Same day, same afternoon, same alive sex show spot. I change more coins. This time I spent twenty pounds, for watching two persons performing.

Now, on the stage, a beautiful young man and a black hair woman.

The man has a masculine body. He is very fit, and his skin is golden. He wears pair of glasses. He has the beautiful lush hair tied up to a pony tail. He only wears tight shorts, and his legs are strong. He kisses the woman. The woman wears a red bra and a silver mini skirt. Her sweet breasts bulged upwards, inviting those thirsty eyes. The man unbuttons her bra. Her nipples are immediately blossom, like pink rose bud in early summer. He caresses her neck, her breast, her waist, her hip, and her legs. He is so elegant, a young gentleman. But he is a prostitute-person who offers himself for unworthy purposes, like the dictionary says.

While I am standing there watching, I desire become prostitute. I want be able expose my body, to relieve my body, to take my body away from dictionary and grammar and sentences, to let my body break all disciplines. What a relief that prostitute not need speak good English. She also not need to bring a dictionary with her all the time.

Now her turn, her power on him. She seduces him. Her hands with scarlet fingernail fondle his delta, a place like a hill covered by the grass. His bird is growing bigger and stronger. And he cannot help to devour her pink nipples, to kiss her snow white neck, and to whisper into her ears. Her body is a ceremony, a power station, a light house. And the neon lights spread the magic colour on her skin.

He becomes impulsive. He lifts her short silver skirt, then I see her delta. She has very lush bush, like bush growing by the river in the tropical zone. His fingers travel through her bushes, and disappeared into her cave. Her face now is lighted. Her mouth is half opened. Waiting and arousing. His fingers come out from her cave. He kneels down, starts to kiss her bush and sucks her cave. Her juice is shining on his face.

The great decadence is attracting me.

The great decadence is seducing me like a magnet.

The music goes to the end part. Big melody. Almost disturbing.

On the turning stage, the man stands like a mountain. The woman kneel down and takes his bird into her mouth. Her lips are as wet as her valley. She sucks him. He is slightly shaking, and his body is swinging. He holds her naked shoulder strongly and he endures. Two bodies sticks together. Now he cannot hold her any more. The volcano erupts, and the silver liquid covers her face.

heaven

heaven n. 1. a place believed to be the home of God, where good people go when they die; 2. a place or state of bliss.

My father said he once dreamed eating some spring sprouts. My father loves spring sprouts. In that dream his teeth bites the fresh spring sprouts and he clearly hears the crispy sound from his mouth. It is such a beautiful sound. It is just like heaven, he said. But my mother always disagree with him. My mother think there is no sound in the dream. If you hear sound in the dream just because you imagine you hear it.

“The dream is silent, like heaven.” That what she said.

Chinese Heaven must have lots of peach trees, lots fairy ladies dressed in silk skirt with long sleeves, like we saw in the martial art films. There is no mans, but only the son of the Heavens lives there, eating peaches everyday, served by beautiful fairy ladies. I don’t know if this Heaven where my grandmother prayed and wanted to go after she died. I hope so. But if my grandmother really living there now, then she would ruin the whole fairyland. Because she is ugly.

“Is Heaven really silent?” I once asked my mother, timidly.

“What?! You think Heaven is as noisy as this compound?” she answered.

The compound we lived was crowdy, tiny and messy like war zone. There were about twenty families live with us, and every family had seven or nine children since One Child Policy only starts from 1977. So there were about 150 children constantly shouting fighting crying everyday. Then there were about twenty grandmothers shouting to at least forty sons and forty daughters-in-laws every evening. So compound is like little village. And we raised roosters and hens everywhere in the compound too. All the time you can hear little chickens snivelling for being stepped when kids ran over them. And fathers would chase kids and beat the kids up. That was the life before my parents start make business. Soon, leather shoes, cloth shoes, sports shoes were piles and piles like hill sitting in our compound yard. At the beginning they worked for some shoes buyers. Five years later my parents opened their own factory, and then everybody from the same compound became their employees.

So you, a Westerner, ask me again: “What do you think Heaven is like? Assuming you think there is one…”

I recall what my mother thought of Heaven and what my father thought of spring sprouts. I am confused: “Which Heaven? Chinese Heaven or Western Heaven?”

“Is there a difference?” you laugh.

“There must be different.”

“If there are different Heavens, I guess then the different Heavens might fight each other.”

“Fighting is good. Makes Heaven more liveable,” I say.

You look at me surprisely. You know I like to fight. I am woman warrior. I like to do everything through fighting. I fight for everything. Struggle for everything. We Chinese are used to struggle get everything: food, education, house, freedom, visa, and human rights. If no need struggle then we don’t know how to live anymore.

romance

romance n. 1. a fantasy, fiction, legend, novel, story, tale; 2. an exaggeration, falsehood, lie; 3. a ballad, idyll, song.

Friendship endures longer than romance. I often think this sentence in your diary, but when I look in Thesaurus I see so many possible words for romance. Is romance love?

“What is exactly Romance?” I ask you.

“Romance?”

You are thinking hard. Maybe is first time people ask this question to you.

“Well, it’s a complicated word…Maybe romance is like a rose…”

“Rose? What kind of rose?”

We are in garden so you go back in house fetch book.

“A rose like in this poem,” you say, and read me:

All night by the rose, the rose,

All night by the rose I lay.

Dared I not the rose steal,

And yet I bore the flower away.

Poem very beautiful, I want know who wrote it. On book says Anon.

“This Anon very good writer,” I say. “I think I prefer to Shakespeare, much easier.”

You laugh. “Yes, and perhaps even more prolific.”

“?”

“Anon isn’t a person. It’s just what we say when we don’t know who wrote something.”

Annoyed about this Anon, I look round in your garden. There is no any rose, let alone Chinese rose.

“How can you never plant any rose in the garden?” I say. “Every green finger growing rose in this country, as far as I can see. You should have one.”

You agree with me, this time, no any doubts.

So we now have a climbing rose in our garden, against the wall. Is a skinny plant with five green leafs and some annoying thorn. We had argument in flower market because I want buy rose with blossoms, but you rather buy little sprout and wait for its growing.

You use your favourite tool-spade-to dig the hole. “The hole must be twice as wide as the root spread, and two-feet deep…” You measure the hole with the fingers: “The rose has mainstructural canes and flowering shoots, so the canes must be tied or woven into a support to keep the rose off the ground.” You are so scientific. I look at you. Are you romantic farmer?