Rules for Virgins

by Amy Tan

  My own fault lay in accepting something less. You are lucky you can benefit from my mistakes.

  * * *

  The Illusions

  The illusion of romance depends on a man’s willingness to believe, and his willingness comes from thwarted desires. All of your illusions should lead to one thing: to make him fall in love with you. If he does, time will stand still when he is with you. He will fancy himself immortal and be willing to give up his worldly goods for you.

  A few men may wish for special illusions. I call one the Illusion of Tragic Love. Remember the songs I said you should learn? The one about maidens who died young? You might take on the role of a girl he grieves for, someone to whom he secretly pledged his love. You will become that girl and either allow him to fulfill the pledge or be released from it. He may even ask you to perform the role of the cousin who dies in A Dream of Red Mansions or that of the lover of the scholar in the opera White Snake. A real weeper. This will require flowing robes for a costume, more white powder on the face for a ghostly effect. You should memorize scenes from the novel and master expressions of betrayal and forgiveness. It’s harder than you think. You don’t want to look murderous or like a fool. But if you master the look of tragedy, you can make a fortune. If you have truly lost someone, as I have, you will not need to pretend. You simply remember. Someday I will tell you all about him. I can’t ever speak of him without having tears from my heart flood out from my eyes.

  The most common request from suitors is the Illusion of the Noble Maiden. The man wants you to put on the same airs of a nobleman’s daughter, whom he can woo into bawdy adventure, and without the meddling of a gabby mother-in-law. To achieve the Noble Maiden role, you wear clothes that are rich and dramatic, refined yet also a little daring. Perhaps the undergarments are skimpy and shocking red.

  Some courtesans are asked to play what we call the Illusion of the Night Scholar. A little kohl to darken the eyebrows, the Ming hat of a philosopher, long robes. If he wants a warrior, the hair is oiled, parted on two sides, combed over the forehead, and knotted tightly at the back. Everyone says that it’s become the fashion now, and all because of that courtesan who calls herself the Genuine Confucian Scholar. Ha! Such a clever slap in the face to real Confucians. When she sings at the storytelling halls, she damns those Confucian men who claim it’s tradition to fuck their maids whenever they want. You know what happened to me, so I admire her for that. Although maybe she says this only to be shocking. What else can she do at her age to call attention to herself? She must be at least thirty-five. I am not criticizing her antics. I admire her ingenuity. I say this even though she once stood up in her carriage and cursed me as I was going by in mine. She said I’d spread gossip about her. And I cursed her back, because the rumors were all true. Everyone knew she was cheating on two patrons at the same time. She jumped out of her carriage, and who knows what she would have done if two courtesans and their suitors had not held her back. She’s vile-tempered, but that certainly has not hurt her success one bit. Maybe she caused a scene to get more attention in the press. Practically every day there are stories about her in the tabloids. Everyone says she’s one of the genius courtesans, but it’s ridiculous that she masks her age by dressing as a man. I don’t need to do that. Without trying, at thirty-three, I still look younger than my years. My pudendum is still firm like a young girl’s, not droopy at all despite years of experience. Several lovers have told me so.

  Because of that old courtesan, the Night Scholar illusion has become quite popular these days, even in a few first-class houses. I don’t know if the courtesans here do that. But it used to be done only in the second-class houses. That’s what the old bustard allowed in the Hall of Tranquillity. The customer asked her for the Night Scholar, and she called the courtesan who was known for performing the role with some enthusiasm. A lot of that enthusiasm came from being older and having a last chance to make some good money. The customers piled on the gifts for a few days, and the gates to heaven opened. When I reached thirty, I became the Night Scholar most often requested, even though I look nothing like a man. There’s no shame when you do it in your own boudoir. I didn’t boast in the storytelling halls like desperate old you-know-who.

