**This is the denouement or Killer in closing**
I’m impressed. Not because of what you wrote but because of what you didn’t write. It took me three times of reading it and a long talk with a sponsee who’s mother is days away from dying for me to see what was unsaid. I was busy looking at your words and not your heart behind them. Perhaps I see things a little more clearly now. Helping others always helps me. Here’s how…
By the third try, after my emotions had settled and my anxiety and fear had evaporated, what I saw when I read your letter was hurt.
Behind the stories of older, white men you didn’t like was the story of the older white man you do. Given your experience in this area and your repeating patterns, it sounds to me like while older, white men often find you attractive, you find them attractive too.
For the record, I don’t often see Chinese women I’m attracted to. I can count on one hand the number of women who have caught my eye since I’ve arrived. For me, China has been a desert, barren of beauty. You were a light blue oasis. If you don’t believe me, look in the mirror, it’s in your hair.
I can imagine, in almost every case, the older men you meet are interested in exactly what you describe, singing you songs of praise and prose hoping to lure you into opening your legs and then leaving once you have. If I were in your shoes, I would be hurt for the lies and the deception. I would have thought “If you want to fuck, fuck, don’t dress it up in romance and promise me the moon.”
[Why do men lie and say they want more than sex when they don’t? Probably because most women want more than just sex. In this way, I’m no different than most men. I too want sex. The way I might be different is that I want more and I don’t say that unless I mean it. If all I want is sex, I am very careful to explain that is all I want. I cannot live comfortably in my own skin if I lie and beguile and deceive, not because I’m afraid of a woman’s consequences but because I’m afraid of my own conscience.]
Then I came along, another older, white man who seemed somewhat but only slightly different. Maybe you liked me the way you felt (I’m sure you can sense when men like you, most women can) I liked you too. Maybe you wondered if I were unlike the others. I listened. I tried not to judge. I spoke plainly, or at least I seemed to. Maybe you even liked me more than you were willing to say and more than you cared to admit. But how could you know if I were any different from all the other obsessive-up-until-sex older, white men you had met? How could you discover this? Certainly you couldn’t ask because I would have lied, right? I wouldn’t have told you that what began as attraction and curiosity wanting to see what might organically unfold over time was what I was interested in, because when does a man do that? When does a man want more than sex? Maybe when he thinks he found someone who “fits.”
Maybe a good way for you to test this suspicion, since asking outright won’t help, is to say “I don’t want sex. I want your trip. I want your flight. I want your job but I don’t want your dick.” Maybe that’s what you tried. Maybe I failed. But maybe I didn’t…
Maybe what I wanted was for someone who was experiencing this with me, to be open to the unknown and willing to wait and watch and see it unfold. Maybe I didn’t rule it out but I didn’t require it either.
Sex for sex’s sake doesn’t interest me. Having sex because I can is “no sale.” I love sex as much as any other (maybe a bit less actually) but I certainly don’t want sex with someone I don’t find attractive and with whom I don’t share chemistry. Maybe that’s why prostitution never appealed to me, because there’s no mutual chemistry. Nevertheless…
Maybe that test, that putting it out there, is what put me off. Maybe I wanted to look for the door that said “sex, maybe” instead of slamming it shut. Maybe what I felt was taken advantage of. “I’ll agree to come along and I’ll promise to do the work but I won’t deliver (on phone calls, reservations, etc). You can book your own tickets, you can reserve your own room and you can sleep in your own bed.” Maybe that is what I was afraid of. Maybe we were both afraid of being walked on and maybe I never said “I’m sorry” because maybe I’m not.
Killer, I am not a “nice” man. I am not a “good” man. I am a broken man who finds beauty in brokenness, a form of that brokenness I found in you.