Tuan

“So would you ever go for an Asian guy?” I asked her as we lie there blissfully after the moment. She looks at me with her liquid blue eyes and shoots me a sultry smile. “Yeah” she replied, “If they were all cute like you, I would.” pinching a handful of my right cheek. Lying on my belly, arms crossed over my abdomen, she gazes up at me with genuine curiosity. “I just love the shape of your face” she says. “And it feels so soft” as her fingertips travel from the smooth borders of my jaw to the rugged stubble of my shaved head. Firmly cupping the back of my neck she draws me in for another drop of sweet honey. “Someone’s kissy kissy” she giggles, tasting the ripeness of my plump lips. At that moment, I was convinced. Call me a convert, traitor, sell out, anything you wish. I had seen the light and it was a blinding bright white.

Amber was uninhibited, freely sexual, and much too honest. She was my first white girl. And she didn’t have a strange Asian fetish or fixation. She just found me desirable as a man, not just as a delectable oriental side dish, although I wouldn’t have held it against her. She was drawn to my warmth. She fancied holding me, burying the side of her face into my chest, caressing my bare skin. I felt more dashing in her mysterious blue eyes then I have with other girls who share the same familiar brown ones.

For her, it was a deflowering of sorts too. I was the first to boldly go where no Asian man has gone before. I guess you can say I de-asianized her. She never saw Asian people, especially guys, growing up in her small hometown in Aspen, Colorado. “There were some that made Chinese food” she told me. But I guess they never cooked up anything else. That night, I demystified thousands of years of Asian urban legend. “Are you guys all smart?” she inquired. “I don’t think so, if they were all so smart they would find themselves a pretty white girl.” I replied slyly. She blushes a bright pink. “Have you ever eaten a dog” she asked. “No, but I have friends that have”, I responded. I can’t deny it, it tastes like chicken, or so I heard. “Martial arts?” she wondered. “No”, I deflected with the swiftness. And so on and so on and so on…

I reached over to the counter for some water and noticed a photo of her dad who ironically fought in the Vietnam War. Was she then essentially sleeping with the enemy? I’d like to think not. Growing up in an Asian enclave, where breaking from racial normalcy was a fast and easy way to lose friends, I couldn’t imagine having a conversation beyond simple service counter courtesy with a girl who wasn’t of the same ethnic persuasion. It wasn’t because there was no spark; I just had never tried to light one. And as I lay there, I noticed for the first time how perfectly her hands folded snugly into mine’s and the way her head found a perfect resting place right underneath my chin. That night, she fell asleep next to me, crossing over and bridging both our worlds.

Current Mood: http://goldsea.com/Air/True/BM