Beejing 2

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Beejing (2)

Beejing Nightlife continued

We managed to go to the restaurants where real Chinese people ate. And they ate mostly noodles, everyone. I know you're imagining some old Chinaman digging his chopsticks into a dog or a small horse, but I never saw it happen. I did have the opportunity to drink snake's blood, but I go right to sleep after I drink blood. I ahve always had a vampire fetish. It's a serious problem.
The second thing I wanted to check out, though I hadn't thought about it until I got there, was the prostitution. I wasn't a prostitution guy, but Stuart was. He introduced me to the culture at the Hard Rock Caf? in Beijing, which held a tourist/prostitute mixer every night. It made sense to me. If you were going to pay up $20 for a hamburger, and stare at dumb crap on the walls, why not put in the extra hundred to get hand relief? This was the going rate for all night sex in Beijing, which was a steal compared to London, where I'd heard one hour could cost a thousand.
After eleven o'clock, the Hard Rock came alive with American cover music and prostitutes dancing with corny, uncoordinated Western tourists. It reminded me of my senior prom, except these prostitutes dressed well. Am I taking a cheap, bitter shot at the girls I went to high school with by calling them prostitutes? You bet.
Also unlike my high school classmates, these girls were staring at me with love in their eyes. Take it easy, ladies. There's enough of this Barry-O-Tine to addict all of you. Oink oink. When I finished oinking to myself several minutes later, the prostitutes had moved on, but the shame had not.

Massage Parlors & Escort Services in Beejing (2)
Beejing Nightlife continued

The Hard Rock Caf? made me feel dirty about cavorting with prostitutes, as it had made me feel dirty about wearing its bizarrely popular t-shirts. But was I being too judgmental? We were immersed in a foreign culture that my Western mind didn't understand. But did that mean that these women were okay with being whores? Stuart assured me that the money they earned made up for the unpleasantness. But did that give me permission to hold my nose and jump right in, as if it were a pool filled with fudge?
Stuart insisted that I be more open minded because I was in a new place and he wanted to pay for some tail. But I wasn't up for the full-blown sex ordeal, so we started small, at a local karaoke parlor, or KTV.
I had been to a couple karaoke places in New York City, and had a regrettable experience each time. I was never hip to the karaoke people groove. It's so much fun to get drunk and sing loud and be crazy and la la la la. What kind of repression did their parents subject them to that getting drunk and singing top 40 hits represented the height of personal expression and freedom? Didn't they play ""The Devil Went Down to Georgia"" enough at frat parties in college? Isn't there a limit to the number of Credence Clearwater Revival songs you're allowed to like, much less sing out loud with other humans around? Read a book.
The KTV rooms came with a big screen TV, a karaoke system, beer, and women. Did I say ""women?"" I meant girls. Young, young girls.
I knew before hand that the girls were involved, but I was still surprised to see them. Oh, my God, I thought. What the hell are these girls doing here?! It's midnight. They should be in school, or at church. Not in skintight mini-dresses and twenty pounds of makeup.
The man escorted the girls in, told us to ""feel free to hug them,"" and made a hugging motion with his arms.
I was paralyzed with guilt and fear as the girls sat down next to us on the couch. Stuart coolly put his arm around his girl, making it clear to me that he had done this type of thing before. My girl didn't speak a word of English, so Stuart translated everything.
Her name was Mai Lin, which I found very pretty. She was from the Szechwan Province and was absolutely beautiful.
Dear Lord, I prayed. Forgive me for corrupting poor Mai Lin from the SzechwanProvince who is so hot that I am uncomfortable.
Then I remembered that Chinese women looked younger in general. Maybe Mai Lin was 29 or 30. Stuart asked her how old she was.
""Seventeen,"" she said.
Dear God! Seventeen?! My brother was seventeen! Would I feel free to hug him while I sang karaoke? Well, he was my brother. Hm, I wondered if this Mai Lin would like my brother? No, she was probably too mature. And she was mine, anyway. I was paying for her. Oh, God, I was paying for her! I tried to bail myself out by looking at it from a different angle. Maybe I was seventeen, too.
Then I tried to drink my nervousness away. I drank glass after glass of beer, but every time I looked at Mai Lin, she was still 17 and gorgeous. And she liked me. I was a welcome departure from her usual customer: the sweaty, old businessman in a suit with a huge gut and curious, naughty hands that groped and probed and poked. Meanwhile, I had to be smashed just to put my arm around her shoulder. The smoothest, silkiest shoulder I'd ever felt, God bless her.
Stuart sang American songs, the girls sang Chinese songs, and we chatted and we cuddled. The girls explained that they liked us, and if we came two more times, we could ask them out to dinner.
Then what? I wondered. Maybe Mai Lin and I would get married, and go back to America, where people would be suspicious of our love, calling it ""store-bought,"" or ""based purely on sexual intimidation."" But we'd sit on the couch and cuddle while she sang Chinese songs and I got drunk on beer and fun. And that's when the torch-bearing mob would break down our door with a large log, and they'd take poor Mai Lin to work in a restaurant or a dry cleaner, just to perpetuate an ugly stereotype. Oh, Mai Lin, I'd say. We were too young for this old, cold world! Then I'd marry some rich girl who wanted me to work in her father's corporation. Oh, Mai Lin, I'd say. I'm working in a corporation and I don't know what love means anymore.
When it was all over, Mai Lin asked if we'd come back. I wasn't sure, because I still felt pretty sleazy. Stuart wasn't sure because his girl didn't snuggle hard-core enough for him. Then Mai Lin kissed me on the lips. I felt tremendously special. I had seen ""Pretty Woman."" Whores like Julia Roberts didn't kiss on the lips unless they were in love. Then they went on to play the same character in every movie, working so hard to become America's Sweetheart so they could deliver an obnoxiously cute Academy Award acceptance speech about how much they love everything. Well, I wasn't going to let that happen to Mai Lin.

Continued in Beejing 3
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