping and punishments. He had a seven and a ten. Lizzie had an eight and a six. I had a five and a three. Again. I had lost again. My eyes filled with tears while I forced a smile. I was slightly chubby, my body looked like I might actually have tiny breasts and I felt intense shame. I didn’t want my cousins to think I was a baby, and those were the rules. It was my turn to take off my top, my last piece of clothing before I was completely naked. I looked at Russell and the others, not wanting to. “It’s okay,” Russell encouraged. “Take it off.”
TRUTH: Most sexual abuse in children requires little violence or coercion. The great majority is perpetrated by a relative or another trusted adult.
DARE: I could barely breathe through my smile as Russell coaxed me on. I took off my top and, like Lizzie, my hands automatically went to cover myself. “No arms,” he said, making up more rules as we went along. “Truth or dare!” he demanded, though I protested it wasn’t my turn for that. He said I deserved it because covering up was against the rules. “Truth” I tried to say but my throat was dry and I was overruled by Russell’s call for a dare. It was my turn to walk on Russell’s hairy legs. I couldn’t take my eyes off his penis. My arms and legs were all tingly and had turned to rubber. My stomach was filled with lead. My tiny vagina filled up with a sensation that baffled me as it begged to be touched. I stood up and perched on his legs. After a few attempts at finding my balance it was obvious that yet again I wouldn’t be able to walk that walk. I fell. Russell got to come up with a punishment. Just looking at his big hard penis was punishment enough for me but no, I knew from past experience, punishment meant touching it, kissing it, or licking it with my tongue.
On that day, dare meant lying on my stomach naked, with my butt in the air. I took him into my mouth (I still had all my baby teeth), while he stroked my hair. I could barely breathe when we were startled by a sound. “I think I hear the garage door opening” yelled Neil, always my savior. We scrambled out of the room, pulling our clothes back on. Racing into our beds, we dove under the covers. The game was over for the night.
“This is a secret game,” Russell warned. “It’s just between us.” So it was never mentioned, never talked about, not even among ourselves. We would replay it every Saturday night when our parents went out.
TRUTH: Only 7% of childhood sexual abuse is ever officially reported.

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