by Jessica Pan
Suddenly, it was a flashback to my Bruno freak-out. Total shutdown of all of the sexual buildup as sirens start ringing in my mind. I am not having sex without a condom.
With Bruno, it was just a broken condom—his intentions were still good! I shoved Ray away from me but tried to play down my panic because I didn’t want to completely lose the moment. I asked if he had a condom. He didn’t seem to like this.
I reminded him I’m young (unlike him) and therefore fertile. He still didn’t seem convinced. I had to finally firmly tell him NO—this was not going to happen without a condom, under any circumstances. And, as if on cue, he went completely, totally, limp.
He told me that condoms aren’t sexy. What does he want? A condom with a naked woman painted on it? Would that be more effective than an actual naked woman? This coming from the guy who, just last month, wrote a column about the importance of preventing the spread of HIV through sex education in China.
I wasn’t even freaking out at this point. I feel like I’ve seen movies where the guy loses his erection, and I always feel bad for the guy. I feel like it’s ingrained in women that, around lost erections, we must talk in hushed voices so that we don’t further scare the penis. We must protect the penis’s feelings at the cost of all other feelings. And whatever we do, we must not comment on it and just have to pretend like it never happened.
And, Rachel, I was still thinking, “Maybe we can work through this.” My mind kept coming up with solutions: Maybe we can both get tested for STDs and maybe I’ll go on the pill and then we can have sex without the vile, off-putting condom? Maybe he’ll change his mind. We’ll figure this out.
So I was cool and levelheaded as we kept lying in bed talking. I try to change the subject and begin asking about his life in Beijing before he met me. I casually ask him about the last person he dated and slept with. He says it was a Chinese woman. Fair enough. Our hands are intertwined. I ask, “When was that?”
“Last week.”
Last week! LAST WEEK! LAST FUCKING WEEK!
I met him a month ago. Three weeks ago we went out on our first date. Two weeks ago we were at a bar kissing while he ran his fingers through my hair! I thought he was crazy about me. I thought our waiting so long had built up sexual tension, and that he didn’t want to rush things with me because he was considerate. But no—he was just off having sex with someone else.
And yet he wanted to have sex with me without a condom! He doesn’t know any of my sexual history and he just assumed I would do this. He doesn’t even own a condom, which means he’s definitely not having protected sex with these other women.
I think my mouth actually dropped open. I felt the rage rising in me. Red-hot anger. My mind couldn’t even compute all the information. It was like a domino effect of terrible revelations.
1.REFUSES CONDOM
2.LOSES ERECTION
3.SLEEPS WITH OTHER WOMEN
4.SLEEPS WITH OTHER WOMEN WITHOUT CONDOM
5.IF I STAY HERE, I WILL BECOME PREGNANT WITH STD-RIDDEN BABY BY PHILANDERING OLD NON-BOYFRIEND
I didn’t know how to react outwardly, because I didn’t know if I had the right to be angry. We never said we were exclusive. The worst part is, I felt embarrassed, like I wasn’t good enough for him. This whole time, I’d been afraid I’d be one of those crazy girls he always bemoans who get so crazy and obsessed with him.
I totally get these girls now. They are not the problem. They are just like me.
I got up and got dressed. To my shock, this surprised him. He wanted to know when he could see me again. Despite my silence, he followed me out, because that’s what older men do. He tried to kiss me good-bye as I hailed a cab at a busy intersection, but I just stood there, arms straight by my side, frozen.
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.
I hate him, and I’m angry, but I’m also hurt. Unbelievably hurt.
And embarrassed. What was I doing with him? I’m twenty-three! Why am I wasting my youth on this scumbag? Never again.
I think I’m particularly bewildered and bitter about Ray because I used to have George. George, who adored me and loved me and would never ever hurt me.
I never thought a lost erection would be a godsend, but it was. It was sent by my guardian angel, the Erection Angel, coming down and preventing me from sleeping with Ray. I’m counting my limp blessings.
