The Athletic Aesthetic

by Vanessa Wu

“But it’s like anything,” he said. “The more you know about it, the more interesting it gets.” For some reason he was talking very quietly, almost whispering.

  “I’m not a technical person.”

  “You don’t need to be. You just need imagination. To be there, to feel what he is feeling, to get into his skin inside the monocoque.”

  My own skin tingled at his words, or was it at his eyes, which were gazing into mine with unholy zeal, willing me to understand him. His face was very close to mine. If it were any closer, I thought, we would be kissing.

  “You take it very seriously,” I said.

  “I told you. It’s a passion.”

  “That I can respect,” I said.

  And then they dimmed the lights.

  “What is your name?” I asked him in the darkness.

  “Torsten.”

  I touched his arm. “Good night, Torsten.”

  It felt good to touch his arm. I settled under my blanket and reclined my seat. Torsten did the same. Torsten. I knew his name now. I closed my eyes and let my head drift slowly towards his shoulder. It was warm and solid. I felt very safe. My desire grew stronger.

  I will not try and tell you what agonies I suffered during the long hours of darkness huddled next to him—the discomfort … the anxiety … the fear of disturbing him … my unceasing awareness of his body next to mine.

  Perhaps I slept a little. But it was a troubled, frustrating sleep, full of unformed yearnings. I was hot between my thighs. No doubt I was wet. If I wasn’t, I should have been. My body ached for him. I wanted to rest my hand on the flat of his stomach. I wanted his tongue inside me.

  After the lights had come back on and the stewardesses were busying themselves with our breakfasts, I showed him an app on my phone that my friends in China used when they were chatting with me. “Let me add you,” I said. “Then we can chat while you’re in Shanghai.”

  “Don’t I need that app too?”

  “Sure, but it’s free to download.”

  “I’ll try it when I get to the hotel.”

  I passed him my phone so he could add himself to my contacts. Then when he downloaded the app, I would know.

  I watched his fingers move across the screen as he tapped in the letters of his name. “What will you call yourself?” I said.

  “How about Torsten?”

  “There must be millions of Torstens.”

  “In China?”

  “What about F1 Geek? I suggested.”

  “Doesn’t it have to be one word?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m useless at finding words,” he said.

  “What about that word you said when we were talking back there.”

  “What word?”

  “Mono-something.”

  “Monocoque?”

  “Yes. Monocoque. Tell me what it means again.”

  “It means a single shell.”

  “I see.” Something else came to my mind. “Anyhow, call yourself Monocoque. And then, whenever I hear from you, I’ll know to brace myself.”

  “Oh, I’ll be gentle,” he said.

  “Not too gentle, I hope.”

  His eyes searched mine. I remembered that he’d never been outside Switzerland. Perhaps he’d never come across a woman like me. “G-forces are not entirely unwelcome,” I explained.

  He understood my meaning clearly enough then. I know because I saw him blush.

  I’m not sure if I can say in all honesty that during the course of that flight I had become an expert in Formula One, but certainly my mind was racing. I was thinking of all the exciting adventures that Torsten might have and I very much wanted to be one of them. I can’t remember all the details of what he told me but I can remember with complete accuracy the mercurial motion of his lips and the hypnotic stillness of his eyes. And then we landed and there was the tedious routine of passport control, baggage collection, currency exchange and onward transportation.

  Traveling is a string of small trials.

  Torsten didn’t seem too distressed by them. Perhaps he could learn to like traveling as much as I had learned to like Formula One. As we passed through customs and into the departure area I felt a pang of separation. “Keep in touch,” I told him, making a meaningful gesture at my phone. Then I watched him head towards the bus stop that would take him towards Jiading district, while I headed towards the center of Shanghai.

  Strangely, it was still morning. Thursday. Luckily, when I arrived at my hotel they were able to let me into my room and I freshened up again. I was supposed to have a meeting in the afternoon. Then on Friday there would be more meetings. In the world of Formula One, I had learned, Friday and Saturday were practice days and on Sunday there was the race. But in my world it would be meetings, meetings, meetings, with many notes to take and reports to prepare. If I was going to see Torsten again, I needed to act quickly. He had told me he would be leaving again right after the race. That didn’t give me much time. I needed to get tickets to the race. I had no idea how to do it but I had a cousin in the government. Maybe he knew.

  I phoned him immediately. That first call was very long. There were many formalities and courtesies to get through. My cousin didn’t know anything about the race but he gave me the number of a high-ranking party official who might be able to help. The official gave me another number of a Mr. Zhang and this time I got lucky.

  “You want tickets to the race?” Mr. Zhang asked me suspiciously.

  “One ticket, that’s all.”

  “They are hard to get, you know.”

  “I know but I’m desperate.”

  His voice became interested. “How desperate?”

  I took a deep breath. I have dealt with Chinese officials before. It’s never good to be beholden to them. “Incredibly desperate,” I said. “I’ll do anything.”

  There was a long pause. I could hear him thinking. I knew he was still there because the line was hushed, like a grand empty stateroom that reeked of power.

  “I need to see a photograph,” he said at last. “Text me a photograph of yourself. If you look suitable I will call you back.”

