CW: Racism and misogyny; blood and death.
watch me kick
back to life. watch me tentacles
& teeth. watch me
resurrected electric.
Used to be, you’d buy paper offerings and burn them to provide for your ancestors. Spirit money ensured they were taken care of in the underworld and wouldn’t have to roam the pitted streets of the afterlife suffering from starvation or homelessness. In this way, you could help your late loved ones avoid the terrible fate of becoming hungry ghosts.
Then Eternity came along and presented its users with another option.
Sure, you can still burn paper offerings to make sure your dead loved ones are taken care of . . . or you can use Eternity. Simply select the pleasing icon for the type of offering you want to send to your dearly departed from Eternity’s marketplace. Each icon is colorful and cute and, somehow, comforting. The marketplace is clean and modern, its soft whiteness forming the backdrop to the colorful offerings on display. Once you’ve paid for your purchase, the screen darkens to a satisfying midnight blue. Your offering materializes in the middle of the screen, pulsating with a gentle glow. When you’re ready, you tap the offering and it bursts into flames. The flames don’t even pretend to imitate real fire. Instead of a blazing orange, they’re a limpid blue. They’re undeniably electric, both magical and digital at the same time.
Eternity has changed its users’ lives by making paper offerings more convenient. No more going to the market, purchasing your offering, returning home, lighting incense, then (finally) burning it to send it on its merry way. Nope. Now you can just click-click-send. From anywhere, while doing anything. Riding the subway. Cooking dinner. Sitting on the toilet. Literally anywhere, anytime.
To compensate for the lack of devoted attention and care, users tend to spend triple or quadruple the amount they’d ordinarily spend on actual paper offerings. (This, of course, is the whole point of Eternity.)
It hasn’t only changed how offerings are delivered. It’s changed the shape of the underworld. Actually, not so much the shape as the color. Before Eternity, everything down here was lit by a warm glow. The burnt offerings transformed into solid objects lit from within with the liquid luminosity of fire. Money, rooftops, gardens, clothing—all of it suffused with amber light. With the advent of Eternity, it looks like a futuristic sci-fi universe down here. All the offerings that users “burn” through the app emit a cold blue light. The cities are threaded through with electric veins that cast a sterile azure haze over their surroundings. The contrast is unsettling.
And the worst of it is that the paper offerings are warm like the fire that transferred them to this realm, but the ones from Eternity are cold. As more and more people switch over to the app, the underworld is getting colder. This isn’t really a big deal if you’re taken care of, because you can use your spirit money to buy clothes and blankets. It seems like wearing stuff made with Eternity’s offerings mitigates their effects just fine.
But none of that really helps me, because I have no family among the living.
• • • •
Jake, 26
I’m a solid hunk of muscle looking for a tasty bit of Chinese takeout, if you get my drift. ☺ I spend my free time at the gym, tailgating with my buddies, and playing the guitar. Graduated from OSU (go Bucks!) with a degree in business and regularly take trips to Singapore and Malaysia for work. I love asian women with long, straight hair, nothing sexier. Let me be the kung to your pow.
I hate guys like Jake. Cocky and self-absorbed. He clearly thinks he’s some sort of wonderful gift to womankind. And he can’t even spell “kung pao” right. What a douche. Unfortunately for me, I’m also kind of dependent on idiots like him.
When I died, nobody bothered to take down my profile on the dating apps. I didn’t have any friends or family, so there was no one to notice that my profile should be removed. In a way, I’m lucky I slipped through the cracks like that. If I hadn’t, I’d be completely screwed. As it stands, every time someone views my profile, swipes right, sends me a message, or otherwise expresses interest, it functions like a tiny little offering. It seems like the profile is close enough to paper that by selecting me in some way, prospective daters’ interest gets translated into something offering adjacent. These expressions of interest are weak, and they don’t have physical form. They manifest as a feeble grayness that adds a little more substance to me. I guess it’s kind of like being fed, since my body becomes ever so slightly more tangible, but they never do anything to make the hunger go away.
So when Jake messages me, I’m disgusted that he even thinks I’d be interested in a guy like him . . . but I’m also pretty okay with it. Because the Ghost Month is here, and Jake is going to feed me.
