A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers (9 page)

colony
 
 
n.
1.
a group of people who settle in a new country but remain under the rule of their homeland;
2.
a territory occupied by a colony;
3.
a group of people or animals of the same kind living together.

colony

The way you make love with me, is totally new experience in my life. Is sex suppose be like this? Penetrating is way for you to enter into my soul. You are so strong. And your strength is overwhelming. For you, I am unprepared. You crush me and press me into your body. Love making is a torture. Love making is a battle. Then I get used it, and I am addicted by it. The way you hold my body is like holding small object, an apple, or a little animal. The force from your arms and your legs and your hip is like force from huge creature living in jungle. The vibrate from your muscle shakes my skins, the beating of your heart also beating my heart.

You are the commander.

You kiss my lips, my eyes, my cheek, my ears, my neck, and my silver necklace. It is like my necklace having a special magic on you. And that magic force you devote yourself to my body. Then you kiss my breasts and you suck them. You are like baby who is thirsty for mother’s milk. You lick my belly and my legs and my feet. You possess my whole body. They are your farm. Then you come back to my garden. Your lips are wandering in my cave, and in that warm and wet nature you try find something precious, something you always dream about. You wander alone there and love there and want live there.

My whole body is your colony.

prostitute
 
 
n.
a person who offers sexual intercourse in return for payment–
v.
1.
to make a prostitute of;
2.
to offer (oneself or one’s talents) for unworthy purposes.

prostitute

I need develop my Western life so I go Charing Cross Road try to find some cooking books. I want know how to make Western food, like pastas, or Yorkshire pudding. I am ended up in Soho Original Bookshop. There are no kitchen books here, apart
How to Make Love and Cook Dinner at the Same Time
. Lots of books here exposing naked body.
Prostitute
, I read this word from one of photo books. The pictures are shocking. I am standing there and reading the whole book. Bodies, strange costumes, strange positions, more bodies having sex together.

Soho, Berwick Street. My feet can’t move away from a sex shop. Some leather bras with two hole in middle, some leather belt, some handcuff…

A word
loin
written on some instructions, which I never studied before. Standing in front of these shelfs, I check my
Collins
dictionary.

loin
n.
part of the body between the ribs and the hips; cut of meat from this part of an animal–
pl
. hips and inner thighs.

loincloth
n.
piece of cloth covering the loins only.

There is no more explanation. I hate this dictionary. Where is an exactly
inner thigh
? And what
loincloth
look like? Do people wear
loincloth
everyday?

Putting my dictionary back into pocket, I find shopkeeper stares at me like a tiger. And there are two old mans, both are bald, they stare at me too. I leave the shop.

Red light district.

One, two, three, four, five, six…I am changing the notes to coins.

I am in peepshow room. It is tiny room for one person to stand, and I can see turning stage through little hole.

I insert the coin of the first pound, and start watching a woman shows her nude.

She is a blonde. Shining hair like golden velvet. She is young. She wears a tight shining top. Her lower body is also covered by piece of shining cloth. Is that the
loin cloth
? Now she uncovers herself. She has a fine round breast, like two summer grapefruits. Her skin is a little dark, like she just coming back from sunny beach.

The peep hole close. I insert second pound. The light turns into red. Now her sex is bathed in redness. She lies down on round stage, which covered by red velvet. The stage is turning, slowly, smoothly.

I insert third pound. She is opening her legs. The legs of white jade. She smiles to everybody; even the place between her legs is smiling. Her garden is flirting with the world around it. She has a rosy garden, which two lips half opened like waiting for the kiss. I never saw other woman’s garden before. It shocks my eyes. I remember one day when you and me making love, you give me small mirror to reflect the place between my opening legs.

“That’s your clitoris,” you tell me.

“Liquorice?”

I found there my colour of my sex is brown. I never know the colour of my sex before.

I insert fourth pound. Now her hidden place is totally exposed, showing her secret landscape. Then her right hand caress her valley of the tenderness. Her long slim fingers, reaching her sex, are like a beautiful ballet dancer dancing in her garden. She fondles her valley, up and down, gently, and again and again. Two petals blossom in her wet garden. The petals are fresh like rose. Her bush is dark, like a fertile delta, a delta connecting to a secret path. She looks light heated. But her face disappears, only the desire talks to people.

I insert the fifth pound. Now she lays her back on the stage, raising her two legs high above. 
—Yin Dao: the tunnel of darkness, that is Chinese word to say vagina. Her tunnel of darkness is right in front me. Her secret tunnel, winding and curved, is like a maze. Inside of the tunnel is pink and juicy, like an open fig.

The peep hole close off again, and I insert into my last pound. She still there. Her naked body moving on the red velvet. What her name? What her life like? Is there man in her life or lots of mans? Where she from? Serbia? Croatia? Yugoslavia? Russia? Poland?

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
 
 
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.

heaven

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

romance

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?

Then, here, in new world far away from my home, here, under your fruit tree without flowers, you start sing a song, a famous song which I heard somewhere maybe in China before. You voice gentle and almost trembled.

Some say love it is a river

that drowns the tender reed

Some say love it is a razor

that leaves your soul to bleed

Some say love it is a hunger

an endless aching need

I say love it is a flower

and you its only seed

It’s the heart afraid of breaking

that never learns to dance

It’s the dream afraid of waking

that never takes the chance

It’s the one who won’t be taken

who cannot seem to give

And the soul afraid of dying

that never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely

and the road has been too long

Then you think that love is only

for the lucky and the strong

Just remember in the winter

far beneath the bitter snow

Lies the seed that with the sun’s

love in the spring becomes the rose

If people hears this song, and she doesn’t feel moved—then I think that people must not human.

I love you. And you know I love you. And you love me as well.

You tell me song is from Bette Midler—your favorite. You say you like the strong, rude women. You say all homosexual like Bette Midler, Mae West and Billie Holiday. But Billie Holiday not strong—she commit a suicide.

Two days after, you take me watch documentary films double bill. Two crazy women in one night.

Small cinema on Rupert Street. First one about Mae West, an extremely successful Hollywood star, always make audiences happy and laughing. She is a “No. 1” woman without any “competition” in the world, as she said to media. Sexy, always wearing shining jewellery, flirty, confidently. Even in her eighty-seven years old, she dressed a sexy white dazzling fur coat, and all around by young black bodyguards and cameras. And her face still very beautiful and young even in that age. She the tropical sun, nobody can be more brighter than her.

Second film is
Billie on Billie
, right after Mae West documentary. First scene in the film is Billie Holiday standing on the stage sadly singing, “Don’t talk about me…”—last appearance on TV before she died. She is a extremely sad face, hopeless expression. From the film I learned her struggled by her childhood, her prostitution mother, her sex abuse when she twelve years old, her drug and alcohol, her poor dignity being a black. Billie Holiday, she is not melancholy, she is hopeless.

“I always fear…” she says in the film. A strange fruit. I want leave the cinema to cry. I feel her pain in my heart. And later on when I think of Mae West again I find her story is so surreal, like fairy story comes from the moon…

I want become Mae West, be her courage, her bravery, her humour, her creativity, her challenging to the world. She live with admiration, rich, and confidence. Men all her slaves; men used by her. I want play that role. But is the reality I am nobody, not even painful Billie, I am just obscure nobody with name starts from Z. Maybe this
romance
with you put some weight into my life.