by Yu-Han Chao
Sex & Taipei City
Sex & Taipei City
stories
Yu-Han Chao
Sex & Taipei City
Copyright © 2019 by Yu-Han Chao
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.
Book design by Mark E. Cull
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Chao, Yu-Han, 1981– author.
Title: Sex & Taipei City : stories / Yu-Han Chao.
Other titles: Sex and Taipei City
Description: Pasadena, CA : Red Hen Press, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2018042731 | ISBN 9781597090438
Classification: LCC PS3603.H3584 A6 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018042731
The National Endowment for the Arts, the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the Ahmanson Foundation, the Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, the Max Factor Family Foundation, the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Foundation, the Pasadena Arts & Culture Commission and the City of Pasadena Cultural Affairs Division, the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs, the Audrey & Sydney Irmas Charitable Foundation, the Kinder Morgan Foundation, the Allergan Foundation, and the Riordan Foundation partially support Red Hen Press.
First Edition
Published by Red Hen Press
www.redhen.org
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my mentors, William J. Cobb, Charlotte Holmes, and Josip Novakovich.
With family, anything is possible. All my love to the Chao family, Chen family, Juarez family, Lin family, and Shu family.
Friends and community are everything. Many amazing people have been there with me through it all—writers, artists, teachers, students—everyone from Taiwan to Pennsylvania to Vermont to California. Thank you.
Many thanks to journals that gave these stories a home: Amoskeag: “Cat Spring Roll”; Diverse Voices Quarterly: “Immersion”; Eastlit: “Mine,” “Rainy Night Stand Up”; The Externalist: “Crisp Skin Thick Soup”; The Evening Street Review: “My Strange Grandpa”; J Journal: “Writing on the Basement Wall”; Motherverse: “Betel Nut Beauty”; Melusine: “Daughter”; Sphere: “Simple As That”; Storyscape Journal: “Seven Pieces at a Time”; Timber Creek Review: “Passport Baby”; Wisconsin Review: “Yuan Zu Socializing”; Zyzzyva: “The Strange Objects Museum.”
In memory of my mother
Contents
The Strange Objects Museum
Flower Girl
Fifteen
Yuan Zu Socializing
Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels
And Then There Were None
Betel Nut Beauty
Writing on the Basement Wall
My Ex-Boyfriend the Spy
Simple as That
Immersion
Cat Spring Roll
Rainy Night Stand-Up
Passport Baby
Mine
Seven Pieces at a Time
Crisp Skin Thick Soup
Daughter
My Strange Grandpa
Discussion Questions
The Strange Objects Museum
CHEN’S FAMILY HAD, for generations, sold food—various kinds, in various forms, from ruby-like candied fruit to char-grilled squid and fresh noodle soup. But Chen wanted to try his luck with something new.
His small town where the Danshui River met the sea had been transformed first by the war, then by all the new factories and their pollution, and then, after the light rail had been run out from Taipei, by tourists, drawn by the gilded Buddhist temple at the top of the hill.
When he got married, Chen used the red-envelope money to open a bike store—he’d worked in one since he was a teenager and felt comfortable with basic machinery. He also liked helping people with their transportation needs. But for some time, business had been declining—people simply didn’t use bicycles as much anymore. He had no bright idea of his own, but everyone else in the neighborhood was aiming for the tourist market, and that made sense to him, too.
His friend, Dow, whom he had known from elementary school, had an antique store, an eclectic assortment of erotic manuscripts, artwork, and playthings . . . as well as a few an cient torture devices. These objects drew more curious people into the antique store, whispering and pointing, than real customers or collectors. Dow suggested that Chen take a few items from his inventory, at a low price, and set up a Strange Objects Museum.
The first item Dow showed Chen was a Ming Dynasty chastity belt that looked like a sumo wrestler’s dusty loincloth.
“You can let your customers try it on,” Dow said with a laugh. “People love that—when you let them touch things or try them on.”
Chen’s lips curled into a nervous smile. Dow was always the one boy trying to peek under girls’ skirts when they were in elementary school together; Chen did not entirely trust his friend’s judgment in terms of people or business. Chen had been brought up in a traditional and conservative family—he even felt relieved when his eccentric father-in-law died, because the old man, who was not at all conservative, watched the Japanese porn channel at too high a volume.
“I’ll lend the chastity belt to you for your first month,” Dow said. “If it does well, then you buy it from me. If not, then I’ll just take it back. What do you think?”
“That’s very generous of you,” Chen said.
At least it was a chastity belt, which promoted chaste-ness—nothing obscene. Besides, like many Taiwanese, Chen could never resist something free.
“That’s settled then.” Dow nodded, satisfied.
In fact, Dow was a smart businessman: he knew that once one offered a free sample to a customer, the customer would be more likely to buy something else. Most successful business owners, from department store managers to night market vendors, knew this trick. Dow guided his friend to his storage room and pointed at a dragon-shaped basin.
“This is a scientific item, also very good, because your customers can have hands-on experience with it. You put water in the basin and have them rub the sides with their palms. The friction makes water drops spring up at the edges. Let me show you.”
