My Lolita by Que Son (readict .txt) 📖

who can fuck 10 times a day. Me, i can only manage 2 times--and not only that, my penis needs a large amount of stimulation to get erected. I hate the fact that i am not a young man anymore. And i hate even more my attraction to young women. Call me a dirty old man if you like, and i will not object.

 

Three months into our correspondence, D suddenly stops writing. I become anxious, wondering what happens. I write and tell her i miss her and ask her what's going on. She writes back and says that she has been in an emotional crisis, and apologizes for making me worried. She says she feels absolutely alone. That she is devastated. That she has been crying. That she has lost faith in people. That she cannot concentrate on school. I press her for details. And she returns with a long email message describing what has happened to her that almost made her lose her mind. She had a friend since childhood. A male friend. Someone she is fond of and trust. But no love. They were just close friends. A few weeks ago, the guy declared to her that he loved her and wanted to take the friendship one step further--and threatened that if she turned down his proposal, he would end the friendship. Despite the lack of genuine feeling of love for him, she agreed to act as if she was his girlfriend, because she did not want to lose his friendship. Besides, she told herself, let me give it a chance, maybe i can fall in love with him. And they started to date. One night, he took her to his room. And suddenly he forced himself on her, demanding sex. Terrified, she resisted, punched and slapped him, and escaped. She says she could not believe he would attempt such a thing on her. And now she rejected him as a friend, wanting nothing to do with him. She says she has lost a dear friend--a devastating loss to her. Not only that, she has lost faith and trust in the goodness of people. She says she kept what happened to herself, and cried alone at night, and felt as if she was going crazy. Again, i resume the role of a shrink. Fuck that guy and fuck D's idiocy: getting involved with someone while unsure of her feelings for him. What has happened to her can be seen as attempted rape, prosecutable to the fullest extent of the law. But i guess she wants to keep things quiet because of shame. We feverishly write to each other everyday, all on this incident. And i gave her a lot of advices, trying to help her recover from the shock. At last, she regains her composure. She says the guy has apologized for his behaviors and wants things between them to be normal again. I tell her i don't agree with them resuming the friendship, because what has happened was super bad.

 

All through these exchanges, i feel as if i am falling in love with her. And the feeling becomes stronger after each email. I change the tone in my emails, addressing her more intimately. And one time I even conclude an email with the word "Love." In one of the messages sent to her, i hint that i am in love with her. But i add that it is my own business, that she may be the subject of my affection, but it is not binding on her to respond. She talks around the subject, does not mention what i say, but asks me if i have a chance to travel to Sai Gon and meet her. And you must let me know two weeks in advance because i don't like surprises, she writes. I tell her that she is making me love her. And she says she is not sure what her feelings for me are, being that we never meet. I ask her to paint a picture for me, and i give her the details of what i want in the picture. I say that she is a talented artist. And she agrees to do it. I painted a picture many years ago in which there is a blue sky and within it are a pair of hands open up and hovering above the hands are a pair of red lips, a heart, and two butterflies. I was crazily in love with a teenage girl when i painted that picture, a real Lolita. I forget what happened to that painting. I might have given it away, or lost it during one of my moves from one apartment to another. I gave D all these details, and she says that when she is not too busy with schoolwork, she will paint the picture for me, with watercolor. She sends me a song, with lyrics that imply love at first sight. I am thrilled and listen to the song over and over. I start thinking about her days and nights. I must see her.

 

I know i am in love with a ghost, an abstraction, but this abstraction has touched something in my heart and makes me feel alive. Every evening, i go into the cafe and check for her mails. And they never fail to be there. I am hooked. I was given the love drug. And i must have it everyday. One day without a word from her and feel like dead: sad and depressed. I scold her. And she returns with apologies. Now she knows i love her. But never once she discloses her feelings for me. She evades the subject ... saying that she cannot tell until we meet. To her, i am "only" 32 years old, just the same age as her oldest brother. So, it is no big deal if we progress beyond friendship. But i become increasingly anxious. Because i am not 32, but 47. And as i says, i am old enough to be her father despite my younger looks. Would she accept that? Not a chance. I don't see any possibility. Again, she asks me when i am going to go to Sai Gon and meet with her? Why this insistence? Is she for real? Is she feeling something about me but does not have the courage to mention it? Or she may be feeling something vague and wants to clarify and confirm her feelings by seeing me in the flesh?

