Beware The White Devil

The floorboards hummed, the walls vibrated, the building rumbled. The epicentre of this eruption: the apartment's lone bedroom. I crouched, placed my ear on the wooden door. The female shrieked, yelped, and let out a succession of high-pitched elongated moans, "Aiiii, ohhhh," all delivered with – detectable without actual words used – a clear Asian accent. It was her, undeniably her, the woman I called 'Mom.' As for the one who drew out the sounds, the elicitor, he made only a few noises; an occasional grunt, a ragged exhale, a small shift of his frame like a whip cracking the air. That was Mike, the white man, the owner of the store downstairs and the apartment above it, unloading himself into his tenant.

This union came as a surprise.

Before this moment, I'd not seen them so much as hug, their contact limited to handshakes. Oh, Mike and Cathy

were

friendly towards one another, but only in a professional capacity, 'thank you' the most affectionate words they shared. Now, when I look back at those old tapes, pause, rewind and zoom, I could see that there

were

subtle signs which seemed innocuous at the time but now hint at the direction their relationship was going in. What I remember most was their lack of personal space, Mike and Cathy frequently standing very close to one another. When they'd look over their financial books, he'd be right by her side, her elbows brushing into his sides, her shoulders in constant – yet light – contact with his pectorals. Their intimacy was expressed further by how they spoke almost exclusively in soft hushed tones. What they said was not particularly salacious – "Profits could rise here," he'd say.

"Yes," she'd reply. "Especially if you focus on the cost of rent" – yet

how

they said it, the tone of voice, made it all sound like pillow talk. So, when I came home at 8pm, saw them standing by the shop counter, looking over the books, talking in hushed tones, nothing was amiss. I waved, said hello, went to my room/the living area, went to my designated sleeping spot, the couch, and crashed out.

After an indeterminate amount of time, I heard sounds that were previously confined to well-worn VHS cassettes. After confirming to myself this was not a dream, I tried to wrap my fuzzy mind around what was going on. How... how did a business meeting end like this? Shouldn't they have been dating, kissing, holding hands before progressing to full-on sex? How did they skip over so many steps? As a westernized kid reared on romantic movie tropes, this was all so very odd. Wrong. Then I looked at it in

a different way

. The anti- and 'ist -way.

The logical path.

Mike stayed late and was hungry. Cathy made dinner for him and herself. It was late, so she offered him the bed. That bed contained her and her promise to give him comfort. Simple. Woman rewards Man. But... why would

Mom

do something like that? A proud strong woman giving her body – herself – as a show of appreciation? As my liberal pal Christy would put it, it's all so

medieval

, so against a woman's right, a slap to all the suffragettes. Society might deny it, but I knew I'd stumbled onto the right answer. If you took away all the PC hoopla, Cathy and Mike's midnight dalliance made all the sense in the world:

He's a white man and she's an available Asian woman. The question is not why, it's why

not

.

*

My name is Drew, and at the time of this story I was 18. Soon after starting college, I got a part-time job at Cathy's small convenience store, stacking shelves and working on the till. 40-but-could-pass-for-younger Cathy had cropped jet black hair, a petite shape, smooth skin, and stark Asian facial features: high cheekbones and narrow cat-like eyes. She'd lived in Pembroke, New Hampshire for over a decade and had acclimated well to her surroundings, to the point the former Xue Chen was known only by the name the local (white) ladies had given her.

To those she only spoke English to, Cathy seemed like a docile, friendly woman, but she was actually quite the task master. While she never raised her voice, she also never gave suggestions or requests, just orders. Overly demanding for some, sure, but I saw it as productive parenting, her attempt to instil the importance of hard work. Because she never had kids, she saw me as a son, and like any good mother, she did care about my wellbeing, giving me extra breaks when she saw I needed them and ordering me to sleep on the couch when I was showing signs of being worn out. Many times I stayed the night at her place, and when she discovered how much the dorm cost, she ordered me to move into the apartment above the shop. It might seem like an odd setup, a college student wilfully giving up his freedom.

Under Cathy's supervision, I knew I would be lambasted for staying out too late, going to parties, not studying and blowing off classes – and that was fine by me as I had no interest in any of those activities.

