by Yu-Han Chao
Sure, they had exchanged their “I love yous,” or rather, Jolie was first to say, a few months into their dating, “I think I love you,” while Mike, a few weeks after that, said to her, “I’m falling in love with you.”
She never told her parents she was cohabitating with someone in Taipei City, which they considered the city of sin. But she hoped that after Mike proposed, she could legitimately introduce him to her parents as her fiancé, and everything would work out in the end, even if her parents scolded her a little for not telling them about him sooner.
A few days ago, however, Mike casually mentioned that he was taking the GRE so he could apply to graduate programs back in the United States. Jolie didn’t know how to respond, because he had never mentioned graduate school or going back to America before. She cheered herself up by telling herself that, wherever he went, he would take her with him—after a romantic proposal, of course.
After thinking obsessively about their future marriage day and night for weeks, an email from an old classmate finally broke her. Mia, the most unlikely of her old friends to become a bride, was engaged. Mia, the most cynical misan drist on Earth, in love. Jolie hated that she was not happy for her old friend, but she was reminded of a line both Angel and Yoyi were fond of delivering, with all the dramatic flair of a Korean drama heroine: “Every time one of my friends gets engaged, I die a little bit inside.”
Mia’s engagement was the last straw.
Mike was watching a bag of butter popcorn pop in the microwave when Jolie said, quite abruptly and intensely, “You never mentioned you were planning to go to graduate school.”
Mike appeared to be listening for the right interval between pops as a cue to turn off the microwave. He acted like he hadn't heard what she said.
“You know, Mike, I don’t mean this as an ultimatum or anything like that, but if you really leave for America, there’s no way for me to go there with you unless we’re engaged or married.”
Mike looked at Jolie as if a bat had just flown out of her mouth, but still, he said nothing.
“It’s just that. Getting a long-term visa is very hard, I know from my friend’s experience, and I’m not going to be a student at an American university or anything because I can’t pass the TOEFL for English proficiency. I can’t afford to come and go every three months on tourist visas because of the cost of airplane tickets, and—”
Jolie kept explaining until she sensed that Mike was no longer listening. His facial expression betrayed little, if any, emotion.
After a long silence, he said, “Okay. I get it. You don’t have to keep harping about it.”
Jolie felt hurt. She never considered herself someone who harped, and Mike’s words made her feel like a shrew or a nagging woman. She realized she wasn’t going to get a proposal out of Mike this way, at least not now. She didn’t regret talking to him about it, however, because that was how she felt. And that wasn’t even all of it.
When they were first dating, Mike took it upon himself to educate her about sexually transmitted diseases. Sex education in Taiwan wasn’t particularly specific or comprehensive about the sexually transmitted diseases and sexually transmitted infections out there, so Jolie listened, wide-eyed, at times covering her mouth with her hands, at times shaking her head in disbelief, the whole time shuddering, while Mike went through the terms and symptoms. These STD/STI lectures began when the two of them got more intimate physically—nothing serious, just some kissing and touching.
“I wanted to educate you about all this because I have HPV,” Mike said finally.
“That one is—”
“HPV is a virus that causes genital warts. It lives in your skin and doesn’t go away. Where I have it cannot be covered by a condom, so basically if you have sexual contact with me, you will get the virus, too. It’s mostly a cosmetic concern because of the warts, but it’s also been associated with cervical cancer in the long run,” he said, slowly and clearly.
Jolie’s mind raced. This was so explicit, so real. Mike had a real sexual disease! She didn’t know what to think, or do, how to respond.
“So that’s why I wanted to tell you, so that if you decided to become intimate with me, you can make an educated decision.”
He looked so sad that Jolie felt a sudden, motherly, Florence Nightingale type of love for him.
“Ever since I found out I had it over a year ago, I’ve felt awful. I didn’t think anybody would ever touch me again.” Mike’s voice was breaking.
Jolie didn’t say anything as she put her hand over his. Perhaps it was sympathy, but that night, when he held her in his arms on the sofa, she sat down in his lap and slowly removed her clothes. She tugged at his pants and undergarments as he looked at her with a grateful kind of disbelief. They slept together, and Mike was so loving, appreciative, and attentive that Jolie felt genuinely in love. She had made the right decision. He was the one, her soul mate, her future husband. When he asked her to move in with him, she eagerly gathered and boxed her belongings. Yoyi and Angel helped her move boxes into the taxi and her new home.
That was twelve months ago. They had been living together all this time, with Jolie expecting that Mike would one day be her husband because she had sacrificed so much for him. She thought about him all day, put much effort into cooking perfect little dinners of his favorite dishes, and even learned to make all sorts of cakes and desserts that he liked in a little mini oven she saved a month’s salary to buy. Worst of all, she now had this virus, this sexually transmitted HPV thing that would render her untouchable for Taiwanese men. She checked herself obsessively for warts or bumps, read the same articles on the internet about HPV/genital warts, or in Chinese, chai hua, vegetable flowers, and routinely scared herself into near hyperventilation by looking at photographs of the poster boys and girls of HPV: an uncircumcised penis spiked with a crown of genital wart lesions, a vagina that looked rotten and moldy and plain chewed-up. In some pictures, the affected bits were spotted with white mold-like substances in addition to huge areas covered with dirty-looking, flesh-colored, long bubbles in clusters and colonies pushing against one another. Some lesions stood out like the large, flat mushrooms on tree trunks in subtropical forests. In many cases, the parts looked like they were going to fall off.
