OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE

You’ve got to be kidding me. Fucking hell. Fuck fuck fuck.

My boss has been “informed” by “someone” that I have found a “boyfriend.” My boss, with whom I’ve been playing door-knock-tag (like “phone tag” but in a country where voice mail and answering machines literally do not exist) for weeks now, happened to bump into me on my way between classes.

“I hear you’ve found a…” he drifted off looking at the English speaking students passing between us and I look at him questioningly. He clearly wanted to express something basic and easily comprehended but also something that might compromise my position as a teacher. In other words, something sexual.

“A what?” I asked, amused but pressed for time. That my boss might wander anywhere near the territory of my sexuality is beyond entertaining to me. I figured he was going to tease me about my groupies in class.

“A [insert his gesture of elongating a blank] friend. You’ve been keeping secrets from me.” He said in a tone that twisted my upper hand and crossed into the plains of truthful territory.

“What?” I asked, confused and forgetting my time pressure. This was not about the giggling bad boys who breathlessly await my punishment. This was not about the boys that will, in the future, arrive in an S&M dungeon with a suitcase full of NYC MTA Subway maps to be swatted with, a pair of New York pseudo-intellectual glasses for the tall dominatrix to wear and a desire to scolded in English and demeaned in broken Mandarin. This was about something current.

“A [insert gesture of elongated blank and widening of eyes] kind of friend” he says as my stomach drops realizing he means “B.O.Y. friend.” He looks at me a nods and I have think for a moment.

“No, I haven’t brought anyone back to my place. I haven’t even made out with anyone, much less in public.” I think to myself. “I’m not sleeping with anyone and I’ve done nothing of real note. Hell the only boy I’m interested in…” Then I had a flash of my boss pulling Z into his office and giving him the stern once over to treat me well and not upset me.

“Oh. Shit.” I think and am flooded by memories of the boys I liked that prematurely fled in fear once they heard through the grapevine that someone (read: NOT the gossip hounds who were, at best, rushing things but “me” who wasn’t actually saying anything) had laid claim to them. Once the commitment phobic white boys caught wind that I might have laid claim to them, instead of talking to me about it or mentioning it or any other scenario in which I have a chance to reveal that I have laid no such claim, they ran for the hills. I have gone to great measures to prevent any such scenario from happening with Z. It’s difficult enough getting things off the ground with Z without gossip hounds watching our every move, to say nothing of our BOSS. Regardless of my effort, the BOSS has caught wind of this.

I’ve done everything I can to keep things quiet in order to keep Z from the spotlight by which this local celebrity is illuminated in the most unflattering of fashions. I’ve sworn my lunch mate to secrecy and I’ve told no one else about anything. My Chinese Angel knows I have a crush on Z but I’ve not told her a thing about our ongoing flirtation and she certainly does not have the kind of relationship with our boss in which she would even reveal the flirtation.

I watch the smile spread over my boss’s face and he laughs, amused.

“No, I don’t.” I stammer out, realizing the moment the words are out that it’s a bigger confession than if I had been mooning over him.

The first response he answers is greater laughter. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me.” He teases.

“No, I’m not keeping secrets.” I answer truthfully.

My boss shoots me a knowing look.

“I’m not, I swear. There’s no secret to keep. He’s not…” I stammer. It suddenly occurs to me that the leak is not coming from my camp because there is no one to leak anything. “How did you know?” I ask levelly.

My boss shoots me the most wicked look. “I have my sources” and he smiles.

It takes me a moment but then I realize the leak’s coming from the only place it could; Z’s camp. I immediately turn the color of chili peppers and speak, “Who told you?”

My boss smiles, “I have, how do you say, spies?”

The face of Z’s lunch mate flashes in my head. Recently (pre-volleyball game), I’ve gone from nonexistent to suddenly worthy of a proactive “Ni hao.” I’ve gone from “nothing” to “actively-embrace-her” status. Clearly something has shifted his perspective of me and as he and I have no contact, the most obvious answer is Z.

