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From: "Neil Elias" <neil_elias@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Love for Sale<*> (MF rom?)
Date: Mon, 8 May 2000 01:10:10 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Love for Sale.txt" begin>
Every Sunday in Hong Kong, the local newspaper has a section called 'Trading
Post', where people advertise articles for sale. This advert caught my
attention, and I wondered what could have prompted such an unlikely
collection.
For sale - New phone/fax/answer-machine, small fridge, cd holder, candles, 2
pairs of new Nike shoes (Sz 9), misc kitchen supplies. Tel ----.
This story is an attempt to explain.
Copyright 2000, Wombat email: wombat_o@hotmail.com
LOVE FOR SALE
One good thing about being a student in Hong Kong instead of Britain - it
was warm. The sheer agony of getting out of a cosy bed in an ice-cold
morning for a nine o'clock class, which was my defining experience for three
long years at Leeds, was replaced by a balmy tropical awakening. Except for
that, getting up looked the same. I still (or again) lived in a bed-sitter,
only now real estate agents called them studio flats, with only a bed, a
brick-and-plank bookcase groaning under the weight of textbooks, an old desk
and chair, and a sort of toaster-oven-hotplate combination which sat on top
of a small microwave. Fortunately, cooking was not a priority. The easy
availability of rice and noodle dishes at ridiculously cheap prices meant my
culinary activities were restricted to boiled eggs and coffee. The room was
bare and it suited me.
In short, I was a typical student.
My move to Hong Kong came about almost by accident. With a good degree in
sociology, I had an offer to do graduate study at Leeds. My girlfriend was
also planning to stay on, so the offer looked like the obvious thing to do.
Then came a stormy break-up; my reaction was to go as far away as possible,
and when my application for a research fellowship at Hong Kong University
was successful, I accepted immediately.
In my first week I fell in love with Hong Kong. The harbour skyline, which
is seen in a million postcards, was only part of it. The islands and the
mountains, the greenery and beaches, were all unexpected pleasures. I found
accommodation on Lamma Island in a little two-storey house which allowed me
an easy stroll to the pier and a pleasant ferry ride to the main island. The
transformation from the calm of Lamma to the frenetic activity and crowds of
Hong Kong Island was my daily wake up, and the return journey at night was a
lovely, peaceful wrap up to the day.
In my second week, I fell in love with Melanie. I was partying with some
other expatriates in Lan Kwai Fong. This was a few months before the
handover of Hong Kong government back to China, and all the talk was of what
the future under Chinese rule would be, or even if we non-Chinese had a
future here. I was in with a crowd of British public servants, who were the
most unsure of their futures, and they responded by making every night a
party night. Make hay while the sun shines, and in Hong Kong at that time
the sun was shining mightily.
It was about ten o'clock when Melanie arrived, and I was immediately
captivated. She was striking rather than beautiful; she seemed always in
motion with restless, fidgety actions, and her face was lit up with
animation. From a distance she looked Chinese with her dense, jet black hair
which hung almost to her waist, but as she drew closer you noticed her green
eyes and full figure. She walked as if impatient to grasp whatever was ahead
of her. As she came to our table she was already speaking.
"We must go up the peak. You can't waste such a clear night down here. We'll
see all the way to China tonight. Come on."
She was moving again even before she finished speaking, and it obviously
never dawned on her that we might not want to follow. And such was her
personality that we all did.
There were six of us, so we needed two taxis. I was in the second one, and
my companions filled me in on the subject of Melanie. She was twenty four,
and had lived half her life in Hong Kong. Many comments were half admiring,
half warning.
"She speaks Cantonese like a native."
"-yeah, she swears like a native, too."
"Knows all the out-of-the-way places."
"-Knows some very strange people-"
"She's beautiful-"
"Yeah, like a tarantula."
She clearly generated strong opinions, and the more I heard the more I
wanted to know her. This was the mysterious East, after all, and what better
than a woman of mystery to help me experience it.