Dow emptied a mineral water bottle into the basin, set it on a dusty desk, and wet his hands in the water. He rubbed his palms together, then slowly placed them on the brass handles of the basin. He rubbed back and forth, increasing the speed. Little water droplets sprang up from the sides, just as he’d said.
“That’s brilliant,” Chen said. “Is that a trick?”
“Absolutely not. Anybody can do it. You try.”
Chen copied Dow’s movements. He rubbed and rubbed until his hands ached, but the water did not respond. A few eddies moved across the surface of the water, but no drops sprang from the surface as they had when Dow demonstrated.
Chen frowned. “I don’t think I’m making it work.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll loan you this as well, for a month, at no cost.”
“Oh, that’s really too nice of you, but I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
“Nonsense. What are friends for? Consider it my way of showing my support for your new venture. Let me show you one last thing. I guarantee it will draw a crowd.”
Dow grinned as he moved some cardboard boxes out of the way and removed a gray piece of cloth to reveal something at the bottom of a deep wooden box. It looked like a saddle with a stick-like object standing up from the center. Chen gasped. The stick-like object was a penis.
“This . . . this . . . is quite, em, interesting.”
“Of course it’s interesting. Haven’t you heard of the Ten Cruelest To
rtures of the Ching Dynasty? This is one of them! You take an adulteress—or an immoral woman of any flavor—and sit her on this saddle, naked, with her you-know-what stretched by this stick here. Then you parade her through the streets. The Ching were really creative with their punishments, weren’t they? Just imagine.”
Chen tried hard not to imagine. The penis-shaped part was about seven inches tall and two inches in diameter. He knew this could become a true attraction for his Strange Objects Museum. In their Unbelievable But True Shop, his neighbors had a two-headed tortoise, a dried fish with a human face, Siamese twins in a jar, live parrots, and a transgender performer who showed up every other week and sang traditional Taiwanese opera. To top his neighbor’s curiosities, this saddle was essential.
“I’ll buy this piece,” Chen said, a little more quickly than he’d intended.
“Good man. Who would have thought a square like you would buy something like this? Mind you, keep your young daughter off of this. Once she’s had a taste of it, she’ll never be content with a regular man.”
Chen was reluctant to wager his entire economic future on his new business, so, although he sold off his most recent inventory at half price, he planned to continue doing repairs. Meanwhile, he converted his storefront into a museum within one hectic month.
Since his daughter, Sheri, had been idling around all day since she’d begun taking business classes in the evening at the local vocational school, Chen put her behind a counter to sell tickets. Nailed to the wall behind her was a large mirror with a sign: IF YOU CAN LICK YOUR NOSE WITH YOUR TONGUE, ENTRANCE IS FREE.
Many people tried to lick the tips of their noses before this mirror, but so far, only one customer could actually do it. Sheri took a Polaroid of him and let him in for free.
As the weeks passed, the Strange Objects Museum did well, and Chen purchased the antiques that Dow had loaned him—at rather high prices. Sheri grew used to the sight of the penis-saddle and the visitors’ amusement with it. Dow suggested putting a sign in front of the penis-saddle: PLEASE TRY SITTING ON. And another by the chastity belt: PLEASE TRY ON. Chen did so.
Female visitors often challenged one another to fit their legs into the chastity belt. The men seemed less willing to touch the belt, probably because, generally, Taiwanese felt that men should not remain virgins, while women should. No one ever tried to sit on the saddle; everyone considered the invitation a rather pathetic joke.
One rainy afternoon, a tall young woman with shampoo-commercial hair and long legs in short shorts came to the museum with her friend, both of them sucking on ruby-red, jewel-like sticks of candied baby tomatoes. Sheri was sure the tall girl was an ABC, American Born Chinese, because of her distinctly un-Taiwanese makeup—all eyeliner and bronzer. Both of them looked about college age.
They stopped in front of the penis-saddle.
“Oh my god.” The Taiwanese girl giggled.
“This is nice,” the ABC laughed. She studied the penis portion of the saddle for some time. “It’s not very big, though.”
The Taiwanese girl giggled even more.
“Honestly, it’s not. But actually, I would totally like to have one of these myself. What a good idea. Something you can just ride—”
Her friend interrupted her, “Shhh, this is Taiwan. You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s true. I’ve never had a boyfriend with a dick that thin and puny. I’ll bet that wasn’t torture, the women were totally enjoying their rides on these saddles.”
“You are incorrigible,” the Taiwanese girl said, pushing her friend. “Stop showing off.”
The ABC shrugged. “I’m just saying, I’d like one of these at home. I do believe I’d enjoy that very, very much.”
Sheri pretended that she wasn’t listening to the conversation, but the ABC’s words struck her. A virgin herself, Sheri had considered this sculpted penis quite magnificent; she expected everyone to think of this saddle as a torture device, a source of great pain. Now that its size had been dismissed by an ABC with long hair and short shorts, Sheri did not know what to think.
