Fear of the "Asian Bedroom"
(This article is about SEX and anyone having issues with frank discussions of same are encouraged to skip this post.
I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge Public Enemy’s album title “Fear of a Black Planet” as inspirational to this title.)
I’m of the opinion there are two sexual personality types and they can be predicted by how a person drives or dances. People who are good drivers are typically heavily dependant on hand bias, in other words, are strongly right or left hand dominate, which would imply strong separation in global function between the left hemisphere and right hemisphere of the brain. Right-handed people are, in reality, more properly considered left-brained as that is the dominate hemisphere. The opposite is true for left-handed people, they’re right-brained, and despite having their brains in backwards are otherwise lovely people.
Dancers have less separation in their global process, are often ambidextrous, and are often more artistic from having a greater connection, or less dominance, between their hemispheres. The important thing here is the level of dominance, all other factors such as left or right-handedness take a back seat. This also crosses the barrier of hetero and homosexuality, this rule is equally valid for either, and is only a problem when the two types partner.
An example: my ex-wife was a good dancer, poetic and in general, very well integrated between her brain spheres. I’m a good (great) driver, analytic and heavily right-handed. Despite being together for almost 15 years, I never became a much better dancer and, though I gave her copious amounts of lessons, my wife continues to be a bad driver and continues to run into things, primarily other men’s penises, which led, in large part, to our now dysfunctional relationship.
I get that now, we should have never gotten together for longer than an evening, but I don’t regret that mistake, or the kids, but you just can’t fight nature.
Prior to meeting my wife, I dated a woman on and off for 25 years, who I’m going to refer to as Bee (not her name, you may have noticed I never use names), dating her both before and after my marriage. I met her when she was 19 and I was 25. One of the strongest bonds we shared was the desire to never marry, which, oddly, we both did in the same time-frame with both of them ending at about the same time, at which point we dated again with the same understanding.
Bee was (is) a great person to be around: smart, funny, liberated, opinionated and had this big, soaring laugh which is important to me because I’m very funny in real life which may be hard to see in my writing. When I tell a joke and am rewarded by such obvious enjoyment, I keep going and going, which is just fun for both of us.
I haven’t mentioned this yet, but it is integral to the story, she was (and remains) one of the most stunningly beautiful women I’ve ever seen, I’ve always been lucky in that regard. I really have no illusions about my physical attractiveness, but, in one of nature’s great ironies, I have always had the best luck with beautiful women. I chalk it up to growing up in a house full of women: my mother,my grandmother, three sisters and two young aunts. I guess it gave me perspective.
The first time I saw her she was talking to a friend of mine, just finishing a conversation and walked past me as I walked toward him. I had the presence of mind to smile at her when she passed, may have even winked, walking up to my friend and directly asking,”Who is THAT?”
“That’s Bee, a friend from high school.” he replied, a little surprised at my obvious interest, “I can introduce you…”
“Don’t you think you should?” I said.
I did notice his lack of interest in her which I attributed to him thinking that he didn’t have a shot with her. I asked her out immediately upon meeting her and was smitten, for years.
One of the most charming aspects of her was her modesty and simultaneous lack of inhibition. The story behind this phenomenon I pieced together through the years. There were two primary components to this demeanor. First, her younger sister, who I would describe as “Playboy-esque” (what every man thinks every other man thinks is sexy), leggy, voluptuous and dumb as a bag of hammers (not to imply that Playboy models are necessarily dumb, but she was.) Second, and most damaging, Bee was apparently “heavy” in high school and didn’t date much (or at all.) When I met her I would have never guessed that, assumed she had always been the hotness she was and knew how beautiful she was. That also explained my friend’s lack of interest in her as he remembered her as the fat girl she no longer was. As I understand it, they got together later during one of our numerous breaks.
One of our first bonding moments was when she introduced me to her sister, who was stunning-always had been, knew it and had no personality as a result. As we left her house, she turned to me and said, enthusiastically, “My sister’s hot, huh?” which was a problematic question for me. I opted for the truth and said, “I guess…” with a shrug which seemed to convey the message I hoped (neither you nor your family members are homely but I have no interest in her.) As I came to learn, this question would be repeated, in various disguises, throughout our relationship and each time my smile at it’s asking became a little more obvious.