• • • •
When I was alive, I thought the hungry ghosts that clawed their way out of the underworld during the Ghost Month were, well, ghosts. Like, see-through, temperature-dropping vapory presences. And we can be. I can hit up the offerings left out for us in temples and homes and community centers in this way, but it doesn’t tide me over for very long. It’s like if I’m insubstantial, then anything I consume in that form also lacks substance.
Imagine my surprise when the first Ghost Month I experienced after dying revealed to me that I could actually take physical form again. Not everyone can. Those who receive no offerings at all during the rest of the year are too weak to gather themselves together in order to manifest in this way. But the scraps I get from hits on my dating profiles are just enough to do it.
Thanks to Jake’s persistence, concentrating myself into tangibility is easier than it was the last year. It’s nighttime when I slither my way up to the earthly streets. The air is swampy, a typical summer evening in Columbus, Ohio. The weight of my body unbalances me. It’s so much to hold up, to hold together. I stumble a little as I walk the short distance to the bus stop and practically fall onto the bench. The twilight is thick with bugs zinging themselves into the dirty orange streetlights.
It’s easier to feel for Jake when I close my eyes. It’s not a magnetic pull or anything straightforward like that. I have to think about him, about his stupid profile. The anger sharpens my sense of him. I repeat the details that infuriate me the most—the obnoxious decapitalization of “asian,” the breadcrumbs of his obvious Asian fetish, his vomit-worthy closing line.
He begins to emerge from amidst the sea of shapeless shadows populating the city. And of course, of course he lives in the Arena District. Land of gentrification, CrossFit gyms, and sports arenas (hence the name). When I open my eyes, it takes me a while to figure out where I’ve surfaced. The city is no longer as familiar to me, and even though I’m right next to an intersection, the words on the street signs don’t register right away. When they do, I’m a little relieved that it’s only about a five-minute walk to that part of town.
My stomach growls something fierce. Words like “gnawing” and “famished” don’t even begin to describe my hunger. I’m among the destitute dead, and the depths of my deprivation are so far beyond the limits of human starvation that they wouldn’t make sense to a living, breathing person. Suffice it to say I’m looking forward to unleashing my “pow” on Jake.
• • • •
Lucky for me, I arrive near what I suspect is Jake’s building right around the time happy hour is ending in most of the restaurants. I try to look casual (rather than torturously hungry) and a little bit helpless as I pace weakly along the sidewalk. Jake is clearer to me now, and I’m hanging my hopes on him being the kind of guy who likes to hit up happy hour in a bougie gastropub after work. I must look pretty pathetic, because a few bland young professionals have slowed down just enough to ask if I’m okay before hurrying along when I assure them I don’t need help. When the fifth guy approaches, I raise my eyes slowly from the gum-spotted sidewalk and drag them up Jake’s body. It’s a hungry, hateful stare.
He misinterprets it as something like desire. He’s already got his key fob out and has drifted toward the modern glass door but when our eyes meet he lowers his hand and takes a couple of heavy steps toward me. A lopsided smile quirks his lips, and I suspect he’s practiced this in the mirror to nail the effect he’s going for. He’s handsome in a frat boy kind of way, which I loathe. I smile at his beefy arms. A solid hunk of muscle, indeed. Lucky me.
“Hey, beautiful.” He puts his hands in his pockets in a not-so-subtle move to draw my eyes to his crotch. “I haven’t seen you around here before. You live nearby?” Clearly he doesn’t recognize me from my profile.
I lift my chin, give him a shy smile. Jake takes in my long hair, the shape of my eyes, pleased with what he sees. “Nah, I just arrived in town and thought I’d explore a little. I’m a bit lost, actually. Maybe you can help me find my way?” Talking feels strange, the sensation of breath in my body so much thicker than when I’m more . . . permeable.
Jake smiles, and there’s something vaguely predatory in his eyes as they linger on my long neck. Predatory, but not violent; more like a kid who’s spotted a toy he wants. “Yeah, I can help you out. I’m Jake.” He holds out a meaty hand, grinning more broadly as he envelops my hand in his. I was right, the guy’s a total Rice King. This might be even easier than I thought. “You look pretty tired. I live right here. If you wanna come in, I’d be happy to get you some refreshments and we can figure out how to get you where you need to be.” My god, he’s so unoriginal it’s ridiculous.
