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About the author:
I have been writing various forms of nonsense for years and including several technical, report writing and editing jobs in Canada and throughout Asia before those jobs dried up. I am now an economics and law professor in China.
What inspired you to write your book?
As a university student I got very into the myriad of energetic books describing basically the "coming of age" and all the shenanigans that the main characters effect towards that end, usually involving episodes of love. I am amazed by the transfer of energy that these books provide. Once I realized I'll never outgrow these sorts of tales, I came to resolutely believe that they are a great service to the process of growing up. So I set out to write one myself.
Here is a short sample from the book:
We all wind up getting blatantly blitzed, Don included. He’s the most manic – alienating between poignant, funny, self-loathing observations and jovial self-declarations about his future and how we and others fit into it. I restlessly meander the most, precociously looking to include ourselves in shots and barroom banter; and Jojo is the super-condensed drunk, hitting all major stages of drunken attitude and behavior in an hour or 2 and 3 more drinks. It’s really quite a burden to take on entirely new responsibilities that aren’t my own, especially on a guy (me) who habitually tries to absolve responsibility through inebriation. Don doesn’t seem to mind her act, though. At least, by her last stage of wreck she is fairly subdued, reaching a burnout flatline on all levels, and is no longer a sleep and vomit threat (the previous stage), nor a floppy rambunctious flailing-limb and loose-lipped attention seeker (one of her initial stages of hammerdom which was the most obnoxious and ingratiating). I don’t really hold her accountable for any of this bother, at least now after the fact, as she is clearly out of her element. Her lust stage (the halftime show), which was great entertainment for Don but a tired play for me, is also on the continual wane so I take the opportunity to make away and shoulder her home like 2 drunk buds in a 3 legged race, or like a boy walking his grandmother across the street, or like a virgin Korean boy proprieterizing his first gf ever around a high school campus as a hugely failed show of manhood, ownership and dating experience. Don joins our depart. We all take the elevator together up to our rooms. I consider dropping off Jojo at her room but that seems solely a display of gentlemanliness merely serving to convey such a bogus attitude, and a character trait I’m entirely devoid of possessing by virtue of being both (and maybe in contradiction) a serial objectifier of women and a champion of their freedom to do as they please. She has repeatedly hinted at our togetherness overnight, anyway. Don nods me goodnight as he exits the elevator and we head up a few more floors to an identical floor with an identical room, but which has been assigned to me. Jojo tells me once again that she wants to sleep with me and seals it with a goofy slobber on my neck. For a change there’s really no mixed messages here, but mixed-up messages are what women are all about, too, and I know she’s driven by the aphrodisiacal effects of booze unfamiliar to her and just needs plain sleep, and not sex, as much I need just one or two more wind-down and celebratory room drinks (and definitely don’t) before I settle into my own less successful drunk crash. Besides, staving off the union is just as well because I’ve got a snickering inkling that, similar to her drinking pedigree, this girl does not have the sexual experience that she coys to have, either. Therefore, I feel it’ll be better if we abstain tonight and are allowed to gauge our morning discomfitures free of post-coital tension, which tends to pervade and pervert no matter how good the connection between two strangers felt and how strong it endures the day after. My lord, the day has finally come when Tommy’s going to take it slow…. ish.
Sometime during the night Jojo rolls over and grabs on tight to me and awakens me for a spell. She’s having some kind of nightmare and asks me if I’m still going to the city. Don’t go to the city, she begs. She even uses my name, which is an interesting sign. I tell her I won’t a few times and she settles back into sleep. She comes off like such a child here, which seems both adorable and troubling. It is after all just dream behavior so I don’t make too much of it and fall easily back into the shit sleep of drunkenness.