  I took a picture on my phone and sent it to him.

  Silence.

  I waited for four, five minutes. My heart felt like it would leap through my rib cage. I was crushed by invisible G-forces more terrible than anything on a racetrack.

  Then my phone purred.

  I struggled to answer it with fumbling fingers.

  “I am arranging an event for some F1 dignitaries on Saturday evening,” Mr. Zhang said. “But it’s very select. I could arrange for you to get an entrance.”

  “No, I don’t want that. I want to get into the race!”

  “If you get into this event, you will get into the race,” he said calmly. His words were so soft, so smooth, so certain that I never doubted him for an instant.

  “Very well. But how?”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  I scrabbled in my bag for a pen, excitement mounting.

  “I’m going to give you an address. I want you to meet me there at six in the evening on Saturday. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, yes! Where?”

  “You must come alone.”

  “I will. Give me the address!”

  “You must come alone and don’t worry about what to wear. If I like you, I will provide some clothes.”

  He told me the address then, quickly. So quickly that I didn’t have time to think. As soon as I finished writing, he hung up. I looked at the address but I was thinking about his words. Clothes?

  What kind of clothes?

  But there was no more time to think. I would have liked to sleep, but I supposed it was better to keep myself occupied and sleep at a more appropriate hour. I changed into a business suit and set off for m
y first meeting in Pudong, the financial district of Shanghai.

  I lost the next day to jet lag. I was miserable. Torsten hadn’t called me and I was in a state of nervous tension in which my emotions felt taut and brittle. The least thing was likely to make me cry. I had several business meetings in which I was trying desperately hard to focus and in one of them I had to leave the room and go to the toilet and wipe the dirt of Shanghai from my eyes.

  I returned to my room at about eight o’clock, shattered. I had been checking my phone all day for signs of Torsten but there had been none. I had clearly made less of an impression on him than he had made on me. Disappointment clouded my thoughts. I had been so sure that there’d been a connection between us, the promise of something more than friendship. It was hard to learn that I’d been wrong. I could hardly accept it. But I had no time for self-pity. I had to keep pushing myself onwards, forcing myself to function.

  I tossed my clothes onto the bed, had a shower and wrapped myself in a towel. I was too tired even to dry myself properly. I dabbed at my damp skin as if it were bruised.

  Then I saw it. A blue bubble had popped up on my phone. Monocoque!

  Monocoque: Hi.

  Van_wu: Hiya!!!

  I sent him a rabbit dancing amid flowers.

  Monocoque: Busy?

  Van_wu: Finished for the day.

  Monocoque: Give yourself a pat on the back.

  Van_wu: Just a shower and sleep will do.

  Monocoque: Don’t let me keep you from your shower.

  Van_wu: I’ve already had it.

  Monocoque: Damn! I missed it.

  Van_wu: You can catch the sequel.

  Monocoque: Even better.

  Van_wu: I’m still damp.

  Monocoque: Damp or wet?

  Van_wu: Getting wetter.

  Yes, I’m ashamed to reveal that I went straight to the point. It had been a long day. I sent him a sashaying kitten.

  Monocoque: Are you naked?

  Van_wu: Yes, under this towel.

  Monocoque: Take it off.

  Van_wu: In a while.

  Monocoque: Send a pic.

  No more pics today, I thought. I wanted something for myself. I’d become desperately horny within seconds of seeing the word Monocoque on my phone. All my cares fell away and I just wanted to touch myself.

  Van_wu: You’ll see me in the flesh soon enough.

  Monocoque: How?

  Van_wu: I’m coming to the race.

  Monocoque: On Sunday?

  Van_wu: Yes.

  Monocoque: Cool. How did you get a ticket?

  Van_wu: Connections.

  Monocoque: I still need a pic.

  I hesitate to give you the verbatim transcript that followed. The trouble with text is that it tells only a part of the story. It can’t convey the build up of anguish and desire during the day. It can’t show you the nerves I felt at saying anything sexual at all to this stranger whom I’d met on the plane; or explain why a mere stranger had gotten under my skin and infected me with sudden passion. A few crude words of text can look dirty on the page. No doubt my words were crude and dirty. But his were a thing of exquisite beauty to me, flooding me with relief. My sexual feelings surged out and I had no qualms about expressing them to him.

  Van_wu: Would it make you hard if I sent you a pic?

  Monocoque: I’m already hard.

  Van_wu: What made you hard?

  Monocoque: Thinking about you in that towel.

  Van_wu: I’m no longer in it.

  Monocoque: *Gulp!*

  Van_wu: I am draped on the bed on my back.

  Monocoque: *Gasp!*

  Van_wu: Tell me what you want.

  Monocoque: I want you.

  Van_wu: What would you do with me?

  Monocoque: Fuck the hell out of you.

  Van_wu: Yes please.

  Monocoque: I need to see between your thighs.

  Van_wu: Is that what you are thinking about?

  Monocoque: Always.

  Van_wu: Did you think about it before?

  Monocoque: Of course.

  Van_wu: Did you think about it on the plane?

