I gave my daughter and husband a hug and a kiss, respectively, then went to grab my coat and bag. Into the icy air of New York City, I headed; down toward the subway station on Upper West side. I inhaled the bracing air through my nose and hunkered down into my warm, sensible knee-length coat, glad that I had worn it over my rather tight pencil dress and thin tights. I tripped along the sidewalk, unaccustomed to my 5 inch high heels. On Fifth ave, I considered hailing a cab, then thought about walking as far as I could before my feet gave out. Instead, I suddenly swerved and ducked into a bar, pulled in by the invitingly yellow-and-blue neon I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye.

Inside, it was festive, warm, and loud, a crowd of people drinking together. Whether or not they had arrived together or had known one another before, alcohol and holiday cheer had caused them to form a cohesive-feeling group. I took off my coat and slung it over my arm, then squirmed my way up to the bar and waited for the bartender to notice me. I could use another glass of wine before I headed out again, I thought. I almost never got to misbehave. I had never had a night out by myself in my entire 40 years of existence on earth. Tomorrow was going to be my last day of work before vacation. Who cared if I was hangover?

I sensed, rather than saw, a young white man sitting to my left at the bar noticing me and keeping his eyes on my face. Being an attractive Asian woman growing up in New York City, I was used to being noticed by white men. I fixed my gaze at the bartender, a busty, skinny blonde in a low-cut mini-dress.

“What are you drinking?” The guy next to me asked, shouting a little over the din and the music.

I ignored him, for lack of any better option. The bartender, in turn, ignored me, but she had plenty to occupy her attention.

“Hey,” he shouted into my ear. “Lemme buy you a drink.”

I shook my head without making eye contact.

He slapped a 10-dollar bill down on the bar and hailed the bartender. She came right over and shot him an inquiring look.

I leaned over the bar and yelled, “A glass of red wine, please. I will pay for it.”

She raised her eyebrow at my new pal with a disbelieving smile and took his 10. I still did not look at him. When the bartender returned with my glass of red wine and 3 ones, he waved away the change. She flashed him a smile. No wonder she was on his side here; she knew I would not have tipped well. I decided not to thank him. I know his kind way too well. Besides, he had forced this on me. I took a sip of wine and tried, unsuccessfully, to forget about him.

“Merry Christmas. And happy Chinese New Year,” he shouted, leaning in toward me. His rocks glass appeared in my peripheral vision; it held something amber, probably whiskey. The ice was crisp and fresh; the drink was almost gone. He was downing them fast.

“I’m not Chinese, but thanks. And Lunar New Year is still two months away.” I knocked my glass with desultory dismissal against his, then took another gulp of wine and fished my cell phone out of my bag, ostensibly to see whether I had any messages, but really, of course, to shake him off.

“Hello, darling, it’s your Chinese mother!” He shouted. “You need to come home now.”

I was annoyed, but kept a straight face. Somehow, inside, I couldn’t help laughing. He was so unrelentingly obnoxious. I put my cell phone back into my bag and gave him my most professional stare. My brief impression of him was that he was a lot younger than I’d expected, and he did not seem to be the stereotypical white guy who would be interested in an Asian woman. Why was he picking on me? I wondered. There were plenty of younger, hotter Asian girls there who were Columbia and NYU students who would have been better fit for his Asian fetish.

I picked up my glass and my bag and struck off through the crowd to find another spot farther down the bar. I stood near the pool table, watching two guys take turns shooting balls into pockets. I felt myself melt with the almost-forgotten pleasure of solitary anonymity in a close, noisy crowd. I had been tense and brittle for so long, I almost collapsed with this release, this softening.

I finished my wine and turned to watch the bartender’s eye. It took her a while to get her to acknowledge me, but I managed to procure another full glass of red wine. I tipped her 2 dollars, then turned back toward the room and breathed the sharp, yeasty smell of my glass of wine and took a tip. It tasted harsher and not as good as the first one, the one my unwanted pursuer had bought me.

One of the boys playing pool noticed me and looked at me for a beat or two longer than usual. The most flattering interpretation of this was that he was stunned by my foxy outfit, but he was probably wondering why someone old enough to be his mom was infiltrating his hangout. I looked back at him, and he dropped his eyes. It was past midnight. My daughter was, no doubt, still awake and texting her friends on her cell phone under the covers pretending to be asleep. My husband was, no doubt, dozing off in his chair, book fallen open face down on his chest.

The thought of our quiet apartment, the two of them isolated in their separate worlds, made the wine in my mouth bitter. If I were home now, I’d be in my own hermetic cave, in bed with a novel and a cup of warm milk.

Throughout my childhood, I have done my best to love everyone and to be loved. I had always been a very bright student, verbal, curious, timid, and obedient. I excelled in all my classes. When I was administered my first IQ test, I learned that my IQ was over 140. In high school, I would quietly and subversively began to challenge and resist the authority of my parents, and was mercilessly struck down. I had always had a frank yearning to be away, to be free, and 40 years later, I’m still here, not any closer to freedom.

