The Daughters of Mao — Patricia Wong
We, the daughters of the Cultural Revolution, were raised absurdly ignorant about sex. Not that we were fed outright falsehoods and twisted concepts that selfishly served patriarchal interests. It was that we were not given any information at all – not by our parents, not by our extended family, not by our friends and certainly not by our teachers. When I had my first period, my mother rushed to picked me up from school (I started dripping during history class and the teacher asked me to go to the Principal’s office) and took me home, clearly irritated and embarrassed that I had decided to begin my menstrual bleeding in public. I was frightened and distraught at first, thinking that something had gone terribly wrong with my health. But seeing that Mother was not panicking, I knew I was not in danger. She was a fretful woman when it came to her children’s health and would have rushed me to the hospital without a thought if it were serious.
Mother didn’t explain to me much about what was happening and simply said, “Don’t be afraid. You will from now on bleed like this every month. It is part of becoming a woman.” And that was that.
When we finally discovered sex – well into our mid-twenties — we initially thought that our ignorance was the result of our Chinese culture. But later on, I learned that it was not – that it was simply the sad result of the Cultural Revolution, and that before the Communists had taken it upon themselves to force virtue upon the people, the Chinese were not the sexual idiots that we, the generation that eagerly absorbed the simplistic slogans of cynical dogma, had become.
So I was joyful when I heard Bao tell us about her masturbating Gramma. Chun, Li and I had told her about Mala, trying to shock her the way we were shocked, but she was not impressed.
“Gramma used to do that,” Bao nodded without missing a beat. “My Mom used to tell us that Gramma was praying, but as we grew older, we started to suspect that she was doing something else. She used to lock herself in her room three times a day: 10 in the morning, 3 in the afternoon, and 9 at night, before sleep. She would be in the room for a good half hour. One day, when I was 12, I was taking a nap in her room and so I had a chance to witness Gramma in action. Pretending to be fast asleep, I peeked from under the cover and I saw Gramma pour some Rum in her small medicine cup, remove all of her clothes, take out a jar of olive oil and pour a few drops on her left hand. Then she closed the jar and carefully lay down on the bed beside me. She then took up the cup of Rum, drank it in one shot, put the cup back down and then started rubbing her vagina with her left hand while squeezing her small breasts with her right hand. And then, she started heaving and grunting, and then she gave one sudden spasm that surprised me with its vigor. She was then still for a few seconds, then she pulled up her blanket and within seconds was snoring.”
Then there was the story that Li told us about, what used to take place in the back room of the restaurant her family owned in Changsha. It was a large room where old women in their sixties and seventies spent all day sitting on low stools (some squatting), peeling and cleaning vegetables for the kitchen. The back room opened to a back alley and often the door was slightly ajar to let in some air when the room became too stuffy.
She told us about how the room also served as a place where men could come in from the back alley, hand over 20 Yuen, pull their pants down and start masturbating in front of the elderly ladies.
The ladies would then languidly pull out their respective breasts, one breast at a time, and start bouncing them left and right as they pealed their vegetables, fixing their stare at the male and his cock. After a few seconds of tense silence, they would start making loud comments, speaking to one another in raspy but strong old voices, talking about the man in front of them loud enough for him to hear everything. They would talk about his demeanor, how his penis was thick or thin, long or short, how his balls were round or dangling, shaved or unshaved, always giving an honest and accurate description of what they were seeing without ever addressing him directly. Then, at one point, one of the women would get up and start clucking loudly like a chicken, flapping her arms and raising her skirt above her ass, her old breasts stretching and droopy and her old ass exposed fully, bent and facing the masturbator. Then, she would stop, part her legs, look down at her pussy, her arms pushing against her ass, and start tightening the muscles of her stomach. A few seconds later, a white, glistening ping pong ball would emanate from her vagina. Usually, several loud farts would also accompany the emerging ball. The ball would then finally fully come out and bounce on the floor for a few seconds, quickly followed by a second ball. The men invariably groaned and grunted and began to masturbate more intensely at the sight of the bouncing ping pong balls and the sound of the loud farts.
The old women knew what they were doing; they knew what buttons to push. They knew how to make eye contact, what to say, how to present themselves as pure sexual creatures, their age helping rather than detracting from the purity of their objectification. There was no beauty to interfere with the purely sexual act. They were old women who incarnated human sexuality, who knew sex inside out, and who had reduced themselves to the essence of a sexual being. All of this the men understood instinctively was at the essence of what drove them to visit the ladies at the back room.
And within a few minutes, the men would be ejaculating loudly, depositing their white liquid on the old newspaper sheets that had been stretched under their feet, some leaving small drops of semen, others a sizeable puddle.
Then there was the story that Li told us about a friend of her Great Aunt who had become famous in her village as the healer of marital strife. Her therapy was simple: the men would visit her and spend the night with her, and would engage her in continuous, vigorous coitus with the strict requirement to ejaculate at least three times during the night. The therapy was prescribed by a committee of village elders commissioned to ensure martial stability in the village. In certain situations, when the tension between a husband and his wife seemed to be linked to no specific, identifiable cause, and when such tension lingered stubbornly and led to chronic clashes, the elders would prescribe a night with Mrs. Zhin. The wives were fully appraised of the recommendations, which they always accepted without second thought. And remarkably, that simple prescription almost always brought harmony to the troubled households. She started her healing practice when she was in her mid thirties and retired when she was in her early seventies. She raised a healthy family of two boys and one girl and maintained a happy marriage throughout. She practiced her craft openly and no one bothered her. In fact, she was held in high honor and was spoken of always in reverential terms. When she passed away, shortly before the advent of the Cultural Revolution, hundreds of people, men and women, attended her funeral to pay their last respects.
I loved these stories. They comforted me and made me feel proud to be a Chinese, instead of ashamed and confused.
Patricia Wong is an erotic fiction writer. She is the author or several eroctic short stories and a novel, “The Pat Wong Diaries,” Published by “Brave World Publications,” and available via Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Pat-Wong-Diaries-Chronicles-Middle-Aged/dp/1441455388/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1278178311&sr=8-1