The shop itself was pretty easy to maintain. It was tiny, one narrow lane just wide enough to fit an average male, the walls stacked with newspapers, magazines and confectionery, the shop floor ending at the counter. Working at the shop fit into my schedule as I could put my books on the counter and do my essays during my shifts. I didn't pay rent or make a wage, though I was given 'pocket money', which was about $10 per week. All my meals were provided by Cathy. I'd regressed back into childhood – and I couldn't be happier. I was the son and Cathy was 'Mom,' and that became her nickname, to the point it stuck.

As noted, Cathy was the lone Asian in Pembroke, which made it all the more surprising to see how embraced she was by the majority. The overwhelmingly 99% white majority. When I moved in, many of the locals assumed I was her nephew or some distant relation from her homeland. Many times, the locals would gawp when I answered them in a voice not too dissimilar to their own. This kind of casual racism was rampant in Pembroke – but neither Cathy nor I was ever offended by it, the comments and assumptions coming from a good place.

Today, Cathy's social circle would be lambasted by those of a PC mindset, the ladies frequently dropping such lines as, "Your people are so compact. Your skin doesn't wrinkle up, does it? Wow! If only I had the stomach for an eastern diet." I come from a very segregated neighbourhood, a place where Asian and white interactions were minimal, brief, professional, primarily with a doctor, a teacher or a lawyer, and only if you couldn't find an Asian (preferably Chinese). In Pembroke, there were actual social interactions between Chinese and whites, primarily between the white women and Cathy, Cathy a good sounding board for the white women's rants on their husbands and kids. Cathy and the white women, those scenes were heart-warming Benetton ads. Her interactions with white

men

? Those made me feel... tingly.

"Morning, sweetheart," a bald weathered white man said to her, and I actually turned away from stacking the shelves to see her reaction.

She smiled, said, "Hello, Gary," and he paid for his paper, and off he went.

I was flabbergasted. As odd as it sounds, this mildly flirtatious encounter between an Asian woman and an white man astounded me. And Greg was only the first. A series of white men, Phil, Don, Matt, Steve, came in daily and gave Cathy similar plaudits.

"Hi, hun."

"Hi, darling."

"Hello,

beautiful

."

And to make her feel special, they localized their greetings. "China doll." "Eastern promise." "Feisty tiger." Conventional 'wisdom' would make one think Cathy was offended by these racially-tinged compliments, but what was a massive institutional problem for some were just mildly flirtatious encounters for the participants.

And a few times, I'd wondered if Gary/Matt/Phil thought of Cathy in

that

way. Did these white men picture Cathy's face when they had their bi-weekly ejaculations in their white wives? Were they aroused by her small, perky breasts? Did they have vivid fantasies of being inside her, encouraged by the urban legends, by the oriental's impossibly tight vaginas and their natural inclination to more exotic sex acts? I admit, the idea of Cathy, my Chinese mom, being with a white man excited me.

Yes, that particular pairing has become very common, to the point that if I were to spot an attractive Asian woman, I'd automatically assume she was with the white guy, but in 1993, the idea of a Chinese woman mating with one of

them

, the huge men who own everything and live in big houses, was a huge deal. So much so, it was consigned to being a daydream. Yet, even with almost two decades of xenophobic ideals drilled into me, I still saw the

possibility

of her leaping over that great wall. For one, she got on well with the pale ones, better than any other Asian I'd met, and, secondly, and more importantly, she shared their world view. Take the following example:

A minor councilwoman kicked up a fuss when the mayor called her "darling." Cathy hissed and spat out this response: "Stupid woman. Where I'm from, what were my pet names? 'You', 'her,' 'go.' I come here, I'm 'beautiful,' 'gorgeous,' 'sweetie.' Why would any woman be offended? We women, we aim to be pretty. We want men to see us. Am I right?"

"Amen, sister," said Linda or Cindy or Maxine or another blonde big-haired blue-eyed white woman.

Beyond establishing her conservative leanings, Cathy also made something else clear: she

rooted

for the white man.

***

Asking Cathy why she was single would have been extremely intrusive and very disrespectful, so the topic was never broached. The ladies of Pembroke often made mention of Cathy's single status, sighing, twirling their blonde curls and saying lines to the effect of, 'You really deserve a good man.' A good man, yet they never recommended Scott, Chris, David or any of the other eligible white bachelors. It makes me wonder, just how did they expect Cathy to rectify her single status? Did they foresee a day when a Chinese man's car would breakdown outside the tiny newsagents, the man going inside to make a call to Shanghai AAA and immediately smitten with the soft flower manning the counter? A very unlikely scenario and, after hearing Cathy repeatedly berate China and defend the red,

white

, and blue, an undesirable one too.