Ray was a mistake I would erase in a heartbeat, and I really can’t blame anyone but myself. I played an equal role in this and invited him into my life as I pretended to play some ingenue role that seemed interesting and fun.
I remember telling Victoria that I was young and I could make mistakes. And she said, “Make the wrong one and you’ll regret it forever.”
I’m going to try my best to never run into Ray, but the expat bubble in Beijing feels so small. We have so many people in common. I already feel like I know everybody here and so many of my good friends have already left. Maxwell’s gone, Astrid’s gone, Victoria’s gone.
The saying here is that if you stay in Beijing for three years, you’ll be here forever. I’m in year two.
I actually e-mailed a friend from my journalism class at Brown, asking him for advice about opportunities in New York, because I thought he might offer an escape route. He told me that he and a crew from our old class try to sneak into all the New York media parties and line up to pitch their ideas to editors. They have about a 2 percent success rate and most of them work in retail during the day. I guess I’m staying here for now.
I miss you.
Love,
Jess
OCTOBER 30
Rachel to Jess
I’m so disgusted by Ray. How many half-Ray babies do you think are wandering around China? It just seems like another one of his power games....He’s old, but he’s not that old. It’s not like condoms are a recent invention or something.
And WHAT THE FUCK? Last week?
I hate him. I wish there were something I could do to him from Paris that would totally fuck him up.
I think it is time to make the clean break with the past. This is the year we leave our Rays behind and put our plans into action.
My biggest news this week is that I had a response from my dad’s author friend Lee about my first chapter in the novel I sent him:
Rachel,
I am being pulled along by the language.
Please write and tell me what you dream for as a writer and a person
What kind of life you want
And send more
—Lee
I stared at his reply for a while before writing back.
I think the absolute truth is this:
“I am almost twenty-four years old and beyond a few glimmering out-of-reach hopes, I still don’t know what I want from life. I want to fall in love. I want to be happy, and while I’m still trying to figure out how, I know that it is contingent on writing.”
I also considered adding, “I would also like to someday be so talented that my name gets turned into an adjective (as in Kafkaesque. “That mermaid scene was so Kapelke-Dale-esque.”). Also, my book is translated into ALL the languages, and I get to be on the cover of Vogue, in which they Photoshop me to make me look fatter because I am too thin.”
I’m trying to get the courage to send this to him (just the first part?). What I really want to say is, “I’m so happy now, and I want to figure out how to keep growing without ruining this balance.”
All my love,
Rach
NOVEMBER 3
Jess to Rachel
Send Lee the second part too, and see if he can have it arranged.
I also don’t know how I would respond to his question about the kind of life we want. All I’m sure of right now is that I’m growing antsy. What would my name become if it were a literary device
someday? Maybe it will refer to when a character relocates to another country on a whim. “She pulled a Pan and we heard from her six months later when she wrote from a boat off the coast of Ecuador.”
I love Beijing but living here long-term isn’t feasible. I’ll never be completely fluent in the language. And there’s so much pollution. A ridiculously fast pace of life. So far from home. I can’t live here forever, but it doesn’t feel right to go somewhere else without a purpose. I’m ready for a new adventure. I still feel too young to stop exploring.
My dad wants me to come home to America. Instead of saying, “You must come home this instant,” he says, “I wish you’d come home. I miss you so much. You’ve been gone for so long.”
I have been gone for some time now. It’s hard to see my family only once or twice a year. I thought it would get easier as time passed, but it feels like as I get older, it makes me more sad. Sometimes I wake up in my apartment and really remember that most of my friends and family are more than six thousand miles away from me and I get a pang of loneliness.
It rarely lasts past noon, though. Work seems to help. I started a section in our magazine that gives free makeovers to moms. My plan to surreptitiously turn it into Glamour is slowly taking hold, although what do I do now that I can’t be promoted any higher at my magazine?
