Pornstud

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#21, fiction- Pornstud

The man removed his shirt. He seemed quite comfortable at this. The man had a thin body now moved with enticing curves before the lens. He had a delicate collarbone and his neck was unexpectedly sensual. Darren could see the ribs sticking out under his chest. But his thighs were strong and showed trained muscle. His arms were long and swanlike.

Dearest friends,

I have to confess that I half wished this short story finally caught their attention, and was actually being discussed with further interest. I started it on Feb 3, and finished it on Feb 21. It was sent out to the magazine the next day after three proofreadings. I should receive the rejection by the beginning of June. But I didn’t and that built my hope up. But tonight, I realized it’s stupid. It’d surely be great if they found it interesting, but what’s more important is that I need to keep moving, noticed or not. There’s still so much I wanna try, and I couldn’t afford to get dragged down, by a fantasy. So I’m not waiting for it. I’m not waiting for them. And I’m sending you this.

            I remember that writing this short story had been fun. There were times when I started the computer, and then thirty minutes later, I got nearly a thousand words (you see, sometimes, it takes me hours to write three hundred). I remember looking up at the pictures hung on the wall in my study, and just smiled, wishing I could tell someone just how much I love this.

            And I also tried something new to me.

            I had been reading the fiction in The New Yorker for quite some time. For I want to know what sort of stuff they are looking now. I was going through some notes I scribbled down before for ideas. Then I suddenly realized: I liked to tell people how my character felt. For example, I’d say “Joe sat down and felt so, so, so, so terribly sorry.” But some writers wouldn't do that. So I began to wonder, how would it be if I turn that sentence into “Joe sat down. He didn’t look at Jane. He held his hands together, first in midair with his elbows on the table, then on his lap. He tried not the shift too often on his seat, or cough too much. And he looked out the window, didn't say anything.”

            Then I figure, maybe I should try to trust, trust that whomever that’s reading my story will get it. But it’s one thing to think, a lot different and difficult to actually do. So I’m still trying.

            Some might recognize certain sequence here. I may have borrowed something from real life.

            And also, I used “….squeezed his hardest grip” in the story that always makes me itchy when I get to it. What I was trying to write is “.. when the man fucking shot his load.” But I just found it physically impossible to type that (I have a very parental MacBook). I would love to hear your opinion, which is better, or what difference does it make, they all suck.

           

Preview- Strategy

Rushed feet are heard down the hall. Several nicely suited bodyguards escort a fifty-ish man, dressed in a rather sophisticated style, with long limbs and a lean body, a straight face, gray short hair on top. The suddenness of this appearance, the swiftness of their steps makes it more like an attack. The Doctor stops amid the people. And the bodyguards fan out to all sides on cue. The Doctor stands still, observing the contestants around him with his brow arched and lips meanly tightened, likely mocking at those who circle him.

#20, dancing in the music

I just finished a short story I titled “Fish” this morning. Half way through, I was not sure if I was writing fiction or writing porn, but I decided to follow sue, and think about that question some other time. I was not working this month. Apart from moments of self-doubt (and insomnia), I have to confess I kinda like it. It gave me so much freedom and time. I could sit at my desk all day and not to look at the time and not to worry about a thing (but of course, that’s not true, for I’m constantly thinking about rent, and food, and water bill, and electricity and credit card bill, failing to refrain myself not to). It could be that I don’t use an alarm clock now. It also could be that I’m liberated. How wonderful it is to have an idea and directly see to it! Instead of ‘huh, I better write it down’ and later puzzled over what’s scribbled down (and decrypted, too) in a hurry, with the hope that I’d work on it some time this year.

Dearest friends,

The following is absolutely one hundred percent non-fiction.

I had a dream.

And it’s also not an opener of a great speech. You see, I don’t have vision.

In the dream, I was worrying about what I should do with my life, and what I am going to do next (could be that I was not fully asleep). I was in a restaurant. And I was completely annoyed by people’s voice, just like yapping all over me. Then it switched scenes, and I was now outside this great house that’s rumored to be haunted back in my hometown. There were two guys in trench coats, profession: artist (don’t ask me, I just know). I was so nervous for I was about to hand them my resume.

But then I was dancing to the music just a few yards down the road. They were still talking to each other over the fence. But I was like ‘who cares’. I was dancing to Bach. And I was doing ballet (sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t in real life). Whenever Bach did the thing he did, like dun!, dun!!, dun!!!, I made a turn, I jumped with my toes (reminded me of a certain type of water insect), and I flied, with my arms out stretched, and I smiled, with my mouth open wide, gasping, like those ladies on stage that make the audience fear that they’re going to have a heart attack and eye brows like, not real.

The point is: I just felt so happy and wished there’s a way to literally do that.