I try to look weak and needy, which isn’t really a stretch. “Um, okay.” I pause, forcing my molecules to stay together. It’s not easy. “You’re not going to kill me or something, are you?” I quip.
“No! No, look, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He’s clearly trying to give me nice guy vibes, but it comes off a little sleazy. Given his profile, it’s not shocking.
“Okay, thanks. I’m Lian. It means lotus in Chinese.” It’s also 100% bullshit, but my guess is he’ll eat it up. When his face breaks open into naked excitement, I know I’m right.
“Wow, that’s beautiful. Just like you, Lian.” Ugh. I think of sustenance and allow myself to be led inside. He talks himself up as we go upstairs, mentioning his work trips to Asia and butchering a couple of random Chinese words he thinks he knows. I make all the I’m-so-impressed-by-your-worldliness sounds and count down the seconds until we can be alone together. I can feel the hot blood moving through his veins and lick my lips as I watch the pulse in the soft spot under his jaw. I love it when they’re clean shaven.
He unlocks his door and steps aside to let me pass through first. I make sure to brush my hip across his groin as I enter. I’ve learned that their adrenaline fortifies me, and right now I can feel myself thinning. Just when the thought crosses my mind that I can’t do this much longer, Jake asks, “Can I get you anything to eat?” I hear the sharp snick of the door latching and I turn around.
“Thank you, that would be amazing,” I say, tracing my fingernails down the front of his crisp dress shirt. I’m feeling magnanimous now that I know what he’s going to do for me. He smiles his crooked smile and I see the hunger in his eyes, in the flex of his fingers.
I return his smile and open my mouth, watching his lust morph into confusion and then, an instant later, horror. As I wrap my tongue around him and take him inside of me, I savor the satisfying squelch of his muscles and the burst of blood when I finally bite down.
He is surprisingly delicious.
• • • •
Piers, 52
Experienced, distinguished gentleman, back on the market after two decades of marriage to the world’s biggest shrew. Friends have described me as a silver fox. I’m looking for a sophisticated woman under the age of 30 who will look good on my arm and charm the worldly men in my high caliber social circle. The perfect woman is quiet, exotic, and beautiful. Money is no matter, and for the right girl I’ll play the Edward Lewis to your Vivian Ward.
Jake lasted longer than the guy before him, but he wasn’t enough to last me the whole year. Not by a long shot. Ironic, since he was probably the type who’d like to think he’d fill me up more than other men.
The last several months have been exceptionally painful. The blue glow of the Eternity offerings is slowly snuffing out the warmth of traditional burned offerings, and the underworld is all the more miserable for neglected ghosts like me. With no walls and only ragged clothing, almost nothing stands between me and the icy winds. It occurred to me only after I’d been sucked back down here that I might have tried to take something from Jake’s closet, see if I could bring it back with me.
This year, as the Ghost Month dawns, I’m hoping my meal might sustain me a little longer. I was so hungry with Jake that I failed to take full advantage of his fear. It was too fast for the adrenaline to really infuse his bloodstream.
• • • •
This time, when I rise, I find myself in Bexley. I guess Piers wasn’t kidding about his financial situation—Bexley is one of Columbus’s richest suburbs. When I was alive, I once took the bus out here with some friends from grad school just to gawk at the amazing houses and walk in the shade of the tree-lined streets. I was an architecture student with dreams of becoming the next Julia Morgan or Frank Lloyd Wright. That was when I thought I had an entire lifetime ahead of me.
Drifting down the wide sidewalk as little more than an apparition fills me with a sense of loss so powerful it almost displaces the hunger. Almost. I’m trying to conserve energy by remaining in my ghostly state while I find my way so I can take my time with my meal.
Piers seems pretty disgusting. I get that Pretty Woman was a popular rom-com for his generation, but still. How do you write a profile like that and not realize it might be off-putting to tell women that you’d like to treat them like a sex worker?