Thankfully, a man of European descent was ready, but he did not jump over that wall, oh no, instead he walked through it and let those on the other side know it is made out of paper. His name was Mike Kessler, though I never called him Mike, Michael or Mr. Kessler. To me, he was just 'sir.' To Cathy, he was

The Man

.

Mike was the owner of the building and store, Cathy the manager and tenant and trusted fully with the day-to-day running of the shop. The first four months after I moved in, Mike only showed up sporadically. Then, Mike's partner cashed out and the four stores they co-owned had all gone into Mike's hands. To lessen his workload, Cathy was appointed as Mike's second-in-command, the store becoming their base of operations.

Mike would primarily arrive on weekend mornings and weekday evenings, holding a thick set of ledgers under his arm, his shoulders so wide he had to shuffle in sideways. Most the men in town were big compared to me (5'6) and Cathy (5'2), but Micheal was especially so, 6'4 and a heavy but solid 280lb. Mike was at least 10 years older than Cathy, with a lined weathered face, bald on top, grey at sides, and coming across like a typical boss archetype would: all business, cordial but not overly friendly, attire simple, slacks, dress shirts. When Mike came to the store, he and Cathy would either work at the store's counter or go to the only room with a table, the tiny kitchen. Nothing seemed amiss, no obvious preludes to intercourse, yet, again, when I look back, it seems so clear. The way they spoke, it was almost-always whispery, soft. Intimate. Neither shied from close confines, sharing the snug, humid, unventilated kitchen space, breathing each other's air (and BO) on a regular basis. I remember coming home on weekday evenings and seeing Cathy and Michael by the counter, heads down, looking over some figures, whispering, the two so close, Cathy's elbow would brush Mike's hip.

And then they had sex.

As suddenly as that, it happened. I came home from the library on a Friday evening, bone-tired, weary. At the counter, Cathy and Mike were sorting through a stack of yellow and pink papers.

"You look tired," Cathy said in English. "You go eat and then go bed."

"Yes, Mom," I said.

Without looking up from his papers, Mike spoke up. "You get what you needed, son?" Mike's voice was deep, commanding, shifted my posture from slouching to straight as an arrow.

"Yes, sir." I went on to explain how so-and-so's theory really adds to my essay.

"Hmm, good work, son," he looked at me. I shuddered. He reached his long arm out and patted my back. "Keep it up," he said with a small thin tug at the corner of his lips.

"Thank you, sir," I replied. On jelly legs, I went upstairs, into the kitchen, reheated my small bowl of rice and chicken, took it to the living area, ate, and fell asleep, warmed by my blanket and the good feelings.

In the fog between sleeping and waking, my mind narrowed the sounds down to three possible scenarios: earthquake, murder, and the end of the world. Seconds later and fully awake, my porn memory bank booted up and let me know exactly what those sounds were....

Without much thought, I walked into the hallway and stood a few feet away from the door. Before I could think about jerking off, I'd put my hand down my pants, buckled my knees, soaked my underpants. Their passion, their heat, was real, tangible, almost a physical thing. And it wasn't stopping.

I stood there for close to ninety minutes, jacking myself off and thinking with each of my orgasms, 'Wow, this has to stop,' and it didn't. Cathy's pitch went up, up, up, then mellowed out, got to a steady moan and groan, and then, right on schedule, her decibel levels rose, growing louder, louder, louder, yes, yes, yes...

yes

!, and cue the content heavy breathing, the brief pause before the festivities restarted. On that, their first night together, Mike and Cathy started when it was pitch dark and their intense interracial loving lasted until the sky was powder blue.

*

The morning after, in many ways, was more surprising.

I awoke at 11am, drained, weary, my tiny penis shrivelled, aged a hundred years. Summoned by the sizzle of the wok, I got dressed, and as soon as I stepped out into the hallway, I could smell

him

. I sauntered into the kitchen, and stepped back when I saw the huge half-naked savage. Seeing Mike, I was reminded of an old, common piece of advice: 'to make someone less intimidating, picture them in their underwear.' That tactic was ineffective against this white man. Clad only in his plain grey boxer shorts, Mike was

only more

imposing, more fearsome. When he turned his head to glance at me, I shuddered.