Oh, the lack of inhibition? I came to expect the anywhere, anytime way she liked it but that was not the extent of it. When she waked into a room she expected every eye to turn to her, male and female (she was “fashionably” bisexual for a time) and remain there until she sat down (or longer). I knew this was a re-enforcing mechanism for her (that she was no longer the ugly duckling) and I also knew that she worked hard for it, and to maintain it, so I adjusted to it because she deserved it. As we would walk through a restaurant, I would mumble, under my breath, to the stricken, “She looks good, huh?” which was returned with smiles. I got it; hell, I felt the same way. The woman worked a room.
By the way, Bee was a great driver. The only person besides myself who could whip trough the gears of my Porsche (with the wickedly difficult “dog-leg” 5speed transmission) and the only one I ever trusted alone with it. We shared an unspoken acknowledgement that because Dr. Porsche had been a Nazi, all his cars must be punished and that they respected a firm hand. No quarter was given by either of us and I believe a grudging respect developed between all parties.
When we stopped seeing each other there was never any of the recriminations that typically accompany those events: we would just float away, confident that the other would always be there later. We would get back together, “exchange information” (her term), be happy dating again, and then float off again. This happened at least six times that I can distinctly remember. We didn’t even live together and I think the thought that we could easily escape was part of the attraction. We became extraordinarily comfortable with each other as a result, saying and doing exactly what we wanted and it was, well, fun, not a term I would apply to most of my relationships.
So, enough with the background. After we’d known each other ten years or so, we got together and went out to dinner. As we were driving home she said, “Let’s stop for a drink.” which was an unusual request for her, foreplay was a couple of games of backgammon typically, but she choose a bar with pool tables so only the game changed. She knew I was no good at pool which made me curious at the request.
I remember how odd it was when we walked in: perhaps the quietest bar ever, with the knocking of pool balls heard distinctly outside and as we entered the room, with her in the lead, hardly a head turned to her, which I noticed and I know she did. There were two pool tables, one in a corner and the one that was in use in the center of the room by a young Chinese woman who was playing by herself with her boyfriend sitting nearby, accepting the unspoken congratulations of the silent room. She was tiny, and beautiful, with long jet-black hair that fell about her and clothes that seemed a size too small until she bent to shoot, her blouse overly open. In a glance, I knew everything about the room and knew it was trouble.
Other than that glance when we entered, my eyes never left Bee. I never looked at other women when we were out, I knew how good I had it, and I felt it was the least I could do, to be grateful for what I had. We ordered Guinness (what a great woman, right?) which was set before us in a perfunctory manner. Not more than too sips later, she looks over to the pool table and then back to me. I could see the wheels turning in her head, the thought flashed so briefly, “Is she going to bring her home?” but no, the set of her jaw and the flat statement, “Wow, she’s really good, huh?” accompanied by the abrupt landing of her pint glass on the table. I realized that this was not about me. She was not going to be ignored by the room.
“I’m going to play,” she said. She stood up and slipped her jacket off, seductively, and looked me in the eyes.
I smiled at her and said “Yep” which was a combination of “I knew it,” and “Go get her.”
Bee was 5’6″‘ but stood a head above the tiny woman at the pool table. She offered, “Let’s shoot a game.” which was met with an immediate “Sure.” from the woman, who, still bent over the table, hadn’t seen Bee approach, finally looking up and seeing her. It seemed that was the moment the rest of the room looked up and saw her, as well. There was a brief look of surprise on her that settled into a look that said, “Bitch!” which was met by Bee’s smirk that said, “Little bitch!”
I’m not so good with the description, no, not really, so some visual aids are in order: ash-blond, Heather Locklear (I was told she resembled) with maybe two more inches of leg in the littlest of little black dresses verses a more voluptuous Lucy Liu with longer hair, tight blue jeans and a blouse too big through the shoulders and too small in front. Side by side, their dimensions were similar but the framing of them couldn’t have been more contrasted: she made Bee look like an Amazon and Bee made her look almost dumpy, but no, both, as they separated, looked perfectly different.
I shot a look over at her boyfriend who seemed to sense it and looked over at me. We both had the same bemused look on our faces and I held my hands palms up by my shoulders with a shrug to say, “What are ya gonna do with her, right?” at which he broke into a huge smile. We knew what was going on, that we were not the issue, and were content to let this play itself out, preferably very slowly.
Though the game only lasted 5 or 10 minutes, they were both very good, parts of it appeared in slow motion and it seemed to last a long time. If they spoke to each other it was whispered and, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t watching their lips. Bee’s skirt kept her from bending too far to shoot but every inch of leg was on display. Bridge shot? Why, when you could just lay across the table. I became aware just how important the hair was as they both swirled their hair off the shoulder before each shot. As elegant as they were when they were positioning themselves, and shooting, that grace disappeared as they passed each other stiffly and, frankly, pretty aggressively. I got the feeling we were a twitch, from either of them, away from a full-on cat fight and I had no doubt Bee would have crushed the life out of her. She looked so good from working out ferociously and was amazingly strong and agile. I’m not going to go into more detail other than to say “I think you get the picture,” but it was even more tense, and hot, than what you’re thinking.