The ABC and her friend played with the dragon-shaped basin for a while and left without bothering with the rest of the museum.
Tossing and turning in her bed that night, Sheri dreamed of the Mighty Cock on the saddle. Just as she was about to lower herself onto it, however, she woke up. She tried to go back to sleep—to continue the rather intriguing dream— but could not.
She looked at the clock on her night stand: 2:35 a.m. She could hear her father snoring in his bedroom. She got up to use the bathroom and passed the back hallway that led to the Strange Objects Museum. She was still thinking about her dream. What harm would it do to try out the saddle? She pulled aside the curtain that separated her home from the museum. There it was, the Mighty Cock, seemingly beckoning to her underneath a dark red piece of cloth.
Sheri approached it and lifted the cloth. She touched the tip of the cock. It was surprisingly cold, hard, and smooth. She pulled the heavy saddle up into her arms and set it on the floor. Looking about her one more time out of innate shame, Sheri tugged at her panties and pulled them down, almost tripping as she lifted her right leg. Then she lowered herself, letting the brass cock just touch her. She felt resistance, as if there was a wall inside her. She tried to sit down farther, but the cock felt too cold and strange. It clearly did not fit, and she felt ridiculous. Not tonight. She picked up her panties and pulled them back on.
She walked to the bathroom to inspect herself. The cock had not done any damage.
The next night, Sheri could hardly wait until everyone was asleep. This time, she warmed the cock first with her hands. When she lowered herself upon it, she shifted her lower body left and right and moved her labia with her fingers. She sat down deeper and deeper, but again felt resistance. A shooting pain forced her to stop.
The following night, Sheri was prepared for the pain. She moved herself cautiously and gently, so the pain came slow, like an intense soreness that traveled to her stomach and made her ill. For a while, she no longer wanted to sit down all the way on the saddle; she just wanted the feeling to stop. But she couldn’t stop now, not when she had already split her hymen with this torture device for immoral women. She sucked her lips in and forced herself down lower than ever before.
She was all the way down now. The metal cock felt cool and hard inside her.
She smiled to herself. She was no longer a virgin.
She tentatively lifted and lowered her body. Her breath quickened; her heart beat faster. Her right index finger found her clitoris, and the heat within her triggered a long, trembling explosion.
Everything around her looked different afterward. It was like she had crossed over some kind of watershed. She returned the cock and covered it with its cloth. Then she walked down the hallway, back to her bedroom, with a smile on her face.
Sheri felt extremely glad her father had ditched the bicycle shop and opened the Strange Objects Museum.
Flower Girl
WHEN BAY SHUFFLED into the living room in mismatched slippers, book in hand, her mother looked up from the thousand dollar bills she was counting for a red envelope.
“Aren’t you excited you got picked to be flower girl at your cousin’s wedding?”
“No.” Bay pulled a long face. “I’m in fifth grade already. I’m too old to be a flower girl. That’s baby stuff.”
“But you’re so petite, perfect for a flower girl. You should be happy your cousin invited you. His fiancée is a kindergarten teacher, and I’m sure she has no shortage of flower girls if she wants them, you know.”
“Then she should just ask them, not me.” Bay hated it when her mother mentioned her size. She was always the last one when the class lined up by height and perpetually seated in the front row so overexcited teachers’ spit landed on the open pages of her textbook.
Her mother’s enthusiasm was indefatigable. “Come, dear, don’t be a grouch. You’re going to have a beautifu
l new dress for the occasion. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Maybe.” Bay’s heart leapt at the prospect of a new dress. Her mother made her wear the same old, frilly thing to Sunday school so often that the other girls made fun of her. She knew it was shallow and probably a sin to be vain at church, like the little girl with red shoes who danced herself to death. All the same, during individual prayer time, when she looked down at the frills in her lap, she could not help folding her hands tight and asking God for a new dress.
After dinner, Bay lingered in the hallway, eavesdropping on her father and mother in the living room. She was curious about this male cousin who was marrying—she hardly ever heard anything about her father’s sister’s part of the family, as she had married a “bad husband” who wouldn’t let her come home for Chinese New Year. “So this kindergarten teacher is pregnant, I hear,” Bay’s mother said, lowering her voice as she uttered the word pregnant.
“Ay. That boy has caused my older sister so much trouble. He never studied in school, lost just about every job he’s had, and now he’s gone and knocked up a girl.”
“Aiyah, at least he’s willing to do the right thing. So many marriages nowadays are Get on the bus now and pay the fare later, anyway.”
“He thinks life is all games, although he is already thirty.” Bay’s father made a tsk tsk sound against his teeth.
“Well, your own brother was no better, half a jing to eight liang, wasn’t he? That’s why he got married in the first place, because his daughter, Shia, was already in the oven.”
“My brother wasn’t that bad, at least he always had a stable job. And things worked out for them. Shia is all grown up and has a good job now.”
“And may she find a husband, poor girl, always being set up by her parents with these slow, earnest country boys.” Bay’s mother, born and bred in Taipei, thought of her husband’s southern Taiwanese family and their tastes as “country.”