I let my anger focus me, feeling the familiar sense of molecules knitting together as Piers crystallizes in my awareness. He’s close by, but I’m in no rush. I’m enjoying my tour of Bexley and even though the hunger is a black hole consuming my entire being, I understand it better now. It’s not going to kill me—I’m already dead. My immunity to death is the worst part of my existence, but it’s also liberating to realize that I can’t be destroyed as easily as I once thought. Condemned to endless suffering? Sure. But my continued existence seems to be guaranteed.
I’m lost in these thoughts while I admire the mullioned windows of a grand Tudor-style mansion, wallowing in a combination of nostalgia and starvation. I meander from one estate to the next, aware of Piers’s increasing proximity. I recall his artless discussion of his wealth, his overinflated sense of his own value, and it helps me distill myself into physical form.
I feel him before I see him.
He’s jogging, his breath coming in fast bursts, and I don’t manage to solidify until he’s basically on top of me, so he runs right into me. He’s barely sweating, not a hair out of place.
“Watch where you’re—huh.” He puts a hand on each of my shoulders, simultaneously steadying himself and holding me in place as he appraises me. Like Jake, he doesn’t seem to recognize my face from the dating apps. They never do. Instead, his pale blue eyes scan my face, tits, hips, and legs with acute precision. This is a man used to evaluating others and finding them lacking. But he likes what he sees when he looks at me. “Please excuse me, I didn’t see you there.” His voice has undergone a drastic change from rough irritation to smooth invitation. It’s unnerving and, given how he just looked at my body, pretty gross.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to get in your way,” I say in my softest voice. He all but said he wanted a submissive woman, so I might as well lay it on thick. I’m so damned hungry.
He still hasn’t removed his hands from my shoulders, which is super inappropriate. I can tell this guy thinks he literally owns the world and everyone in it. Especially people like me: young, female, Asian. My anger surges again.
I hold back a frustrated sigh, instead looking down meekly. He reaches out to lift my chin so he’s looking directly into my face. It’s extremely patronizing and pisses me off.
“Don’t worry about it. What’s your name?”
“Jade,” I tell him, figuring he’ll like the sound of it and (unlike Jake) won’t be turned on by a name that’s too foreign sounding. His lascivious stare is all the confirmation I need.
“I’m Piers,” he croons, “and I live in that house right there. Do you work around here?” What an asshole. He must think I’m somebody’s au pair or housekeeper or something. Then again, this part of town is overwhelmingly white, and it’s likely the only people of color he encounters here are employed by his neighbors in some capacity. I dislike him more with every passing second. Taking my time with Piers is going to be a pleasure.
“Um, no. I mean, not yet. I, uh, I’m looking for work. I can clean really well, and I’m also a good cook if you like, you know, Chinese food.” I look into his eyes and then look away, acting like I’m intimidated by him.
“Is that right?” He still has a hold of my chin and actually turns my head from side to side. I want to kick him in the nuts, but instead I think about how I’ll devour him: very slowly. “I could use some help around the house. My harpy of an ex-wife took the housekeeper with her. If you want to clean my house, you’re hired.” He stares at me in a businesslike manner, all impatient like the clock’s running out and he was expecting an answer, like, yesterday. Prick.
“Really?” I try for an excited squeal, but it comes out wrong. He doesn’t notice. My performance is close enough to his script that he doesn’t sense that anything’s off. “Oh, thank you, Piers! This would mean so much to me.”
“Okay, right this way.” The words are barely out of his mouth before his hand is pushing on my lower back in a gentle but insistent manner. He guides me to the next house over, up the flagstone path, past a fountain, and through the vast double doors. The doors close silently on their own, and the heavy hush of the house blots the outside world out so completely that if I was still alive, I’d be reaching for my mace. This is the kind of house where if I screamed, nobody would hear me.
So when Piers starts screaming, it doesn’t take him long to figure out that nobody can hear him. And then he can’t scream anymore (that’ll happen when someone like me rips your throat out with her bare teeth). After that, he can only make wet gurgly sounds as I snack on his limbs, his face, his entrails.
Does he deserve this slow, painful death? Maybe not. Do I relish every agonizing second of it? Absolutely.