I remember thinking, at the time, that this meant something other than the obvious battle for the hearts and minds (and lust) of the men at that bar. Did Bee know her? Had she seen her before and not risen to her? Was this unusual request to stop at the bar not just a coincidence? As these thoughts occurred to me, I as quickly set them aside: I didn’t like the distraction.
When the game was over, just one game, Bee came slinking back to the table, smiling, reached down to take a sip of her beer, and said “Let’s go,” as she reached for her jacket. Her work here, our work here, was done and we were going out on a high note. I think that was the time people noticed I was sitting there and was with HER. Pretty sweet. My contribution to the moment consisted of a sly smile and small wave to the bar on our way out.
Having known Bee so many years, I knew the foreplay was over but was surprised that she waited until we got home to tear into me, she didn’t always. I don’t recall many of the particulars other than every time ended with her on top and I was content with that. We were well suited for each other physically. A few minutes after the lights went out, Bee said, “She was pretty hot, huh?”
I thought, “Oh, man, I don’t want to have this conversation…” So I said nothing, played dead.
The light goes back on, “You awake?”
I’m laying there with my arm behind my head, looking at her, smiling. After a couple of seconds I start with the “bring it on” wave with my other hand.
I finally just said, “That’s not the question you want to ask me, is it?”
“Did you want to FUCK her?” Bee asked rather loudly.
Now, THAT’S my girl, I thought. I thought very carefully about my reply, answering immediately, “Oh sweetheart, you’ve known me for 15 years, what do you think?”
“I’m going to take that as a ‘yes,'” she shot back.
“Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Or at least think you do.” I said.
She paused for a couple of seconds and laughingly said, “What the hell does that mean?”
Great, now I’ve got to back up that statement. A couple of minutes with the lights off, I would have really been asleep and we would be having this discussion over breakfast. She was too nice to wake me up if I was asleep. “If I say no, you’re going to think I’m lying and if I say yes you’re going to think I’m trying to piss you off. You already know the answer.”
She smiled,”Yes.”
“Damn right I thought about it but that’s a long way from doing it for me.”
A long pause later, she said, “Have you ever?”
“Been with a “petite” woman ?” I said, with air quotes.
“Yes,” she said.
I rolled on my side so I was face to face with her. I looked into her big, soft, green eyes and couldn’t remember her looking so vulnerable. We were finally getting to that thing I couldn’t figure out in the bar, the real thing that started all that.
“Sure. Is that a problem?”
“Do you wish I was smaller?” she said, softly, a few seconds later with her eyes closed.
Wow, I thought to myself, I wonder how long she’s been keeping that one in. “Honey,….I… it’s not that simple….I…” and I just stopped in mid sentence. Okay, I thought let’s try this, “Have you been with a man different than me?”
“You mean bigger?” she teased back. I thought, “Don’t have too much fun with this, please.”
“Actually I meant smaller. Funny how you think bigger would bother me.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Which?”
“Both.”
“At the same time?” I asked her, laughing.
She laughed her first big, booming laugh of the evening. A couple of seconds later, she added, “We were on a break…” I looked over at her in surprise and we both started laughing harder.
“So…?” I asked after we calmed down.
“I’m back.” she said with her arms out.
“But why are you back?” I kept on.
“Well…” she stopped for a couple of seconds, then smiled and said, “it’s not that simple.”
“But it is for a man, right? You’re a sexist!” Victory was mine!
“You are such a pain in the ass…” she started.
“Maybe that’s why you’re back, you like the pain in the ass. I’m learning so much about you, tonight…” is when her pillow came over my face which turned into yet another round of sex.
*
The phrase “Asian bedroom” was never used by Bee but it was used a few months ago by another friend who put it in air quotes followed by “You know what I mean?” She had been dumped by a guy for an Asian girl and it scarred her. Let’s not make this racist and call it what it is: tight pussy. Big dicks. Sex in the pornographic world.
There are a lot of things I loved about Bee but the greatest things she gave me were confidence and perspective. Maybe you haven’t been so fortunate as to have a friend as open and open minded as Bee so I wanted to share her with you and share her fear with you just so you know it’s out there.
Why?
I still love you. That’s why I’m back.