This was why Jolie was so angry when Mike did nothing to reassure her that he was going to marry her. For the first time, it dawned on her that maybe he never had that intention; he just wanted to know that someone would “touch him” again, and she was his first victim. Who would want her now? Even if she had no warts, she had to tell every future partner about the HPV, because otherwise they would be a hundred times angrier if she slept with them and they grew warts. Maybe in America someone could get away with it, but there are too many virgins in Taiwan for her to get away with something like this. Not to mention she could not lie to someone like that—it would be immoral.
The days passed, and Jolie became more anxious and resentful, but she still waited and hoped. She inspired herself with the traditional Chinese ideal that, with time and effort, one could move someone into reciprocating one’s love, if one tried hard enough.
Mike got his GRE scores, applied, and heard back from the graduate school of his choice. He was leaving. Jolie hoped all the way to the airport, fantasizing about him presenting her with a ring just as he was about to go through Immigration and Customs. He gave her a long kiss and hug, then entered the doorway guarded by officers clad in intimidating blue-and-white uniforms. The officers eyed him icily, as if they knew. She watched him through the glass wall at Chiang Kai-shek International Airport. He waved as he got in line for Immigration, and waved again when he disappeared from sight. Jolie waved back, and as she did, she broke down. She had thrown two years of her life away for nothing, she had an STD, and surely nobody would ever touch her again. Two more years passed. Jolie and her friends were having lunch at a Western-style restaurant.
“It’s not your fault,” Yoyi said to Jolie. “But I definitely th
ink you could have been meaner to him. At least not as nice as you were.”
Angel, who was bouncing a toddler on her knee, nodded.
“I treat my husband like shit, and he just comes back for more.”
Immersion
ALOT OF regret fills this little jail cell.
Helen, who sits on the floor next to me, averts her eyes and shifts to turn her entire body away from me. Even Helen with her salon-blonde highlights, fancy jewelry, and expensive clothes no longer has anything witty to say now, no more quotes from American self-help authors or any show-off Chinglish terms she picked up from television.
When you think of the typical woman in her late twenties or early thirties locked up in jail for solicitation and for being part of a prostitution ring, you don’t think of someone like me. Sure, I’m pretty enough after makeup to get paid for having sex—my measurements are 34B, 24, 34, and my long, black hair shines like a shampoo commercial right after I leave the salon. However, most of the time I have my hair up in a ponytail or bun, wear thick black-framed glasses, and go about my day without a trace of makeup on. That’s how people at school remember me, as a graduate student and teaching assistant at a reputable university. In my diurnal life, I am surrounded by sociology textbooks, highlighters, red pens, and piles of unmarked research papers. Most of my colleagues and the students at school would never dream that I would be a sex worker. In fact, they probably think I’m an old maid. But the truth is, a part-time teaching assistant doesn’t get paid much, maybe 350 NT, about ten USD an hour. A girl’s got to pay rent, buy clothes, eat, and take care of bills. My parents helped pay my undergraduate tuition, and I promised that once I was a graduate student I would take care of myself. I felt bad that they were still worrying about providing for me when they were half retired and running a little stationery store. I used to watch the store after school, and I knew very few people actually came in and bought anything, and when they did, it was something very small, maybe a ten NT eraser or twenty NT pen. My parents needed every meager NT they made.
I thought it was fate that the day I got my first paycheck from my teaching assistantship, I met Helen. Originally, I had been thrilled that I got the tuition waiver and assistantship, and thought I wouldn’t have to worry about my finances. Generally, people are happy when they get their first paycheck. They celebrate; they go out and spend a good chunk of it. I, however, got depressed. The check wasn’t enough to cover the monthly rent of thirty thousand NT for my tiny Taipei apartment on the eighth floor of a dingy concrete building. I was going to need a roommate or a second job, possibly both.
It just so happened that Helen, whom I did not know yet, was in line in front of me at Everlast Bank. She fanned herself with a thick stack of cash, showing off. I could smell the greasy glue-and-paper smell of the bills from where I stood. They smelled like envy. I thought to myself, mostly to make myself feel better, that maybe she was a clerk at a small business, and her boss sent her out on a bank run. That was the only reason a woman so young would have an entire paper fan of thousand-NT bills. Maybe I was staring at her money too much because she turned around and grinned right at me.
“It was a good week,” she said pleasantly.
“Week?” I asked weakly.
This woman made more in one week than I did in one month. And she read my thoughts.
“Payday disappointing?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the check I was holding.
“No kidding. I won’t be able to afford food this month. Eating’s overrated, anyway.”
“Well, you know, I was just reading a book by a famous American author about how you should never think about how you can’t afford something, but instead, you should go look for the money to make it happen. You don’t have to cut out food; you could just get yourself a bigger paycheck.” Helen mimed a bigger, rectangular paycheck with her index fingers.