Z and his lunch mate’s immediate boss is the father of the young man in the Bitch Slap fight and good friend to the uber-boss (aka “My boss”). Their boss has great interest in me because I’m not only the English teacher, kicked his ass in volleyball (even though he’s a gym teacher whose forte is volleyball), have no fear of him (everyone here is terrified of him because he’s easily 6 foot 5, politically and physically powerful and well-disciplined but I can spot a man desperate to be seen for the pussy cat that he is from a thousand yards) and told him his son is very clever (because he is) but I’m also one of the few teachers able to reach his son. (His son now leaps to hug me every time he sees me, actually will obey me if he understands what I say and does his best to speak in English with me.) He wants to be proud of his only son and even though I have nothing to fear from him, I fully, honestly believe he should be. I have definitely piqued that man’s interest and I catch him watching me every time we’re in the same room.

It’s like a fucking chess match but I think I get the chain of events. Z talks to lunch mate, lunch mate talks to their boss, their boss talks to our boss and you have “spies.” People who have a pointed interest in me (either good or bad) discuss me at great length (see any number of entries for my thoughts on this). I suspect the idea of a white woman expressing interest in a Chinese man is extra fascinating to everyone because it’s so rare I’ve never actually seen it. The idea of me with a Chinese husband actually made my fellow female teachers laugh out loud with surprise. My male counterpart (White Male) often comes and pilfers the Chinese women (and I use “pilfer” because my male counterpart makes no secret of discussing their multiple conquests with anyone who will listen, even their students and colleagues, before they settle down with one; a distasteful habit in looser Western countries and downright destructive in the more traditional China) but I have yet to meet a single white woman with a Chinese man. I don’t know why that is but everyone here seems to think that’s totally reasonable and so my raised interest in one boy in particular seems to have garnered some attention on his end.

Nevertheless, I was freaked out by the grapevine “She’s got a boyfriend” talk because it has always been followed by nothing but the craptastic splendor of mortification. I’ve always been a bit too earnest when it comes to matters of the heart and I found myself utterly panicked at the thought of the public humiliation awaiting me at the end of this in the form of well-intentioned lectures to be less emotionally invested in the emotional. I swan dive from high up and tend to get royally banged up. I always have and probably always will. I fall down hard, cry hard and then move one with my life. What upsets me about the public humiliation is that some of the people I care about are going to lecture me on all the things I did wrong and all the warning signs I ignored. Oddly losing the thing I’ve invested in isn’t the thing I worry about most because if it’s lost, it’s lost. I’ve lost many things in my life and my one consolation is that I know I did everything in my power to keep them. I have no regrets about that. Sometimes, things just will not be and I can do nothing about that. No, what worries me is all the people I’m going to have to hear from about what I did wrong and all the reasons I should have chosen the safe path of an emotional-free life. Mourning loss is hard. The self-righteous lectures are untenable because they serve no purpose than comforting other people under the guise of helping me. So, not only must I deal with the depths of crappy, I must also be polite, considerate of other’s feelings and accept the lecturing that illuminates nothing save the discomfort of my friend’s sadness at my pain.

At my boss’s words, I briefly glimpsed of all the “You shouldn’t have attempted a cross-cultural relationship in the first place” lectures that would now not just await me at my email inbox but my English teachers’ offices as well and freaked the fuck out. They would all say the same thing and accomplish nothing but kicking me while I’m down. In more than enough ways I’m alone enough out here without the alienation of finger wagging heaped upon romantic rejection as well. And, considering the lectures I’m still getting about being fat, I know that it will be a LONG time before anyone here lets go of a crash and burn scenario with Z. Needless to say, I had a mini panic attack after the brief meeting with my boss. I actually had to lock myself in a bathroom stall (the only place for privacy in school) to talk myself down from a full-blown panic attack.

So, with karma’s twisted sense of humor, I found myself completely backing off from Z for the remainder of the week like one the countless men who’ve jilted me. Instead, I took time out to learn a new lesson from one of my students.

My little monkey was pulled into my office this week by one of my fellow teachers.

“You like this boy, yes?” She asked as I was busy working at my desk. I turned around to see her holding hands with my little monkey.

At the sight of my little monkey, I hopped out of my chair and squatted down to be at his level. He walked over to me and stood between my knees, putting one hand on my wrist, as my hands were resting on my knees. Unsure why he was there, he had the anticipatory look of a boy unsure if he was going to get a spanking or a treat.