I love the dream. And it’s not Freud at all! So direct and simple: “I wanna have fun, so bite me!” How happy it would be to just live on those little things? Today, I don’t want to be reasonable and think about reality. Today, I want to be half in and half out of the dream. Later, there’ll be time to switch back on and get depressed.

“Pornstud” haven’t got a rejection yet. It’s been four months, a month later than they promised I’d get a reply within. Could be it made it to someone’s desk. Could be they just forgot about it. Could be they just went like ‘This guy again?! He kept sending these strange stories every, beepin’, month! Let’s ignore him and get a restraining order.’ It better not be the third, for heaven have mercy, good for them, there’s another one coming tonight.

Life’s pretty sweet, ain’t it?

#19, wear it on my sleeve

Summer in Taiwan can be hot and heavily humid. It’s finally here. Even at night, it makes me feel, squeezed. Both the air conditioners in my bedroom and study were broken. So I crashed my own couch to enjoy the artificial coolness. I usually turn the air conditioner on for one or two hours, then turn it off, till the heat gets me in the morning, just when I’m supposed to get up for work. But because of the tattoo, I turn it on all night lest I get uncomfortable and start scratching, leaving scars.

Funny I should use the word.

Dearest friends,

So I got a tattoo.

Day 1

It’s the second day of a three day holiday vacation. I felt dizzy when I got up, probably because I slept too much. The day before, I forced myself to finish a short story that’s been dragging on for over a month. Enough is enough. I might not be able to extend the original idea into an interesting piece of creation. But I have to move on. I’d do the proofreading on hard copy and another proofreading that I’d have the computer read it to me, and then send it to the magazine.

            It’s scheduled at two. But I was not feeling anything.

            I went to the bank. That’s my last investment returned as cash, nearly all of them much less than what I put in. Then I went to KFC to have roasted chicken and biscuit. Do they have roasted chicken in KFC in the states?

            I went to the tattoo parlor. The tattoo artist was preparing inks for my tattoo. So he asked me to wait. I think he’s cute, arms all covered with Taiwanese style tattoos, Chinese dragon, carp, mist and water. In Chinese symbolism, it means a small person achieving a big success. He has big round eyes and a boyish face. He’s kinda short, about five seven or maybe six. He’s got black curly hair and he put oil on it.

            He used six different shades for my tattoo instead of one, red. He shaved my forearm and put a warming gel on my skin. He printed the sketch on it and just got to work, no ‘here we go’, no ‘you cool?’, no ‘are you ready?’, he just dug in. Mild discomfort? Yes. Pain? A little bit, especially when he did the inner part of my arm. But most of the time, I felt, arisen. It’s a complicated sensation.

            It took about two hours. I told him I want only red. But he also used yellow and white. I let him be. I put my arm on a cushioned stool. He bended over it. My hand accidentally touched his inner thigh, I clenched my fist. When he was coloring the leaves, he got closer, my hand was pressed to his stomach, and I felt the heat, from him, and his breathing. He never once looked at me when he’s doing it, and my tattooed right forearm, was a messy red, mixed with ink, maybe a little bit blood, and lust, unfulfilled, and a sense of excitement, that I was scarred, openly, on the outside.

            I went to get the headshot for my ID card. Yo called, and asked me to hurry and show them the tattoo. I rode the subway to the other side of Taipei. She was surprised that I put it on my forearm. But before she continues with her reasoning, I raised my finger and threatened “I love it, and I don’t want to hear anything negative about it.” So they all cheered.

            Yo asked everybody to come and check out my tattoo. I gave her a what-are-you-doing stare. Le Prince answered he already did and quietly sipped on his glass of white. He took one look at me when I walked in. He never really liked me much. George gave me advise on how to take care of my tattoo. He said the key is never let it heal. I thanked him, but I was actually thinking “are you crazy?”

            When the fuss was over, I found another seat, put on my headset and started proofreading the story. Andrew showed up. He took a picture of my tattoo with his iPhone while I was typing and couldn’t hear what he’s saying through the music. Then he left, without ordering anything.

            I got home, I turned on the air conditioner. It was unusually loud. There’s a smell of burnt plastic. And then it stopped. There’s a bed in my study, but the air conditioner never really worked. I set up camp in the living room. That pleases Barley, I haven’t shaved him yet. And God knows how that’s like with all that fur on.

Day 2

Wu Zetian from Tang Dynasty was the only Empress in Chinese history. There were some ambitious queens and concubines, but only she had it all. Legend had it, one winter night, she was drunk and ordered all the flowers to bloom. All did but peony remained budless. Peony, also known in Chinese as mǔdān, was then put into exile.

            Mǔdān is called the king of flowers. Wu Zetian in Chinese means ‘violence, and then the world.’ She is believed to have killed her own daughter and sons to gain her complete and absolute power.

            I have a mǔdān on my sleeve, red from the leaves to the petals except a tint of yellow from the heart.