It was astonishing to me to realize, as I did over and over again, how little my clinical education, training, expertise, and experience as a psychologist had ever given me myself as a wife, a mother, a woman, a living, breathing human being who yearns to find out just who I really am.

Thank goodness for the wine! I was already half done with this new glass. I counted how many glasses I had had that night and concluded that I was drunk. The fact that I didn’t even feel tipsy meant I had to be well into the maniac zone of false bravado and foolish actions, which I knew all too well from my education could lead to a night of sleeplessness, sheepish regrets and a morning of pain both psychical and physical if I weren’t careful.

Fuck it! Fuck everything! I hailed the bartender. As I did, I caught the eye of the white guy who bought me the first drink. He was still in his spot at the bar, still alone, and he was looking at me, like a feral animal locking his target onto the prey. I looked away but it was too late. He was on his feet and making his way toward me.

“You look thirsty,” He said.

“I am thirsty.” I admitted. He looked 25, at most 30, young enough to be my … younger something. Student perhaps? He was so eager for my company, and I didn’t have anyone better to talk to at the moment. The wine I’d drunk since I arrived had mellowed me considerably and the knowledge of what I was going to have to do about my marriage was pressing in on me from all sides like a shrinking room. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Drinks. Plural.” He said.

“Of course, but I didn’t ask for them.”

“Sure you did.”

I smiled at him, but still shook my head.

“My name is Peter.”

“Jade.”

We clinked glasses. I took a gulp.

“Tell me, Jade. Why do so many Asian women choose the name Jade?”

“Because in Chinese Jade is considered precious and brings good fortune.”

“Aha! So you are Chinese! What do you do, Jade? Besides being someone’s wife?” He pointed to my wedding ring.

“I’m a shrink,” I said bluntly. I didn’t want to lie again. “What about you?”

“Hold on,” he said, “We’ll get to me in a minute. What kind of shrink?”

“No particular kind. I make it up as I go along.”

He looked skeptical.

“I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology from Washington University. In Saint Louis, Missouri. I do not ascribe myself to any particular methodology or school—you know, like Jungian, or behavioral, or whatever. I don’t do therapy by the book. I invent something new for every client. Or, at least I try.”

“How much do you charge?”

“A lot.”

“Can I come and see you?”

“I’ll give you my card.”

“Can I have a session right now? For another glass of wine?”

I laughed.

An hour later, we were still standing there, still leaning against each other as if for warmth and stability in a terrible storm. Both of us had reached a state of drunkenness at which the identity dissolves and becomes so fluid, it merges with the identity of whoever else is around. We had become psychic twins, my new friend Peter and I. Every now and then I would recall with an unpleasant sharpness my husband and daughter and the clients next day and I would push all of that from my mind by saying something loudly and confidently that justified the real and important reason why I was still out til the wee hours getting completely shit-faced with a complete stranger.

“The more tightly a spring is coiled, the more violently it springs forth,” I said.

“That is so true,” said Peter, laughing. “Is that a quote from somewhere? Who said that?”

“Me, right now. Describing myself. Right now.”

“You are springing forth?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, that’s good news for me.”

“Tell me, Peter. How many Asian women like me have you slept with this week?”

God, I was angry at my husband. His sins were legion. He had not looked at me in years, had not expressed a bit of concern about the state of our marriage. His time was up. I’m still young. I thought boozily, still viable, still beautiful. Whatever I’m doing now, it serves him right for ignoring me.

I didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s okay, Peter. I’m springing forth now.” I said. “With a vengeance.”

“Come upstairs with me,” Peter said.

We climbed the stairs to the floor above the bar together and walked through the dark apartments. A room with bare walls and a bare mattress appeared in the middle of the room. “This is where I take all the drunk Asian sluts and fuck them.” He said, as he started kissing me, and stripping me. Within seconds I was completely naked. Our arms around each other and our bodies pressing together. He kissed me probingly, as if he were asking me question after question, demanding answers from me, refusing to be deterred, exactly the way he had pursue me in the bar. The room began to spin slowly, then faster, and I dropped to my knees, and crawled around his feet. He unzipped his jeans, took his cock out, and I opened my mouth and swallowed as much as I could. Then I choked and coughed as his cock was shoved into my throat.

“Not used to be big white ones, aren’t you?” He said with a smirk on his face.

I sucked and licked and stroked it until he came all over my face. Then I sat up, rapt with a sudden cold horror, and said, “I have to go.” Quickly, I dressed, but before I left the room, I gave him my card and I promised him, “But I will be back.”

As I hurried downstairs, I ran into the bartender who was coming up. I looked up at her face and she smiled at me, and said, “It’s okay honey. You are the fifth Asian woman Peter fucked this week.”

The above post is a guest contribution. Opinion expressed and views held are solely the submitter’s and may not be reflective of the Inferior Asian Editor Team.