  Monocoque: I kept looking at you when you were sleeping.

  Van_wu: Really?

  Monocoque: But not down there.

  Van_wu: But you wanted to?

  Monocoque: Oh, I so wanted to!

  Van_wu: I would have let you. You could have touched me.

  Monocoque: Next time!

  Van_wu: I was thinking about your cock.

  Monocoque: Did you want to see it?

  Van_wu: I wanted to suck it.

  Monocoque: Oh!

  Van_wu: I wish I could suck it now.

  Monocoque: My hotel is too far away.

  Van_wu: I know. I’ll have to wait.

  Monocoque: You know after the race I have to catch a flight.

  Van_wu: I know.

  Monocoque: So how are we going to meet?

  Van_wu: I am coming to the race.

  Monocoque: Are you going to suck my cock there?

  Van_wu: Maybe.

  Monocoque: You would really suck my cock at the race?

  Van_wu: And more.

  Monocoque: What more is there?

  Van_wu: I want you inside me.

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: Are you there?

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: What are you doing?

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: Tell me you are thinking about putting your cock inside me.

  Monocoque: I am.

  Van_wu: I am so wet from thinking about it.

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: Can you imagine what it would feel like to put the full length of your cock inside me?

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: I am so slick, so tight. I would grip you and squeeeeeze you.

  Monocoque: I know you would.

  Van_wu: Maybe bending over, squinting through the fence at one of those tight hairpins.

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: I’m going to wear my shortest skirt …

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: and maybe a thong or some very skimpy panties, or nothing at all, so that when I bend over you can see

  Van_wu: everything.

  Van_wu: You could just come up to me from behind and put your hand right up against my

  Van_wu: pussy and feel how wet I am then you could press your

  Van_wu: hard cock against my pussy lips you would find my hole and feel

  Van_wu: how tight it is inside me so very tight but wet because of you and what you do to me.

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: Would you like that?

  Monocoque: …

  Van_wu: What’s happening?

  Monocoque: You made me come.

  Van_wu: So quick?

  Monocoque: I told you I was quick.

  Yes, it was quick. He was quick. He had come while I was just beginning to warm to my theme. I was dissatisfied but I wasn’t disappointed. I was still wet. I still wanted him. I was more determined than ever to see him again.

  Van_wu: I’ve got to see you for real.

  Monocoque: No, I’ve got to see you!

  Van_wu: When?

  Monocoque: Come to the practice tomorrow.

  Van_wu: I don’t have a ticket yet.

  Monocoque: Damn!

  Van_wu: I will get it tomorrow and come on Sunday.

  Monocoque: What about Saturday night?

  Van_wu: Where will you be?

  Monocoque: In my hotel.

  I knew that seeing him in his hotel room on Saturday would only give me a part of the whole. I would want to be with hi
m all the next day. I would want to share his passion. I was more determined than ever to get a ticket to Sunday’s race.

  I lay back on the bed and covered myself. Yes, I had truly been naked and uncovered during our chat. It had excited me that I was lying there in that position while he was reading my words. I liked the fact that my thighs were spread wide and my pussy lips were pornographically parted. I had even been moving my hips and touching myself with a slippery finger. It excited me beyond words.

  But it was only after he’d gone that the real physical pleasure could begin, and for that I didn’t need to be open or exposed. I could hide under the duvet and lie in darkness, for now it was just about me. The only stimulation I wanted was my imagination and my fingertips. The touch of the white cotton duvet against my bare skin was soothing and sensual. I felt sheltered and safe. I let myself go completely.

  Afterwards I needed something more. Instead of turning onto my side and falling asleep like I normally do, I did something else. I turned on the light and took a picture. My face had turned pink. My throat too. The red bloom even covered the skin between my breasts. I took a picture of it. Then I sent the picture to Monocoque.

  The place where I had to meet Mr. Zhang was close to the municipal buildings in People’s Square. I arrived a few minutes before six. I was expecting to be kept waiting but when I introduced myself to the concierge, he told me to go straight up to the twenty-second floor. A man in a dark gray suit was waiting by the elevator as I arrived.

  “Mr. Zhang?”

  “Yes. Follow me.”

  He led me to an office. There was not much in it, just a desk, two chairs, a couple of filing cabinets and a cupboard. On the desk was a large, flat cardboard box. The walls were pale gray. There were no pictures but there was a window that looked out onto People’s Square, which gave the room an air of grandeur.

  “You like the view?” he asked me, noticing the way I was staring at the clumps of trees far below in the center of the busy roadway. Surrounding the square were walls of skyscrapers, some of them brandishing corporate logos so that the park in the center of the square looked like a shrine to commerce.

  “It’s impressive,” I said. “Is this your office?”

  “For the moment,” he said. Then he looked at me sharply. “Miss Wu, let us get to the point. You want a ticket for tomorrow’s race?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood in front of the sturdy wooden desk and eyed me critically. He appraised me from head to toe and there was a half smile on his lips that made me nervous. He knew he held all the power in the room. He came towards me. “What made you wear a business suit?” He touched the lapel of my jacket and ran his fingers up and down it as if judging the quality of the cloth.