"Morning, son," he said.

"Morning," I replied.

Past Mike's mountainous back, I spotted Cathy at the stove, wearing a slim, shiny robe. I blushed, seeing right away that Cathy was nude underneath that garment, her nipples protruding through the silk, her legs and feet bare. I stood in the doorway, waiting silently for my chicken stir-fry. I kept my eyes on my feet, feeling it would be rude to stare at my surrogate mother's supple frame, and while looking at him would not be as much as an affront, I didn't want to catch Mike's eye either, afraid he'd tear me in two.

*

I can't remember exactly when Mike moved in with us. Rather, he established his residency, staying for longer and longer periods of time till he just spent every night with us. The reason why Mike moved into our cramped apartment was pretty simple: Cathy. From a purely business perspective, it made sense to stay close to the one most integral to his business, the oriental lady who crunched the numbers. But Cathy's talents went beyond just mere book keeping; she catered to all of Mike's physical and emotional needs too, keeping him well-fed and allowing him direct access to her bodily orifices.

Mike and Cathy were a happy couple and their union didn't require much analysis... but when I looked into just one little aspect of this coupling, I'd keep digging and digging, going deeper and deeper, finding myself looking beyond the micro and into the macro. The macro being, of course, the interracial aspect, and not just relating to him and her but to him and I and her and me and him.

I knew the key difference between Mike and us as soon as I met him: he was white and we were Asian. What that meant was only

really

experienced when he spent more time with us, time which shone a bright strobe light on the stark differences.

First noticeable trait: his size. Mike was a full foot taller than Cathy and I. In terms of width, the couch helped calculate that; Cathy and I could sit comfortably on it together, a good 10 inches between us... but, when it was Cathy and Mike? Mike would take up the bulk of the space, Cathy curled into him, her slender leg over his tree-trunk thigh, her arm over his barrel chest.

His

bare

barrel chest. Pretty soon after he moved in, Mike almost-exclusively paraded around the apartment in his boxers, and that exposure

really

highlighted the difference between him and us – me, in particular. Me, the hairless babe and him, who had coarse thick grey-and-black hairs over the majority of his body, the follicles thick and heavy on his forearms, going down to his knuckles, his legs, to his back, coagulating into a nest on his chest, and, the most impressive area of growth, the thick matted knot which consistently poked out of the top of his shorts. As you could imagine with all that body hair, Mike had a smell, and that smell travelled

and

lingered for

hours

. It wasn't a foul stench, more a deep musk, a thick scent that sticks in your throat, like burnt oak or cedar.

Over time, I felt the word 'different' didn't quite describe Mike in comparison to Cathy and I and soon words like 'better,' 'greater,' 'stronger,' and even 'superior' became more apt. Strong Mike, who had to duck under doorways we could pass right through. Superior Mike, who ate three-times more pork than us. Great Mike, whose mere presence in the home made us Asians feel... relieved, comforted. Safe.

Having him around, it took a weight of me I didn't even know I was carrying. You see, while Cathy and I lived in a relatively safe and friendly neighbourhood, we, the Asians, were the smallest, weakest, and, for the lack of a better term,

tribe

in the area, and though I never implicitly thought of us in that way, subconsciously, the thought was there, there when every white man who walked into the store was either taller or wider than me, every interaction with a white male holding that hidden implication. With Mike, those fears were sated. With our white man close by, us Asians felt safe, secure.

Cathy herself backed up my musings, saying many times in both English and Mandarin, 'It's so good we have a man around now,' often repeating the sentence when Mike demonstrated his manliness by placing the items on the top shelves (without using the stool), fixing the washing machine, nailing down the creaky slate, and taking good – but stern – care of the dependent, which was me.

A scene which played itself out hundreds of times: evening, coming home from college, and spotting Cathy and Mike at the kitchen table. They'd had sex and weren't trying to mask the after-effects, Mike in his boxers and caked in sweat, red patches on his chest and clear nail indentations on his back. Cathy was at the kitchen stove, humming, stirring the pot and wearing a slim flowery robe. With a flushed faced, she turned and greeted me with a smile so big, it turned her eyes into two sideways Cs.