When I’ve eaten every last morsel that made up the man called Piers, I lick his blood off the marble floors and wander around his house. Now that I’ve eaten, it won’t be long before I’m recalled to the underworld, so I move quickly. I locate some soft, warm sweaters and pull them on. Then I select some new socks and a thick overcoat. I grab a blanket, and at that precise moment my time runs out.
• • • •
Philip, 32
Urban homesteader, passionate feminist, overall good human. I believe in treating women with the respect and care they deserve. I love brewing my own kombucha and visiting the dog park where I let my nine-year-old tripod golden retriever rescue run free in the sunshine. In my spare time, I like to experience Asian culture. Seeing the Chicago Art Institute’s collection of Japanese prints changed my whole outlook on art—I’d love to take a special lady there for a weekend away sometime. I really enjoy cooking for my dates, so you can expect to experience my own original culinary creation: kimchi chow mein with wasabi papadam.
Turns out the clothing made it through with me, but not the blanket. Maybe it’s a shirt-on-your-back deal, but however this works, the extra layers have really helped keep the frigidity generated by Eternity at bay. As a result, this last year hasn’t been quite as hellish as the previous two despite the fact that Eternity’s wintry phosphorescence has only continued spreading across the cities here, extinguishing the liquid warmth of the old ways. The tech bros who designed and implemented Eternity deserve to end up down here with nothing but their own digital offerings to keep them company.
Even the über cared-for are starting to feel the cold. Ironically, since they’re so well fed and have all the physical trappings they need to stay relatively comfortable, they don’t venture up to the human realm like those of us who are living in a state of abjection do. And when they do, they’re not hungry enough to seek out living prey, so they mostly just stick to the temples and home altars for their food. I doubt they even know how to put themselves back together enough to take on their old forms. It takes a good deal of anger and desperation to do that, which they don’t have. They’re just low-grade cold all the time.
As for me, well, Piers lasted about as long as Jake did . . . maybe even a little longer. He wasn’t as fleshy, but he was way more terrified. Here’s hoping the next guy is big and easily scared.
• • • •
This time, I emerge on an unfamiliar street and am slow to find my bearings. The city is changing, and I don’t recognize any of the businesses here. I let the wind waft me around a bit, taking in the heavy afternoon heat. A thunderstorm must have rolled through recently. Eventually, I gravitate toward the warm windows of a quaint restaurant on the corner. The entryway is filled with vibrant red lanterns, their long golden tassels spilling out of them like intestines. The sidewalks are wet and the reflection of the lanterns blooms across them like fresh blood. Philip is a feeling that slowly solidifies, congealing on the edges of my consciousness.
I detest guys like Philip. He gives off a granola-chic vibe, with his scraggly beard and hemp shirts. I bet he has raised garden beds in his backyard. He’s the type of guy who you can never really complain about, because on paper everything he does and says is just fine, but you also always have the sense things aren’t quite right. His personality is like a splinter: seemingly innocuous, a mild irritant hiding beneath the surface . . . until it causes an infection and you lose a finger.
It took me a long time to figure out that guys like Philip move through this world with a latent sense of superiority. They think they’re so good, so righteous, so progressive, but they’re just as racist and sexist as the rest of the world. Maybe even worse, because they think their mere presence is some sort of extraordinary boon to all of humanity. It takes being conceited to a whole new level.
So of course I’m not at all surprised to find that Philip’s in a restaurant that boasts a vaguely Asian menu and is decorated to the hilt with Orientalist kitsch. It’s not just the lanterns, either. I’m talking golden Buddha statues, Sanskrit text art, bonsai trees, a wall of “Chinese” teapots, sculptures of frogs doing yoga, poorly executed paintings of koi, and bad flute music. Not to mention the bowl of chemical yellow fortune cookies sitting on the checkout table by the door. Ick.
I pull myself together, literally, and step inside. Philip is easy to spot sitting in a corner booth under some supposedly Japanese wood block art wearing a linen button-down Studio Ghibli shirt. And he’s alone.