My parents don’t expect me to move back to Amarillo, but when they ask me to come to the United States for good, all I see is a vision of me ringing up customers at our local bookstore for the rest of my life. Whenever I’m back in Texas and someone finds out I live in China, they respond in one of two ways. Often, the person compliments me on the great missionary work I must be doing over here. Otherwise, they just ask, “But...why?” Lately, I’m beginning to ask myself the same thing.
The weather has turned very chilly in Beijing and they haven’t turned the heat on yet. They is the Chinese government. The heat here is controlled by the government! They pick an arbitrary day to just flip the heat switch on, and it can’t come soon enough. I’m sleeping in long underwear, sweatpants, a hoodie, and a beanie. I use a hair dryer to warm my frozen face in the morning.
Still, I might prefer this to senior year in our house, when you and Astrid waged shrill wars at 4 A.M. over the thermostat. It was so scary to lie in bed in the dark and hear voices in the hallway: “My sheets are colder than Norway right now!” followed by your shriek of, “It’s so hot in my room that my hair is curling! Go back to Norway!”
I wish the horoscopes in Glamour really did work so I’d know what to do next. If only it were as easy as getting back in touch with nature or taking a bubble bath.
Love,
Jess
Four Months Later
Four months followed, in which Jess toiled away at the magazine and Rachel watched a lot of bad French TV to master the language (and feel like she had friends in Paris). Many e-mails were exchanged, but mostly about our imaginary lives in Argentina, Spain, or Italy (Rachel) and India, Thailand, or Alaska (Jess).
MARCH 6
Rachel to Jess
Help! Two problems! How the hell do you get glitter out of your eyelashes and how do you get the scent of a gallon of cheap perfume out of leather? Or maybe I should be more concerned that my feet are covered in grime and dirt and God knows what else. I also reek of the stench of a thousand cigarettes.
It’s 3 P.M. and I just woke up like this.
Last night, I finally met up with Jacques, who used to live in New York with Platonic Nick. I met him in the eleventh district, where there are bars with red neon signs and students sitting drinking on steps. I was here once three years ago and remember this street as the place where Rosabelle threw up under a table and we were forcibly ejected from a bar.
When Jacques arrived at the bar, a blur of dark hair and cologne, he kissed me on both cheeks, with a big grin, and then ordered a glass of red wine for me and a pastis for him. Pastis is a disgusting licorice-flavored cloudy drink. Jacques and I spoke in French about how he used to live in New York, in Williamsburg. He loves New York, like every French person I meet does, but loves it in a totally overwhelming, “How could you think any place would be better?” kind of way. I think it is the way Americans think about Paris, and it’s weird to hear it from the other side.
We were two drinks in when somebody tapped on the glass behind me. I looked to see a group of people grinning and waving at Jacques, who gestured for them to come inside.
I stood up to kiss each of them on the cheeks, but I’m still getting used to this. It’s one kiss per cheek, but is it their left then their right, or no, my left, your right, or WHAT IS GOING ON? If you mess this ritual up, all hell breaks loose. And also, when there is a big group, you have to kiss everybody and it takes forever.
Finally, while I was pulling away from the last guy, Olivier, we locked eyes.
I know how this sounds, but I had never felt this sudden attraction for someone before. He has sandy-brown hair and light blue eyes, is about five ten, and has a dimple in his chin. I tried to look away, tried to distract myself, and tried not to have a look across my face that reads like my mind: “Hot Olivier, let’s ditch this crowd and go make out on a bench.”
We ordered a few more drinks and sat in the back, and I mostly listened and nodded. I ended up in a corner with a girl called Sasha, who is very tall and has dark flowing hair and a welcoming smile for everyone, even when she’s telling someone to fuck off. She was very direct and asked me what kinds of French guys I liked, and I kept trying not to point at Olivier and say, “Him.” Tall Sasha is dating Hipster Marc (this is the only way I can keep track of them), who has known Jacques and Olivier forever.