Who didn’t want to make more money? More easily said than done. I said nothing, but mustered up a smile to go with my polite-but-indifferent nod.
“Let’s have some afternoon tea after this if you’re not busy. My treat. I think my agent, Tan, might be able to hire someone just like you,” Helen said.
Agent? Was she a movie star? Movie stars don’t receive cash by the bundle like that. Porn? I was intrigued and desperate enough that after depositing my check I actually followed her out, listening to the crisp click-clacking of her high heels against the cement.
Half an hour later, we sat on the top floor of the fancy new Breeze department store. I took a sip of the imported Darjeeling tea from an elegant porcelain cup painted with yellow flowers, so dainty I thought it might break if I set it down on its matching saucer too hard.
As I sipped my tea, Helen suggested I sell myself into prostitution.
Only she didn’t call it that.
“We are freelance entertainers. What we do is public relations, in America they call it PR. Prostitutes—hell no! Prostitutes have no control over which clients they take and sex is their only trade. We PR girls often have other talents or professions that we do during the day. You said you are a teacher? I’m pretty sure we have another teacher, too. There are also a few housewives, a law student, and I work at a cosmetics counter a few days a week. I don’t do it for the money, though. I do it for the employee discounts and endless free samples.”
Helen went on and on, and I listened with my mouth open.
“So what do you think?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do anything like that,” I said, and meant it.
What would my parents say if they knew that the college education they paid for only amounted to my becoming a part-time prostitute? I reached for my jacket and purse, but Helen waved over a waiter carrying a tray filled with exquisite desserts: blueberry cheesecake, tiramisu, cream puffs, and green tea mochi. I would have said no, but before I said anything, my stomach growled, not just briefly, but two obnoxious, drawn-out gwwwoo-ow-ow-ow sounds. Helen laughed and took two desserts from the waiter’s tray and pushed them in front of me. Too embarrassed to object, I picked up a little silver fork and ate.
After tea and dessert, Helen handed me two business cards, one black, one pink. The pink one was hers. (“Call me if you need anything, or just want to have afternoon tea again!”) The black one belonged to her agent. (“His name is Tan, tell him I recommended you. He’s lovely.”) I accepted the cards with every intention of throwing them in the trash as soon as I was out of her sight, but soon forgot them at the bottom of the canvas bag I was carrying that day.
The next month, however, as I was withdrawing cash from an ATM, just about emptying out the savings account I’d been slowly adding to with Chinese New Year red envelopes since I was a little girl, I remembered Helen and her offer. My dad helped set up the account for me when I was in third grade and I was supposed to add to it, not deplete it. There’s no harm in having tea with Helen again, I figured. Besides, I am a sociologist looking for material for my research project. Maybe I should look into this industry. There could be thesis material in Helen’s underground PR girl ring. If this didn’t work out, I’d have to do something gerontology-related, and I didn’t feel like spending the next five years of my life in an old people’s home.
I went through everything in my closet. I tried on so many dresses and suits, a mountain of clothes and hangers had formed on the floor of my closet by the time I decided on a simple black shirt and jeans.
I arrived early at the top floor of the department store and waited for Helen. I must have read every item and description on the menu five times, though the words slipped through my mind without registering. Finally, my new friend arrived in a slinky white dress with crystals on the neckline and slinky fabric that hugged her body. Her brown sunglasses had very prominent logos on the side, probably an expensive designer brand.
“So, you changed your mind?” Helen’s lips sparkled from light pink lipstick with a glimmering sheen.
“I just wanted to find out more,” I said, pushing
up my glasses and fancying myself a sociologist doing important, undercover fieldwork.
“I talked to Tan about you. He would love to meet you in person. In fact, he said that he might stop by soon,” Helen said. “He’s bringing the book.”
“What book?” I was taken aback by her springing Tan on me, but at the same time intrigued. After all, this was what I was here for, wasn’t it?
“It’s the book with all the girls. A catalog. It lists everybody’s measurements, includes a current salon picture, and also specifies interests, hobbies, talents, and sexual preferences.” Helen gestured with her hands as she spoke, like it was the most normal thing in the world, a menu of purchasable woman.
“Sexual . . . preferences? You mean like if I prefer a man or a woman?” I asked.
“That, of course, is a basic thing, telling us what you are open to. But also, do you like S&M? Are you good at role playing? Are you dominant or submissive? Are you willing to dress in costumes such as schoolgirl outfits? Do you like rubber garments, pain, or bondage? What about feet or other fetishes?”
I knew such things existed, but I never thought about them in conjunction with myself, or regular people. Were all the clients perverts? I’d only had groping-beneath-covers sex with an ex-boyfriend from college, and it had been a while. Had all men become perverts while I was busy studying?
Tan arrived a few minutes later, dressed in a cream-colored suit that contrasted with his brown sunglasses. His brown briefcase, which he set on the table after shaking my hand, sported a heavy-looking metal lock. I wondered if the briefcase was filled with cash or shiny gold bars, like in the gangster movies.
“You have a real air of purity about you,” Tan said, looking me up and down.