I walk over quietly, stopping right in front of him and placing a hand on the edge of the table. He’s eating a bowl of something that resembles ramen, and he stops to stare up at me with his hand halfway to his open mouth. He’s holding the chopsticks wrong, crossed like an x, so the sad clump of noodles he’d managed to catch slips off and drops into the bowl with a wet plop. He stares up at me with his watery, protuberant eyes, and I’m reminded of a timid pug.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me in silence, slowly rearranging his face into a bland smile. Guess I’ll have to take the lead here.
“Um, hi,” I say, trying to give off nervous fangirl vibes. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Mei and I just, I saw you over here and I noticed your shirt and I wanted to tell you I really like it.” He sits up a little straighter but still doesn’t speak. Geez, this guy. I bat my eyelashes insipidly and chew on my bottom lip like I’m all anxious or something. I think that’s what finally compels him to use actual words at me.
“You’re not bothering me!” It comes out a little overloud. Good, he’s excited. That kind of adrenaline might taste interesting, too. “I’m Philip. Do you want to join me?” He scoots over a fraction on the curved bench, leaving a very small space for me to sit in. If I were still alive, I’d be bothered by how close he’s expecting me to sit, especially since he has a whole booth to himself. But this suits my purposes just fine, so I accept his offer and slide in with a pretense of hesitation. He doesn’t move over, so in order to actually fit both my ass cheeks on the seat I have to press my entire right side against him.
“So your name’s Ming?” he asks, looking at me with interest. Idiot.
“Mei,” I correct.
“Mei! Sorry, I must have misheard over the background music.” The music may be bad, but it’s quiet, and this is such a bullshit line that I almost curl my lip. Instead, I look at his wiry arms and think of how nice they’ll be to eat. Like beef jerky. I imagine tearing into them with my teeth and it makes me smile. “What does it mean?”
“It means beautiful,” I say in a near whisper, looking shyly down at my hands.
A warm smile spreads across his face, transforming his ordinary features and making me realize that in another life I might have found him handsome in a generic way. He leans in conspiratorially and says, “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” Seriously? Besides the fact that I’m a whole woman, not a girl, the line itself is almost impressive for its complete lack of originality. Philip manages to look proud of himself for coming up with it. I’m going to have so much fun playing with my food today.
• • • •
Philip makes me work for it. The entire conversation feels extractive, and it lasts a couple of hours. He asks me questions about my parents (I was adopted), what languages I speak (only English), the food I grew up eating (lots of White Castle), the size of my feet (big), my Lunar New Year traditions (none), where I’ve traveled in Asia (never been). He’s determined to find something “authentically” Asian about me, and I’m smugly satisfied with how my honest answers thwart his efforts at every turn. The conversation drags on for so long that I’m practically fantasizing about how quick and easy it was to get Jake and Piers to take me home with them when Philip asks, “What’s your Chinese zodiac sign?”
“I’m a pig,” I say without thinking, and then I realize I shouldn’t have because Philip is starting to look puzzled. Shit. He’s enough of a Sinophile that I bet he actually knows how to use this information to figure out my age, and if I’m a pig then I’ve either got to be underage or almost thirty. I force a laugh and try for an embarrassed tone as I mutter, “I mean a snake! Sorry, my sister’s a pig and she just had a birthday. I can’t believe I told you the wrong sign!” He’s still looking a little skeptical and I can’t afford to scare him off, so I drop my forehead onto his shoulder with a little groan like I’m trying to hide my self-consciousness from him. He tenses up for half a beat before putting his arm around me and pulling me closer. I can feel his heart rate accelerating and seize my opportunity.
Drawing back just slightly, I look up at him so our faces are close enough for me to feel his breath on my lips. I let him hold me like that for a couple of seconds, feigning surprised attraction, and it does the trick.
His smile is full of teeth. “You know, I have a beautiful art print of the Chinese zodiac in my living room. Would you let me show it to you? I live right down the street.” Finally.
“Ooh, I would love that!” I try to let my hunger sound like seduction, and realize it works exceedingly well. I make a mental note of it for next year. I’m getting better at this every time.