Up on the peak we crowded on to the viewing deck and looked in vain for
China. The haze of the day had persisted into the night, and while the sky
was clear the air was so misty we could scarcely see the harbour. Melanie
was not abashed.
"If you lot had moved more quickly we'd have avoided all this," she claimed
outrageously. "Now since you've ruined my view you can buy me supper at the
caf ."
Only three of us went to supper: Melanie, me, and a tall blond man called
Anthony who started every sentence with "well, actually", and sounded more
English than the queen. Melanie did not like him. She made this evident by
talking exclusively to me and speaking over him every time he started a
sentence. After a while he got up and tentatively said he must go. Melanie
simply ignored him, and he slowly, embarrassedly slunk away.
When he had gone she said,
"thank goodness for that. I thought he'd never take the hint."
"It was hard to miss," I said. "More of a sledgehammer than a hint."
"It has to be with Anthony," she said. "We used to be lovers and he just
won't let go."
"I don't blame him," I said daringly. "If you were my lover I wouldn't want
to let you go."
Melanie looked at me appraisingly. "Do you want to find out? You could
invite me back for a nightcap."
I stared, not knowing if she meant it or it was some sort of joke. Later I
found out that Melanie never joked, just as she never hinted. But at that
time, I did not know how to play it. I went for a light touch.
"Maybe I should buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate my good fortune."
"You'd better believe it," she replied, "but make it brandy. It goes down
better at this time of night."
She motioned the waiter and said something in Cantonese. He went away and
returned with the check, and she passed it to me without glancing at it.
Before I had paid she was up and off, and within minutes we were standing at
the stern of the ferry watching the wake sparkle behind us. The trip to
Lamma seemed to take forever.
When we reached my apartment she was not impressed.
"This is about as cosy as a prison cell," she said when I turned on the
light. "Can't you tone down the brightness a little and put on some music?"
"No," I said, "no music and there's only that one light. I'm sorry."
"You're going to have to do something about that before next time," she
said, taking off her scarf and draping it loosely over the bare light. "For
this time I'll settle for good brandy, a comfortable bed, and you being good
enough to make it worthwhile."
It was warm, and the brandy was good. When we turned out the light the
darkness was intense, and we felt our way to the bed, shedding clothes along
the way. There is something magic about sex in the dark: the senses of touch
and taste seem magnified to make up for the lack of seeing. I ran my hands
over smooth skin, the curves of breast and belly, and the firmness of her
legs. I licked at her nipples, which hardened in my mouth, and I sucked
hungrily her lips and tongue. Darkness released inhibitions in ways I had
not expected. We slipped into a sixty-nine position and I found myself
grabbing her head and forcing my cock deeper in her mouth. Melanie was
guiding my head between her cunt and her ass, dragging my face between them
and pulling it hard against her.
Suddenly Melanie sat up, and I saw her silhouetted against the window, slim
and voluptuous. She moved astride me, sitting on my chest and slowly sliding
down my body until she reached my cock. She reached down and guided me
inside her. As a lover, Melanie was breathtaking: aggressive and passive by
turns, sometimes riding me fiercely and strongly, and other times nestling
in my arms. The way she made love invigorated me rather than drained me,
and when I finally fell asleep hours later I was hopelessly enthralled.
In the morning there was no gentle awakening. Melanie was in a bad mood,
complaining about the instant coffee, the lack of healthy foods, and the
spartan bathroom. When I put my arms around her she pushed me away and said
we needed to go to work. On the ferry she was equally abrupt, and so it was
a real surprise when, at Central, she said,
"aren't you going to ask me over again? I thought last night was worth a
repeat. Didn't you?"
"I'd love to, of course," I stammered. "Tonight?"
"No," she said, "make it tomorrow. And in the meantime do something about
your music and that lighting."
"Of course," I said. "Shall I buy you dinner?"
"Seven o'clock at the Peking Garden," she smiled, and kissed me lightly on
the cheek.
Continued part 2
<1st attachment end>
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