            I woke up before five. It’s four fifty-four actually. The tattoo was still oozing fluid, I was told not to put anything on it but dab it dry. I got up, changed into a white t-shirt and suit pants. I stuffed my Burberry summer trench coat in the leather duffle bag I got at Macy’s. Then I left for the high speed rail train to Kaohsiung.

            I said ‘hi, good morning,’ instead of looking at my face, the clerk stared at my tattoo, but answered cheerfully and dutifully back. Because it’s all red, and at this stage, it looked a little bit dark, I suppose people were afraid they might confuse a tragic burnt or a romantic birthmark with a notorious tattoo, so they lingered a second or two before they switched back their indifference. I had not yet figure out how I should take that. I always had a goody goody face. But now I gave them a reason to properly and rightfully reject me.

            I went back to Kaohsiung, my birth place, to have my ID card reissued. It took only five minutes. Then I dashed back to Taipei. It used to take up a whole day back and forth. But now it’s like three thousand dollars and I’m there.

            I went to see Van. He asked me when’s my train. I told him I was back already. He told me how the magazine would work, what I was expected to do. I told him I need to think about it.

            Back at home, I got naked. Two packages from U.S. arrived. The jeans were way too large for me. I’d just give them to George. But the boots are perfect. I tried them on and lied down on the sofa, with only my underwear on. I rented six movies in two days. I called the restaurant and quit. Before I went to sleep, I fantasized about the tattoo artist, and I kissed my tattoo, there’s a smell about it, but it’s probably my lotion.

Day 3

I looked at the phone for the time when I woke up. I was three hours earlier than I was expected to wake up. I got up, however. The day was already too bright.

            I watched the movies all day and went out to give George the unfit jeans. Van was there. He’s with the Singapore champion and company. Mr. Hu was also there, they asked me how come I was not working at the restaurant. I told them I had the day off and left.

            Before I took the shower, I looked at my tattoo in the mirror. I felt panic. I felt marked. I felt I had finally, fallen, will never be able to climb back. I felt like I lost my virginity all over again. I lost it to a man when I was a kid when I didn’t even know what it means. But I remember how terrifying it was that I would never be the same. And I felt broken.

            The swelling had been flattened. But the skin turned rough.

Day 4

I had an idea about a short story several weeks back when I was working on the last one. But I couldn’t drag myself off the couch. And I couldn’t rest or sit still before my desk. I wanted to find a job and I had been thinking about possible places. But I withheld myself. I just got myself out of the net of security, not to dive back in. It’s not regret. It’s not remorse. It’s just a sense of feeling, not knowing weather or not I’d made the right decision.

            I went back to the tattoo parlor and asked for another and bigger tattoo on my left arm, from my shoulder to my elbow. I told him I want three peonies. He laughed.

            “What?”

            “Nothing. It’s great.”

            He put a piece of wax paper on my arm and drew the outline. He told me the sketch would be ready in three days.

            “What color do you want?”

            “Red.”

            “All red?”

            “Yeah.”

            “But, but it might be too flat with just one color.”

            “I don’t mind different shades.”

            “The one I did. I also used white and yellow.”

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “And what about Trukish blue? It also looks great.”

            “I’ll think about it. Why don’t you just do the sketch first?”

            Although I’ve decided I want just red. It’s not only because I like the color, I want it to feel that the flowers grow out of me, out of my blood.

Day 5

It started peeling. The color under, was much brighter. It’s a shame, I kinda liked the dark, dark red.

            The repairpersons came, they said the landlord told them I should pay for the fees and parts. I told them they don’t need to bother then. I’m not paying for someone else’s air conditioners. The landlord called, and said that he’d be willing to sponsor half of it. I thanked him but told him I’d decided that I don’t need the air conditioners fixed after all. In Taiwan, the only way people without money or power gain justice is to swallow it. Yeah, I might win if I take it to the court. But the lawyer, the time, the fact the landlord will no doubt kick me out, I’d lose anyway. Now with the tattoo, I don’t think I’d even have a hearing at all.

            After they left, I sat down and started writing.

Gaga asked me why peony. I told her “Flower blooms prosperity, good signs and well wishes,” a Chinese expression associated with flowers. People tend to look at peony as the flower of the riches, hard to grow and delicate. But I don’t think so. I think they are just not so easy to agree to dance. Wu Zetian may not be so imaginative as to order all the flowers to bud overnight. But she did order peony removed from her city to the southern, far away country. How’s the journey down? I wonder. And without a proper pardon, no matter how hard and beautifully it blooms, I suppose it still remains, in disgrace. Although few cares. And I suppose even fewer has them marked on their skin. But I realized I finally found a way to wear it out, something I never knew how to explain, like a burnt, like a birthmark, like a curse, and red as blood, although soon, very soon, to be tamed like watercolor.