One of the girls invited us all back to her house, where her roommates were having a party. We left the bar and I fell into step with Olivier. He laughed hard when I tried to tell him that I missed my roommate in New York. Apparently, the expression I have been using for “roommate” has no real meaning in French, but roughly translates to “bedroom friend.” I have been using my made-up expression for years. Finally, those strange looks are explained.
According to Olivier, my French is enunciated just fine but is formal, extremely polite, and slightly antiquated in a way that makes his friends laugh (with me? At me. With me?). Apparently, I use outdated expressions, such as “companion” for “boyfriend” or “moving picture” for “movie.” Basically, in French, I am the little old lady who lives across from my courtyard.
By the time we arrived at the party, I’d had four drinks and was so overwhelmed by all the new French faces suddenly among me. Tall Sasha took my hands and pulled me over to the living room to dance, where thick smoke hovered over everything, and bubbles floated around randomly from a machine.
At one point, someone became too enthusiastic about a particular song and started spraying silly string and throwing handfuls of glitter. Some girl spilled an entire bottle of perfume on my purse, but I did not care. I was at my first party in six months.
At 5 A.M., the lights went on. Sasha and I were still halfheartedly jumping along to ’80s music among the bubbles that were now puddles of foam. It was over.
The Metro wouldn’t open for another half an hour, so we walked around the neighborhood just to kill time (I love that there is actually a French word for this walking with no purpose: flâner).
We all exchanged numbers, and when they all disappeared around a corner, I immediately double-checked that they were gone and took off my boots. My feet were killing me. They have four-inch heels, and I’d been dancing in them for hours.
I wandered home in my stocking feet as the sun rose and the alcohol was wearing off and my mind was clear. If you cycle down French boulevards or peer into bakeries at pyramids of macaroons or wander through the Rodin Gardens, but you cycle and you peer and you wander with no company but your own, were you ever in Paris at all?
I’ve been contemplating t
his for a while. I’ve been here long enough to watch autumn start to trail off into winter. I just kept going to my classes, taking my notes, and then walking across the bridge home and watching Notre Dame behind the veil of rain. There are days where I don’t speak to anyone, and others where I speak only to the baker down the road.
But after last night, Paris feels completely different to me. I was in a different world. I wonder if I’ll see Olivier again or if he will just disappear into oblivion for me. But Hipster Marc wants to meet me on Monday for a coffee break at the National Library, where we both have to do our research. I’m meeting Tall Sasha next week for a movie.
See? There is still life in me yet. I’m saying this as much to myself as to you. Last night, I was not an old grandmother, except when I took off my shoes, rubbed my feet, and thought, “Shit. Do I have bunions?”
I’m also still trying to write every day.
And I am, as always, waiting for my next dispatch from Beijing.
Love,
Rach
MARCH 15
Jess to Rachel
Hot Frenchmen? Fancy French cocktails? Dancing in bubbles?
Rachel! Quick! Let’s trade lives! Why have we not done this earlier? Don’t think too hard about it—just hop on a plane to China and you can ride in rickshaws and marvel at skyscrapers and eat duck pancakes with plum sauce. Meanwhile, I will pretend to be a film student in Paris, where I get to live in your loft apartment in Paris and chase around hot Frenchmen. You get to live in my Beijing apartment, where I’ll even let you shower over my toilet, and I’ll bravely eat one croissant per day from your local bakery in Le Marais, so that they don’t feel a sudden drop in croissant demand.
The only snag is that I don’t want to learn French. I’m barely managing with Mandarin. My brain has reached a saturation point of Mandarin words and is currently rejecting all new information. I also don’t have the heart to tell my Chinese teacher that I don’t want to learn the vocabulary for tea services and gift giving.
Paris sounds amazing. I can so easily imagine you wandering around Paris with Jacques and his friends, not knowing where the night will take you and feeling that around the next corner could be a stranger who will change your life.