  The old bustard also came up with another specialty to draw more business: Two Scholars. I played one of them, and whoever was not so busy played the other. The customers did the usual wooing, but with two beauties. One of us would complain, “Hey, I do all the work. Why should she get the same amount?” Then the other of us made the same complaint. That’s how we both cooperated to get more money. But we made it worth it to the man. He would enter the boudoir, quaking and close to bursting, when he saw two stern Confucian scholars. I held the ropes while the other wore a girdle with an ivory stem. I threw him silky undergarments to put on and called him a wife-whore. While he dressed, we sat at the tea table with legs crossed, smoking Western cigars. We commanded that he put on a headband, that he powder his face and rouge his lips. Oyo! What an ugly courtesan he made. Still, we flattered his prettiness, his youth, and called him “Little Pink Lotus.” He had to call us “Lord Scholars,” and I would bind him seated in the chair with his legs dangling over the arms, the usual position, nothing that special. He cried and begged, but alas, it was no use, and the other beauty crossed the threshold with the ivory stem. Where, you ask? How can you be so stupid? Where else would a stem go into a man? In his little pink lotus!

  For the very generous ones, we let him rest a bit and then brought out another stem, and he now had to call us “Master Teachers.” I would wear the ivory stem this time. For the extremely generous ones, there was a third stem, usually called “Uncle” or “Brother.” That was the request. Family was always last, the most exciting.

  Some men just liked a little variety. Others were homosexuals who pretended they were not, to hide their true nature from other businessmen. They didn’t realize that some of those businessmen had the same secret. We were very discreet. We knew who fucked the pretty opera singers, because some of those singers were our lovers. The singers didn’t enjoy it, but they did it for the money, that’s all. Toward the end of my time at the Hall of Tranquillity, I had one old man who liked to use the ivory stem both ways. That’s the kind of customer a madam in a second-class house will take. I had to wear the Night Scholar clothes and apply Heavenly Showers ointment to get the man’s ancient warrior to stand up. And because he quickly burst, he wanted to draw things out by using the stem on me. He gave me an extra gift, but I still didn’t like it. Those fake stems never grow soft. It was too much work.

  The only reason I am telling you this is so you will be prepared if a man asks for these things. If you know what they want, you won’t be tempted by offers of extra money once they are inside your boudoir. I don’t want you to play the role of a man. You are first-class. Your reputation is still that of a young beauty. Maybe the Genuine Confucian Scholar does that. Ha. She’s probably crazy for it. But if a man hints that he wishes to wear your robes or he brings out an ivory stem on a girdle, you should go behind the screen and ring the chimes for me. Those customers know they are supposed to make those requests to the attendants ahead of time. I will politely tell him the Night Scholar is not available but that his teacher can take care of whatever lessons he needs. If he’s urgent, he’ll accept my offer. I won’t mind doing this from time to time. A lot of the attendants who were once courtesans do the specialties no one else wants to do. I still have a girdle and different-size stems in my trunk. The bigger the tip, the bigger the stem—that’s how it usually goes. Too bad I never had a big talent for playing the Scholar. I was not genuinely enthusiastic.

  On occasion, we have clients who wish to receive instruction. Most are inexperienced. Formerly devout monks, young boys whose fathers are clients of ours, or customers who wish to learn the skills of an expert lover to woo another man’s wife. If you come across these men, let me know. In fact, the initiation of young boys was a specialty of mine in my later y
ears, and many of my former suitors would ask for me especially when they brought their sons. I am always moved to tears when these same young boys come back as grown men and say to me, “Magic Gourd, because of you, my wife and concubines are content.” Often they ask for a lesson, just for old times’ sake. So you should let me take care of any client like this. They are not as choosy about how old the courtesan is. What matters to them is gaining knowledge that will last a lifetime.

  Whatever any man requests, you should never degrade him for his desires, nor should you accept being degraded. If he’s drunk and pisses on you, ring the chimes and I will come and remove him from your room. Don’t accept extra money to let him do these things. You know what happens to a woman who lets herself be degraded? She winds up with a pimp and lies on the floor of a chophouse, where rickshaw pullers and laborers fuck her, one after another, a hundred a day. She never has a chance to close her legs or her mouth until she’s pounded into raw meat and dies. I’ve always wondered why those women don’t kill themselves. Maybe they think it’s their fate and if they endure it they will have a better life in the next. I would rather kill myself and return as a fly.

