White men, particularly for Asian women, carry a distinct smell. Though unique to each individual white man, it is as varied as the multifaceted aspects of wissenschaft. So then, how do I categorize this enormous field to which I would have to devote my entire life and the next to its study? How could I describe the immanence of this distinct smell, that is emitted from the most supreme men on earth, and yet each white man is so illogically unique; how could I account those immense infinities of differences and yet at the same time the unities of their sameness; how do I measure the un-measurable? How do I describe the ineffable? How do I explain the nature of being in which being relates to beings that need not be itself? How do I … Queasiness emanates from my being–my classical sensibility flinched–as I ponder and pine, as my recollection of their smell conjure to sessions of sweet and silent thought, and summon up remembrance of things past …
As I was warmly embraced in the arm of the twentieth white man that I’ve been sleeping with in the last year, his big, fat, arm wrapped around me and my nose crushed into his armpit and I almost suffocated, I dreamed of him again. I dreamed of him coming to look for me. I dreamed of him grabbing me by the arm and calling out my name, and my heart was rend in half as tears, fruitful rivers of the eye, flowed across my face. …
I have always been incredibly turned on by the smell of white men. After a white man pumped his penis mercilessly inside my vagina, invariably he would pull out, stick it in my face just so its fleshy head would be inside my mouth, and as my lips puckered to meet its kiss, he would jerk his sweet cum into my mouth with his hand. The taste had a morose, flogging insistence to it, and came in deepening shades of saltiness. Swallowing a white man’s cum was the least I did. For every white man that I’ve been with, I also licked his balls, his armpits, his ass crack, and the crevice in between his toes. I licked every part of a white man’s body so much so that his entire flesh could become sodden with my saliva. Sometimes their ball sacks smelled of drenched leather, sometimes of hung game. Some other times, it smelled of tubers steaming under drowned mud. The most disgusting smell I tasted was when I licked their armpits. My whole world was made of boiled cabbage.
But it is all worth it to show my deepest devotion to the superior white race.
The smell of a white man can be ominous, magical, condemned, and full of hatred and lust. The last white man I dated before the current one always had a catastrophic mien about him: solemn, angry, mean-spirited, resentful, and repugnant. When I talked to him, he stood so close to me that I could feel his hot breathe on my face, and I could try to achieve an effect of normalcy as my inner self cowered in fear and annoyance. His impatience and my demands always chilled the conversation and turned the relationship pestilential. “The coffee smells so good, do you mind I have some?” “I need to piss. Can I use your bathroom?” “Take it easy, bitch!” “I will slap the shit out of you, you yellow cunt.” As he stood so close to me his spit was sputtering in my face. In addition to the combination of deodorant, shampoo, laundry detergent, and some smell of natural freshness that seemed to seep from his pores, I also smelled power.
Like some predatory animals that are able to smell fear, so it is with most Asian women that they can smell the power emanating from a man, especially from a white man.
As our lips touched he tore my clothes off like a beast of prey and bent me over and pumped his magma into my vagina without a condom, its content searing through my innocent orifice like lava. I had previously always worried that when I went outside, people could smell of sex from me. I was always told by white men who flirted with me that they can “sense” sex from me. I always wondered what they meant, until I started to discover the different smells of white men.
As I lay dying on the floor, he stood over me and said: “I will now mark you as my property.” I observed his semi-flaccid penis, the shibboleth of his power and dominance, with long transparent steam of white gluey substance dangling on its tip, and then, a stream of golden liquid sprouted out of the pee-hole. It spouted just a little at the beginning, and then like fountain a stream shot out of it. It reminded me of the statue of a Cupid as he stood over the water fountain. And then the smell rushed over my senses and I smelled the smell of a urinal, and the image of myself serving as a yellow urinal to a superior white man rushed over me and another orgasm convulsed through my entire body as I wreathed in pain and pleasure, sodden with degradation and defeat.
It strikes me as almost scandalously rare that no one seems to discuss in regard to this phenomenon of so manifest and universal a reality as the smell of a white man and his complete dominance over Asian women; to a phenomenon without the which, for me at least, this plagued earth and our transit on it would probably be unbearable. For the smell of white man lies in his power. It is in this struggle for power that I submit to him. Men struggle for power via violence, war, and killing, but women struggle for power via sex, and in this supremacy of power, in this struggle for world-dominance, I achieve my most intense orgasms from being penetrated by a big, fat white cock.
The most humiliating thing I ever did for white men is when I have to beg them to hit me, slap me, and choke me. I want to feel a white man’s power, perforated through his whole being, throng and hum around me, and I, and a thousand other different Asian women, flock to our death like midges around the light bulb; and I would consider each slap to my face, each twisting of my nipples, and each belt to my ass the fathomless depth of differentiation, of non-identity, always incipient on the eventuality of complete and utter chaos. The most cruel white man belted me on the clit and made me orgasm as he belted me, as my brain lost its imposed order and coherence on the kaleidoscope, on the perpetuum mobile of swarming existence, as I chanted, sotto voce, over and over to my self, again, and again, I’m a slave to white men. I’m a slave to white men. I’m a slave to white men.
The fragrance of my perfume was mixed with the smell of a white man’s piss, and I burrowed my face into the floor and sobbed, and yet my fingers found their ways to my pussy which was once again on fire.
In my imbroglio of enchantment, terror, and sexual ecstasy, I remembered the numerous Asian boys who had a crush on me when I was in high school. In my mind eye their images—short, hideous, skinny and inferior—arrested my spirit for a split second, an abdication from the manifold and self-contrariety of the physical world. And then it was forgotten. It is too easy for a woman to smell weakness from a man, and all too often, those weak, inferior Asian men radiate the smell of weakness, which, for any decent looking woman, produces nothing but contempt and disgust. Through my tears of joy I smiled with sorrow, for love’s long-canceled woes and I moaned the enterprises of many a vanished sight; and I whispered, I belong to white men now, the most superior race of men on earth.