Ariella: An Asian Chick, On Being Fetishized
I bought Ariella for a 1-litre bottle of Coke and a two-minute handjob. It wasn’t a bargain. You can call human life priceless, but when I got her she was a limp, easy shell with nothing to her name but a 350 x 263 pixel prom dress and a pretty smile—and I give a fucking good handjob.
When I was 14, I sucked Michael Barra’s cock in the art room supply closet—three point five minutes. I didn’t do it for the 50 bucks I made him pay, and I didn’t do it to steal him away from his pretty, white, Catholic schoolgirl girlfriend. I did it to be cool. Sex was cool; I knew that long before the art room supply closet. I was one of those kids who would hear you say something sucked and say, really quiet, that sucking was a good thing, although until I used that line on Michael Barra I was bluffing.
At lunch I asked him not to tell, then sat in the corner so I could watch the rumour spread. I was going to be the sex queen of junior high, the fuck hot princess slut who slipped into a thousand first-time wet dreams. Every few heads or so I saw someone turn to look for me, and once in a while the voices filtered up like preteen cigarette smoke and grazed my ears. Except it wasn’t “fuck hot princess slut,” it was “that Asian girl.” I got some satisfaction in fifth period when I saw the pretty, white, Catholic schoolgirl girlfriend crying in the library only to find out it was because she heard that rumour about him liking Asian girls.
What the fuck?
Not that this deterred my appetite; I still love the cock. I’ve just grown numb to being “the Asian slut” and never just “the slut.” The Asian sub. The Asian raver-girl. If a guy likes me, it’s because he has yellow fever. If I want a white guy, it’s because my Asian boyfriend is too small. If I want an Asian guy, it’s because my white boyfriend is too big. If I’m with a black guy, people just openly gawk like I’m eye-fuck exhibit #1. I like the attention, but I fucking hate the racial shit. I used to wonder why it mattered that much, we’re like two inches on a colour bar away from each other.
That was before Ariella.
She was already a regular in a bunch of chatrooms when I got her, #girls, #gangbang, #cocksuckingwhores. Nothing really interesting, but hey, it got the job done. I’d log on, tease the living fuck out of some poor guy or girl with all of Arie’s dirty little secrets, come and sign off. Like Dr. Gonzo, I have no faith in the decency of the white man’s culture, even less so in the fuck-hungry world of online chatting. As far as I am concerned, it is get off or be gotten off, and I work quickly. Ariella is a fucking pro. She’s antsy, quick to tease and faster to fuck, she goes right for the dirt—jumps on any excuse to make a handcuff joke or squeeze her way into your really nasty fantasies. She’ll put up with your petty “where you from, what you look like?” bullshit, assuming you’re intelligent enough to capitalize and use full sentences, but only enough to give you the right picture: dirty blonde, dilettante princess with daddy issues. If you’re still sending rose emoticons and telling her you like to cuddle at this point, it’s time to move on.
You’d be better off. It’s easy to read people’s fetishes, even when they don’t list them in a profile, quicker than that and I’ve got you knee-deep in the shit you’re not even sure is legal, promising yourself you’ll format your computer after this one and then buy your wife a dozen roses. Don’t get me wrong, they love that part. I can feel the heat from inside their pockets when I play the age-baiting game, and even when I just guess blindly by googling “fetish” and clicking a random number I can usually get them off. I just never do.
It’s so much more fun to come and run. I’m not one to judge, I fucking love it, every dirty little secret I wriggle out, every twisted fantasy I encourage, every groaning spasm I devote to the Old Testament God of Kitten-Killing, I get off on. It’s not just the satisfaction of getting them so hard they turn into savages, it’s not even the pleasure of coming first and effortlessly hitting the big red x to kiss them goodbye, it’s Arie herself I get off on. Not that I can’t achieve that level of slut, I’m hotter than some pixelated white girl who doesn’t exist, but I know I’d always have that “Asian” tag stapled right above my pretty almond-shaped eyes. Arie has no such tag, just the word “fuckmeat” carved into her right shoulder.
I no longer wonder why people get so stuck up with race. Ariella, the fuck princess I could never be, has shown me the truth. There’s no such thing as white people. They are a fucking lie, they’re the assumption, the standard, and goddamnit they are hot. When you cut away the race (which makes you white), you’re left with just the sex. That’s what Arie is, what I’ve turned her into: all my sexual tension, that grade-eight do-it-to-be-cool mentality that’s been burning hotter than this laptop on my thighs for ten years.
Needless to say, I’ve created a monster. Her regulars are desperate to meet her, her reputation as a come&run slut of the highest calibre only entices the champs to try to break her like a wild horse. They always fail. And what’s worse is I am fucking hot for her. I thought getting off in front of a mirror was vain, but I no longer fantasize about fucking the people I want to fuck, I fantasize about Ariella fucking them. I masturbate to my own chat logs, and everybody I’ve dated in the last two years has cheated on me with the mystery tease that somehow ends up in their contacts. It’s only a matter of time before she climbs out of the screen like some horror movie that sucked even before it was remade for cracker consumption, fucks me into oblivion and I spend the next thousand years trapped in the tubes of the internet as OrientalSlut83. But I’ll still beg her to get me off, and you will too.