  * * *

  Fashion

  Don’t let yourself become too thin. No man likes bony limbs poking them. And it’s bad business if a suitor accidentally snaps a girl’s ribs. Just before you came to the Hall of Tranquillity, that happened to one beauty. She screamed so loud that the madam, the attendant, and two menservants ran into the room, thinking the man was killing her. The servants flung the naked man onto the streets. The old bustard learned he was an official who determined the fees for business licenses. This did not end favorably for anyone.

  A fat courtesan holds no appeal, either. It limits what positions she can do without breaking the man’s stem in two. Right now, you have a good shape. I think your breasts might grow to be a little larger than ideal. Large breasts were not attractive when I started my career, and those who had them would bind them up. But these days, younger men find large breasts lurid and exciting. It’s the influence of pornographic Western postcards. I still think that large flopping breasts belong on a wet nurse. Don’t do anything to grow them on purpose.

  When it comes to clothes, everything about you should convey that you are a high-ranking courtesan. The best clothes should be worn in public—on carriage rides, in restaurants, at the theater. Your jacket will be so tight, everyone can see your shapeliness. The skirt will be well-fitted so that no imagination is needed to see the curves of your rump. There will be shocking Western details: buttons instead of clasps, frills and pleats. Or it could be men’s trousers, or a Western skirt. This is where you must use your imagination. As you ride around in a carriage with your suitor, think of yourself as being on stage, like an actress. All eyes are on you. Your suitors and patrons are proud to show you off. It gives them face. They enjoy seeing envy in other men.

  You’ll have to share the carriage at times with another courtesan, and I’ll do my best to avoid pairing you with a beauty who might draw more attention. You are not the loveliest of the flowers, not yet, and who knows if you ever will be. And with carriage rides, loveliness and fashionable clothes are what the public will see, rather than intimate skills of enchantment. So other means are needed to attract attention when you are in public.

  I have several ideas we will use over the coming months. And we’ll have to keep them a secret lest the other beauties steal them. First, I am having the tailor make a costume in the colors of the imperial family. We’ve used golden yellow in the past, but only with underwear, and for many men, this alone sent them into paroxysms of clouds and rain. Now that the emperor is gone, what laws forbid us from wearing any color, and anywhere that pleases us? Imagine what an imperial yellow jacket and kingfisher blue pantalets will do to a suitor and to every loyalist who sees you in public. We’ll have costumes made in imperial violet, the exact shade. I am hoping we are the first to flaunt these colors. What a story that will make for the mosquito press: the courtesan Violet wearing violet clothes!

  I’ve also been mulling over getting you a European hat. I saw one that was quite outlandish. It was the size of a seat cushion and had a fan of baby ostrich feathers on top, dyed violet. You’d be visible from blocks away, and with the color being the same as your name, you would be the talk of the tabloids every time you wore it. It’s an expensive hat, so I may see if I can have it copied. Then again, if we wait, we run the risk that another courtesan will buy the hat and wear it first, and you can’t be seen imitating another courtesan. That would be reported in the tabloids.

  The clothes at dinner parties will depend on the host and the other courtesans there. As I said, you cannot outdazzle Vermillion. But for a party in your honor, you must wear your best evening costumes. The weave of the cloth has become the fashion. It is always a pattern that only the most skilled of craftsmen can make. We’ll have to wait a bit before we can afford the one I have in mind. It looks like layers of petals. Clothes made out of fabrics like that will cost you a month’s worth of earnings at least. Never eat anything at the party. A grease stain will ruin an outfit, and that would be a costly bit of greed. Some beauties have embroidered a flowery pattern to cover a stain, but everyone knows why a branch of plum blossoms suddenly sprouts over the breasts.