My fellow teacher sat down in her chair as he slowly inched closer and closer to me. She said something to him in Chinese and he turned to look at me questioningly. She said something else and he turned back to her and nodded.

He squeezed my wrist with one hand and stroked my cheek with the other. He then dropped his hand from my cheek and lowered his gaze. I lowered my head to catch his gaze and he smiled shyly at me.

“Hello teacher.” He whispered to me in English. He’s never spoken to me in English that wasn’t a part of his lesson. I was completely taken aback and could merely watch him as he hurried out of the office.

The teacher then told me what a naughty boy he is but we both agreed we liked naughty boys because naughty and clever (the Mandarin-English translation of “bright/smart”) are always together. She then said, “You like slim but strong boys.”

“What?” I asked, completely confused.

“You like boys who look slim but are strong. Even the PE teacher is slim but strong.” She continued, leaving me still confused about the physical basis for my “like” but clear on the power of the grapevine.

“No, it’s not about that. I like physical boys.” I explained. “Besides, all the boys in China look slim to me.” Let’s be frank, Vin Diesel doesn’t really exist in China. The “bulked up” look is not desirable in China. The general consensus seems to be “lanky is better.”

Just then a heavyset boy passed by the office and the teacher gestured to him. “He’s very fat. You don’t like boys that look like that.” She proclaimed.

“We would call him ‘heavy’ not fat and that doesn’t mean anything.” I explained. “I like tactile boys with courage, manners, intelligence and silliness. I doesn’t matter what they look like.” I then had to explain “tactile” while steering her away from the rather vulgar interpretation but I don’t think she got it. I certainly was in no position to try to explain why the hottest men on the planet (in my book) all know how to use their bodies expertly but don’t necessarily look good in a picture. To me, “hot” is all in gesture, movement and that “it” factor lurking behind their eyes. To be totally honest, I don’t even really remember what my closest friends look like in a way that would help a sketch artist, only that they inhabit their space in certain ways. In college, I once made pillars of my friends repeating their signature gesture into clay; it was the closest thing I’ve ever made to portraits and to this day those pillars look more like them to me than any picture I have of them.

Later that day, my little monkey found me in the hallway and took my hand, walking me to my class, hand in hand. He is very serious about the business of being my beloved. Now, whenever I see him in the hallway, he organizes the students to carry my things and insists that he escorts me to class.

I do love how seriously they take emotional commitment here. I decided to knock my shenanigans the fuck off and act like an adult just in time for my Saturday date with Z.

Alas, I did not make myself clear and my Saturday date with Z never happened. I think we’re running out of reasons to run into each other and so now I think I have to make some up. Though he’s made it quite evident he’ll run with it once I give him the go ahead, I think he’s going to need a pretty big, clear “Go Ahead” sign from me. To be fair, I am certainly a minefield with a pretty good poker face and so one can’t blame the boy if he’s unclear about what I want.

Which leads me to find my inner Nancy Drew. I’ve decided to foil the Old Mill Owner Mr. Jenkins with my plot to corner Z into hanging out with me. I think what we need is more time alone to get to know each other and I need it to be away from school. Essentially, my plot boils down to the fact that I’m lazy. Candy coat it however you want but the fact remains that I’m just lazy. I wouldn’t get out of bed if I didn’t have to and I don’t when I don’t have to. While as a youngin’ this served me no good and I had to work extra hard to overcompensate for the truth like a post-Wham pre-public-toilet George Michael, I am now an adult who has decided to embrace her true nature and revel in my sloth-like behavior. I’m here! I’m a lazy motherfucker! Get used to it!

How does this become a benefit to my love life? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m a yoga fiend. I love yoga. I love what it does for my head and my body. I love being flexible and I love being centered. However, I’m lazy. Unless I’ve got a class to whip my ass to do it regularly, it tends to fall by the wayside. The classes here are ridiculously expensive because the only people who want to take yoga are the elite foreigners.

Z, however, teaches yoga. I teach English which he has already said he wants to study with me. I figure we can barter. As both yoga and English are absurdly priced in Xi’An, perhaps we can help each other out. And, if he happens to need to come to my apartment for said lessons where we’re all alone with no one to hear him scream, so be it. I’m willing to take one for the team… just so long as the team’s grapevine stays the hell away from me.