 

I start to check myself in the mirror each chance i get, mostly in the bathrooms. I see the bags under my eyes, the gray hairs on my head, and the two grooves around my mouth, and the double chins--not clearly, but they are there and becoming more visible. What's more, i have a beer belly. At the same time, i imagine her to be a young blossom: only 20 years old, pretty, burst with life and joy and hope--unlike me, a depressed old man who is an alcoholic, obsessed with death, and never knows what to say in an encounter with a stranger: I have been a loner for too long. But this girl is injecting the life into me and i am slowly becoming alive. While excited at the idea of seeing my dream lover, i am afraid of rejection, which to me is a strong possibility.

 

I have said to myself many times that when i love, i just want to love and do not care if my love is returned. I say i am holier than Jesus, who loves you but wants you to love him back. Me, i am above that petty human emotions: i can dispenses unconditional love. For me, just be able to love is fulfilling enough, and i am thankful that my heart is still able to love, and there is an object onto which to project the love. But how wrong i am. I have been idealistic. Now because of loving this young woman, i have reversed the rhetoric: i want her to love me too. I want her to love me as i love her. And i would feel devastated if my love is not answered. Yeah, i love and want to be loved. What's wrong with that?

 

And I plan a vacation to go see D. I cannot wait any longer. I book a flight and inform her of the day i will arrive in Sai Gon. She says she is anxious to see me. She gives me the location where we are going to meet, the time and the date and how i can recognize her. She will wear a red t-shirt and blue jeans and a black baseball cap. She says she is about 5' 4" tall, and slim. I say to her that i will wear a white shirt and a gray pair of slack, my complexion is dark, and i am 5' 9" tall. And that i will carry in my hands a rolled up newspaper. The location is a cafe in the center of the city. I will sit at a corner table at 3 pm sharp, and she will arrive fifteen minutes later.

 

 

 

 

 

Six

 

I arrive in Sai Gon on a wet day. It is July and in this corner of the earth, the monsoon season is raging. I fly for twenty hours, including transfers at different airports. My mind and heart are all messed up. I am confused, anxious, full of expectation, happy, sad, worried--a boiling pot of conflicting emotions. I cannot sleep during the flight despite all the alcohol and the pills. I don't eat. I only drink, and the flight attendants are tired of me.

 

I walk out of the Sai Gon airport terminal, carrying a backpack. I have no luggage. I have no need for luggage. I can buy what i need on location, including changes of cloths. It is raining and i look at the rain. The taxi drivers ask me if i want rides. I shake my head, no, not right now. I come into a coffee shop and order a beer. From here i can see the parking lot and the pouring rain. The rain comes down in short and thunderous bursts every five minutes or so. I feel as if in a dream. Things around me, the tables, the chairs, the people, the landscape, the noises and the music, the conversations around me, all are floating images. They are surreal. My head is in the clouds. And i am dead tired. The rendezvous with D is tomorrow. Torrents of questions race through my head. But most distinct of all were apprehension and dread. I have traveled this far, in this state of mind, just to find out if my fantasies are at last no longer fantasies? Am i stupid? Am i crazy? Am i such a dreamer? What if D turns out to be a 40 year old woman and ugly like a witch? What if she does not show up? And what if she is who she says she is, a perfectly sexy 20 year old, nice and sweet? And seeing that i am not what i say i am, she rejects me? Someone may have the last laugh at this, and that would not be me. For sure.

 

The waitress places a bottle of beer and a glass in front of me and says 30,000. I pay her. She takes the money and walks away, swaying her big ass. I want to stop her in her track and bite into those buns until they bleed. And i want to drink her blood and chew on her flesh. Like in a zombie movie. And what am i now if not a zombie? I finish the beer and stagger out. My legs are not strong enough to support the weight of my body and my brain. I wave a taxi driver over, and walk with him to his cab. The last burst of rain has ended and another one will come