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Harry’s favorite public titillation when we were a young couple was having me buy a large black dildo from an adult store while he watches from a safe distance. The sight of a highly respectable looking, even severe and dowdy Chinese woman, dressed in short skirt and black pantyhose, heavy makeup, large earrings, wide dark sunglasses, thick high heels, and noisy bracelets, brazenly carrying a large black dildo and confidently browsing the long isles of ungodly pornography, surrounded by sullen men with overflowing ual urges such a sight made Harry mad with delight.
He loved the quiet sensation I caused, loved to see those sullen men make way for me from several feet away, sometimes even turning back and heading in the other direction in confusion, or staring mightily from across the aisle, clearly astonished at the sight of such a respectable woman in their midst, confused and furiously wondering what they should do next, in their capacity as males in quest for . In very few instances were they able to move beyond their confusion even to the point of just daring to make eye contact with me or smile at me, and only twice in the dozen or so times we have done it did anyone dare to speak to me.
Once it was a very friendly large black man with a fuzzy, graying beard, who smiled widely, his eyes twinkling, and said, “good choice, Madam,” pointing at the dildo. I said, “Thank you,” stared at him squarely in the face and smiled, and continued browsing. He did not reply but just kept smiling and blinking happily. The other time it was a middle aged white man in a gray suite, carrying an attaché case, who accidentally bumped into me, and, realizing I was a woman, stepped back in open astonishment, his jaw literally dropping, and said. “I’m sorry.” I smiled at him, looking at him straight in the face, and said, “no worries.” His face was very red and you could see that his heart was racing. Glancing at the dildo in my arms, he quickly turned his head and continued browsing.
We usually did our adult store escapades in New York City, every time picking a different store. It usually lasted no more than ten minutes, and the best part was after I left the store, while Harry stayed back to listen to the reaction of the men. And that was almost invariably a “Damn!” from one of the sullen men, followed by laughter of relief from the others. Once someone said, “Wow! Now that’s a walking pussy if I ever saw one!” Another time someone said, “the lady has balls.” Harry’s favorite reaction was, “that’s one black widow if I ever saw one. Glad no one here got caught in her web….”
For Harry, that was the best part. Listening to other men talking dirty about his woman.
Then there was the Hallal store outrages that we gleefully perpetrated a few times on wholesome, religious Muslims by having me show up in their store, in broad daylight, as was proscribed, and while families shopped, wearing fishnet stockings, a short skirt, heavy makeup and high heels, and smelling like someone had poured a perfume bottle all over my body. The stares I got were of anger and disbelief that anyone could be so insensitive: the women looked away from me in disgust, but also in fear, I could see, while the men grunted and winced and shook their heads. I took my time and bought what I wanted to buy, and then when I went to pay for the goods, I stared straight at the eyes of the bearded man (and it was always a bearded man) and spoke loudly to him with a heavy Chinese accent.
But what was the most enjoyable part for Harry and me was when I came back later in the evening, a few minutes before they closed shop, and stood outside by the entrance door silently smoking a cigarette in the dark, still in the skimpy uniform I was wearing earlier. In my purse I kept a small toy that flashed a red glow on and off. I kept my purse open so that the men would be able to see the light. And invariably, the sight of my silhouette in the darkness with something glowing red on and off from within my purse the sight of a wanton Asian woman who had violated their store earlier with fire in her hands struck terror in their hearts. They always shuffled away almost in panic, muttering some prayers and not looking back. They had seen the devil, they were sure, incarnate as an old Asian whore, and they were terrified.
Another favorite one we did often when we traveled out of town is to have me dress up y and hang around in a hotel bar, Harry again watching from a distance. I would sit at the bar counter, order a Mojito, light up a cigarette, and look lonely. Invariably, men would sit beside me and start chatting with me.
The first time we did it, I was a little scared and said very little. But as I realized that, without exception, the men who were accosting me were sweet and caring, that their hearts were overflowing with the desire to please me and to have me, and that I was in the safest place in the world, I relaxed and embraced the experience. I began to love the raw sensation of being a female surrounded by males of all ages who wanted to implant their white semen in my vagina. Often, within a half an hour of my sitting down, I was having a conversation with two or three men by my side. They usually did the talking while I nodded, smiled, laughed, sipped my liquor or drew on my cigarette. Harry would always sit on the other side of the bar, discreetly watching, fully enjoying the show.
If there was music and a dancing floor, I would be asked to dance, and since I loved dancing, I would jump on such offers. My first dance in such bars was with a fat white man with a balding head in his mid forties. He was very shy and seemed stunned when I accepted his clumsy offer to dance. He kept a respectful distance and held my left hand high, while he barely landed his right hand on my back. When I put my head on his chest, he gained a little bit of confidence, but only momentarily. After the dance, he lingered for a few minutes and politely excused himself, leaving the floor to another man who had just joined my little group and was eager to make a good impression on me.
Harry from his end would beckon the bartender and ask him in an exaggerated Chinese accent who I was and how long I had been here. Receiving an “I don’t know” or “I wish I knew,” Harry would shake his head with disapproval and say, “she is a bad woman.”
Startled a bit, the bartender would lean forward and ask, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry would respond, staring directly at me and pointing a finger, “She no good. She pick up men here a lot. I see her before in other bars. She dirty female.”
“Yeah?” the bartender would say, now himself discreetly glancing in my general direction.
“She play with men and eat them like pancakes. She married, but she like money and very much. Better be careful.”
“Yeah, I bet,” the bartender would laugh and then lean back up, picking up a glass to clean.
“She from Taiwan, not from Mainland China,” Harry would add. “Women from Taiwan like money a lot. They like a lot.”
We usually stayed in the bar for two hours or so and then quietly left, I always first, and a few minutes later, Harry would follow. But before leaving, I always left my admirers with my “business card,” where I printed my fake name, “Lydia Wang,” and listed an email address and a phone number that Harry and I dedicated to our fantasies. The emails we received and the voice mails those men left were another rich world of titillation that Harry and I delighted ourselves in mining.
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