  In winter, the silk must be thick and as lustrous as a pearl. The collar looks best when lined with Russian shaved white fox or chinchilla. But rabbit will do the first year. In the summer, the top layer of silk weave will be delicate, tissue thin, and of a perfectly even weft, light but also crisp. You don’t want to look wilted. Every detail must be perfect, from the clasp at the throat to the frills at the hem.

  Women on the streets will envy and admire your clothes for their clever details. You’ll enjoy seeing that. For many young girls, a glimpse of you will provide the greatest excitement of their lives. They’ll be talking about you until they go to their graves. Rich young girls will take note as we pass by in carriages and run to the tailors we use and ask for a costume just like that worn by the famous courtesan Violet. It is annoying that rich girls imitate us, but it is also flattery. If many girls from rich families copy your fashions, this will raise your status. Men are not the only ones who make us popular. Look at those who are the Top Ten Beauties each year. Are they the most beautiful? No. They are the ones who understand human nature, that of men and women both. They know how to attract attention and envy and bend it to their advantage.

  Don’t be surprised if a few wives pay you handsomely to visit your boudoir—to see your wardrobe, your makeup, and even to learn the unusual positions their husbands enjoy. Show them. They think it is only about coupling, rather than prolonged courtship and the engorged pleasure of two lovers in conspiracy. They can no longer be courted. Their husbands make demands and they comply. So you need not worry that you are giving away your secrets and your patrons will become so satisfied with their wives that they never pay you a visit. But be sure you charge those wives a lot, at least five dollars.

  Remember that envy is one of mankind’s greatest flaws. It leads to recklessness by the one who envies and possessiveness by the one who has you by his side. You can use one suitor to increase the ardor of another. Beware not to do this between brothers or with friends who are like brothers, though. If they have a falling-out, people will say that you were so strong a plow cow you pulled two brothers apart.

  After you’ve been to a few parties here and at other houses, you will understand more about envy among courtesans. You may have seen it at your mother’s house. You will feel it bite you. Envy is a poisonous snake around your ankle. You may hate your competitor or your suitor. You may want to destroy her, him, and yourself. Take note of these feelings. Another courtesan may feel this way about you and will do everything to cause your downfall. But if you inspire envy from everyone, a strange thing happens. That envy eventually turns into respect, an acknowledgment of your superiority. Do not flaunt your victories, however. Your ri
vals may envy you one day and cheer your demise the next.

  That reminds me: We must have a souvenir photograph made and decide on a nickname to set you apart from others.

  If we don’t choose one ourselves, people will give you one without asking. I already heard one of the other courtesans call you “the White Day Lily.” A lot of virgins are called by that sweet name. But you don’t want to be stuck with it forever or you’ll be the butt of jokes—“No longer so white,” that sort of thing. The nickname must be unique. I know of beauties who compared themselves to birds. “The Voice of a Sparrow.” One girl chose that, even though she had a harsh voice. Besides, sparrows are so common and noisy with their chitter-chitter-chirp-chirp in the morning. Another girl I knew chose the description “As Classic As a Weeping Willow.” I think she chose it because the painted backdrop in the photo studio showed a willow and a lake. What’s so special about that? “Weeping Willow”—someone who is wooden and weeps until her eyes are red and as big as eggs? These are not traits that men cherish. I’m thinking yours might be “A Waterfall Dream.” It sounds good. A man can picture it: falling in love, swept away, torrential love. Something like that. We can come up with the exact meaning later when I decide who you really are.

  You are young and inexperienced, Violet. No one will envy anything about you today. The beauties are much lovelier and trickier than you. So don’t try to compete. Just observe. Few girls receive the kind of advice I am giving you. They learn it later, as I did, through agonizing mistakes. They thought beauty, poetry, and a sweet voice would last forever. They depended on it. They did not realize that what matters the most is a mix of strategy, cunning, honesty, patience, and readiness to grab every opportunity. Above all, a girl must always be willing to do what is necessary.