Sometime in early morning when glaring cracks of sunlight are lining the outer edges of the curtain and lasering my eyes, I get up and swallow a couple Aspirin and make a high hot bath. The machine sound of pounding water into the tub doesn’t stir Jojo a bit. She’s still all rolled up in her blanket heist and, as is often the case with Asians, aborted all use of pillows. I’m not sure it’s a fair trade, her in a tight-wound and cozy blanket cocoon to my pillow-built, makeshift comforter, but that really doesn’t matter to me when I sleep drunk, and yet would matter pedantically to me otherwise (a Jekyll and Hyde facet to my character which is always a great challenge to women).
I find a packet of bubble bath next to some kind of vaginal lubricant, a condom and a face cleanser all packed together in a small plastic bag in the basket next to the sink. The bubbles foam prodigiously and give some aesthetic comfort to my evermore pounding and piercing eye headache. A hangover turns every minute into a marathon, but once I’m sunk into the hot water the hot goose pimply effect drowns away the minutiae of pain.
I last about 20 minutes in the bath, reheating it repeatedly and by the end of all that racket along with my tub-squeaking to dunk my head and resurface, I can hear some movement in the main area. Jojo is awake, presumably. I wrap a total above my belly button to hide my alky tire and go to see what she’s up to. She’s sat up in bed, obliviously and proudly topless, and wow it’s a sight to bi-hold, and we look at each other and smile and say good morning like a simple couple in new love. The pierce of my headache has subsided, and is now recessing into a background of general dull pain in my constitution. I assume her look is inviting me and let the towel slip to the floor. She pretends to not be alarmed, and maybe she really isn’t. (To me a male genitalia has got to be a shocker, being so disparate from the rest of body form, but dames seem to either feign indifference or show only mostly affected interest when it’s revealed). I mount the bed and she slinks to an embrace and I kiss her where it matters most romantically and pin her, as awkward as always, as goofy passionate as a primary school scrap. I unwrap her legs and yanksling her panties, and go about the introduction, basically glossing over fabled foreplay as I always do, fully driven by the lust of a new woman and the insanity of hangover horniness. She reacts in pain and pleasure for most of the ordeal especially at the start, and also, at one point, stares at her hand as it freezes into a claw. She softly vibratos “Thomas, I can’t move, I can’t move my hand” so I look at it and really don’t know what to do but finish up and collapse. Her hand unclenches and she locks me in a hug while I stick to myself and her body and the bed, having jumped out just in time. Oh Tommy, another bout of so-called unprotected sex and all the worries that will ensue, until I rise to clean up and see the undiluted red thin blood and she confesses I was her first. Well, sort of her first, she says, in that I was really her second but the first guy didn’t really get in all the way. I’m not sure what that means, but given her youth and the stories I’ve heard about many Asian men and the very amateur AmateurAsianporn I’ve seen and the few bits of congress I’ve spied upon through windows of motels from buildings packed tight and close across in Asian countries, and the ridiculous grunts of Asian men and preposterously loud yelps of Asian probably whores, it is not entirely a surprise that such a sex fumble could have occurred to her with such a let’s-admit-it likely relatively masculine-challenged man. Then she adds that he turned out to be probably gay which puts my racism to rest, but incites new queries and prejudices. I think about that a bit, but not too much as I am very post-coital, stupidly content. When I return from prewash, she tells me all about her hand paralysis and labels it an orgasm which makes me pretty humble and dubious but I go along with it. To appear supportive and interested, lying next to her in bed, I borrow her phone and check the internet, and try to check nothing else on her phone, and verify that for some women this truly is a thing and a result of orgasm. That’s pretty cool, weird and endearing like it seems just about everything with this girl is! I feel overwhelmed at all that I’ve already done and felt with this singer, writer, translator, sex zombie that I truly like, hell love, and she looks pretty damn in love, too. We take turns showering and get dressed and go meet Don for hotel breakfast, truly a freebee that should never ever be missed, no matter how hung or in newly in love you are, or that one of you has a flight pretty soon around noon that’ll separate you and her by however far a 6 hour flight is, and that’ll separate you and her possibly forever.