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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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When your 10-year-old screams from the bathroom that they need your help right now, you moan and grumble to yourself that you thought potty training was supposed to free you from these particular shackles. What you don’t do is assume that they’re about to ask you if they can shave off all their pubic hair .
Welcome to the new world order, where pediatricians are now seeing girls who’ve just hit puberty grooming their nether regions. The docs say younger girls are being pushed to go bare because of social media, peer pressure and even internet porn .
But before you start locking down all your kid’s gadgets, let me offer up a slightly less terrifying scenario, courtesy of my own bathroom.
A new survey shows that 62 percent of women prefer to completely remove their pubic hair, while 84 percent say they do at least some grooming. I fall into camp two, someone who has trimmed the bush for years. We have a relatively open-door bathroom policy in our house, and my 10-year-old has walked in on me ‘scaping the pubes a few times over the years.
So when I got that scream from across the house, “Mom, can I get rid of my pubic hair?” wasn’t totally off-the-wall.
Her hair had been filling in slowly for more than a year and had now reached a point where it was poking out all sides of her underwear. Her request was simple: “Can I shave this?” she asked, pointing at her naked (hair-covered) crotch.
Of course I launched into a litany of reasons that it’s perfectly normal, and she shouldn’t feel like she has to get rid of it, and no one should be seeing that part of her body right now but her and blah, blah, blah, insert droning mom voice here. That part wasn’t new to her; she has several puberty books on her shelves , and I’d explained what pubic hair is the first time she found me trimming.
Her response was pretty much, “Yeah, I know, so, uh, can we talk about shaving now?”
This was not going away. So I asked the obvious question: “Why do you want to shave it?”
“It feels weird,” was the answer, “and it gets stuck in my underwear.”
Hard to argue with that. It’s exactly why I trim — well, that and the fact that long curlies getting stuck in the adhesive on the underside of a light-day pad is pure hell. And while I don’t remember much about being her age, I do remember it being really freakin’ weird to have my body changing in a million ways that I couldn’t control.
This was not to make her look like something out of a porno flick. This was not because of social media or her peers. This was because she’s a kid who is being made uncomfortable by something that doesn’t need to make her uncomfortable.
The first time, I did the shaving to teach her how it’s done. Heeding the warnings that kids tend to get infections from shaving because they’re not terribly good at it, I then picked up a grooming kit that was less than $25, with both an adjustable blade and a guard. She hasn’t gotten to the point where she’s asked to shave again — nor am I pushing her to do it again — but if she does, I’ll be teaching her how to use the kit.
Because growing up is hard. If I can make it just a little bit easier, I will.
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