He drops some cash on the table as I slide out of the booth and places his hand at the nape of my neck, guiding me as we walk. “You have such a beautiful, long neck, Mei.” I can hear the want in his voice. I thought Piers was controlling when he put his hand on my lower back and practically pushed me all the way to his house, but this is even worse. It feels like I’m a farm animal, like he’s using his hand as a yoke. It’s such a possessive interaction and it’s just what I need to concentrate my anger, condensing all my molecules into something strong and dangerous.
We turn a corner and I suddenly realize we’re in Clintonville. I suppress a scoff, because of course Philip lives in Clintonville. It’s the perfect place for his “urban homesteading.” When I was alive I would have killed to live in this part of the city. Now I’ll kill to eat in it.
And eat, I do.
• • • •
Philip is so caught up in his fantasy of me that it takes twice as long as it should for him to realize that he’s not about to get laid. I touch him gently on the arm, the hip, the back while we look at his god-awful Chinese zodiac “art.” The whole time, he’s prattling on about where the artist lived in Hong Kong, the time he had some Taoist lady tell his future with Chinese fortune sticks, the impact learning he’s an Ox had on his understanding of himself. I mostly ignore him and think about the clothing and shoes I want to grab once I’m finished with him.
I’m curious to see what his desire will do to his staying power, so I get him good and riled up. When I don’t feel like listening to his absurd babbling any longer, I turn to face him and run my hands seductively up and down his arms. It shuts him up and the silence on its own makes this worth it.
I’m pretty sure when I start to open my mouth he thinks I’m going to go down on him or something, because the look he gives me is so lecherous it sharpens my anger even more. He looks at my tongue and I can see the lust in his eyes. I keep watching those watery eyes as my tongue unfurls and my mouth gapes wider and wider, so I catch the exact moment his desire shifts into fear. And he just can’t help himself; he has to whitesplain everything to the woman who’s about to end him. As my tongue coils around his sinewy body, constricting and crushing, he gushes manically, saying in a hoarse whisper, “There’s a month every year . . . the Chinese call it the Ghost Month . . . the barrier between our world and the underworld dissolves . . . all the hungry ghosts can . . . you’re a . . .” I wrap my tongue around his head and pry open his jaw with it. He looks almost reverent as I slide my tongue down his throat and fold his body like human origami, like a man-sized fortune cookie. As I bite into him, I imagine cookie-Philip’s fortune for me would say something like: A stranger will share their gifts with you or Good food is the meaning of life.
• • • •
Erik, 37
Hoping to find that perfect woman who can goof off and listen to K-pop with me. I have a thing for vintage video game characters (remember Chun-Li from Street Fighter? So hot!). When the weather’s nice, I love to be outside playing ultimate frisbee with my bros or going for a jog along the river. When it’s too cold or wet to play outside, I like snuggling with my girl.
• • • •
Glenn, 42
I’m a sensitive artist looking for my muse. I learned the ancient art of Gongbi painting from a master when I studied abroad in Taiwan and have become one of the only successful non-Asian artists in this genre. I’ve been feeling really lonely lately and want to spend time with someone who appreciates my art and can inspire me to create more. Would love to paint you if you’ll let me.
• • • •
Carter, 28
I’m looking for a good time. My friends say I’m a real go-getter, the guy you go to to make stuff happen. If you wanna make it happen with me, we can order takeout and I’ll let you find my tattoo of Hokusai’s Great Wave.
• • • •
DJ, 46
I love movies and hope you do, too! Some of my favorites are Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Aladdin (the cartoon), and Kill Bill. What do you like to watch? When I’m not watching movies, give me a good manga and some boba tea and I’m a happy boy! My favorite food is hibachi, my favorite animal is the panda, and my favorite dessert is mochi ice cream. I can’t wait to learn all your favorites and share mine with you!
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Each year, I get better at what I think of as Dating 2.0. I figure out how to conserve energy when I can, draw power from my anger, and seduce my prey before I feast. And these guys, whose interest in me sustains me through the hard months of hunger, turn out to be perfect offerings. Their bodies and their closets provide for me in the same way others’ relatives do. Somewhere along the way, the hunger that drives me is joined by anticipation and enjoyment.
The stream of men is endless, and I select my meals with the same care and intention that I used to employ when selecting potential mates. Only now, I’m not looking for a decent guy. I’m looking for a good meal.
