On Being a Public Sexual Fantasy Posted by Andrew on Friday, April 09 @ 10:00:00 EDT Or, Going to Movies with My Father By Kil Ja Kim

Third World Forum

June 22, 2003 I walk into the movie theater with my father.



We stand in line,

like any pair.



Order a big bucket of popcorn and

two medium sodas.



I wait,

clutching our goodies

as he goes to the john.



When he returns,

I see them staring.



Their eyes upon us.



Watching as my father

takes his drink from my hand.



They stare at us,

wondering how we happened.



My father,

a white man with graying hair,

his glasses sitting disheveled on

his nose.



Me, an Asian woman

in my late twenties,

who is often told she looks

twenty-two.



They stare.

I hunch my shoulders and

look at my ticket.



The letters spell out "Catch me if you can."



I read it again just so

I can have something,

anything,

to avoid that stare.



The look,

the one that says,

ah, he got him one of those.



People wondering how

an old man like

my father,

got him one

of those.



Me, a young Asian woman

with long, silky

black hair.

Me, a young Asian woman

who is young enough to be

his daughter.

Me, a young Asian woman

stared at as my father's public

whore.



We walk into the theater.

Many couples of

men and women

sit together.

Hands holding one another,

their legs touching

comfortably.



Again, my shoulders hunch.

My eyes scan the theater to find us

seats.

Quickly.

Trying to avoid that feeling.



But I can see them looking at us.

And I know that they think we're

fucking.

A young Asian woman with a much older

(white) man.



So appropriate. So appropriate.



People stare,

but few flinch at the sight.

Cuz when they look at me and

my father,

they channel their

own public fantasies of

white-Asian

interracial sexuality

and grown white men

breaking in

young, tight Asian pussy.



We find a seat.

I am aware of how

close I sit to my father.

I don't want any...misunderstanding.



Like when I was in

high school,

and I would wrap my arms around

my father's waist in

familial affection.



It could never be just familial affection.



Grown men would ask

my father if

I was

his wife.



Me,

a fifteen year old girl,

experimenting with makeup and teenage fashion,

my father's wife?



I guess some people would say,

well, what do you expect?



For them to think you were his

daughter?

He is, after all, white and you're Asian.



Daughter, wife,

what's the difference

when the man's white and

the woman's Asian?



I hunch in my seat,

burying my body low into the chair.

I try to relax,

and keep my eyes glued to

the screen.

I try to laugh with

ease.



But I am thinking of how people

see us.



And I know that they think we're

fucking.



And they see nothing wrong with this,

their public fantasy of

old men and

young Asian girls.



This desire's played out,

but it follows me down the street,

in subway cars and taxis.

It touches me on the arms,

and acts bewildered

when I lash out,

at being touched

by people I

do not

know.



I, we, experience men's public fantasies of

saving Asian women from

war.

So you can take us home,

fuck us,

beat us, and

ridicule us

for not speaking English.

Dangling our visas in our face if we

try to leave.



I, we, experience men's public fantasies of

having mixed

Asian baby girls

with us, your young Asian wives.

Mixed Asian baby girls that

can be

secretly desired and

paraded around

as extra pretty cuz

they're "exotic" and have long,

flowing hair

without having

eyes that are too

"chinky."



I, we, experience men's public fantasies of

adopting

young Asian girls.

Whose growing bodies

remind one of nasty pleasures

of young, fresh pussy,

(rumored to be shallow)

ready to be broken in by big dicks.



I, we, experience men's public fantasies of

something many of us

would call

rape.

If you actually thought

Asian women were

rapeable.



An excuse you use to

beat Asian women if you

suspect they are

not "into men."



An excuse you use to maintain your

public fantasy of

Asian women as

pliant.

Always ready to

sleep with a man while cooing,

oh, oh, me so horny,

i love you long time.



A fucked up

phrase,

a fucked up

myth

torn from

a Hollywood

scene of war.

Immortalized on a

rap album

by men

whose respect for women

is in the least,

questionable.



The public sexual fantasies of

these men

burn into

my skin,

are mapped on

my body.

Heard in their voice

every time they say with

disappointment,

oh,

I thought you were

only twenty.



Their stares burn

into my skin,

puncture my flesh,

just like when old vets

from the war come

up to me and

let me know they "like"

Asian women and that

we're the "best" in

bed.



And when they talk,

my fists clench up while

my eyes travel to

their hats.

hats that

proudly display

the name of an Asian country they

helped tear apart.

some forced to

fight in wars to

survive

still wear that damn hat.



I cannot fathom why

they think

I would want to

fuck them

when they have the name of

a country

I never really got to know

on my own terms,

sewn into their hats,

with the words

US Army underneath.



Even the vets who preach

that war is wrong,

tell me that they realized

they didn't feel right

destroying a country with such

beautiful scenery and beautiful

people.



And I know that their idea of

beautiful people means

Asian women who

fucked men to

make a living,

just so that her family

could eat.

Or so that she could move away from

a country with

land mines

and bombs

and forced prostitution

(after all, marriage is supposedly NOT prostitution).



Their idea of beautiful people means

young Asian girls

running naked in the streets,

trying to escape the threat of

being burned alive by

napalm.

Their burnt Asian girly flesh a reminder of

what the vets "saved" them from.



Making me wonder,

if you didn't find us fuckable,

would you

be more supportive of

war?



Sitting in that theater, I try to

shake off the

memories of

the stares,

the words,

the licked lips in anticipation.

I hunch in my seat,

lower,

until my head is sunk

so far down you

can't see it from

the back of the room.



Plunging my hand in

buttery popcorn,

I stare at the movie.

And try to let the

darkness of

the dimmed lights

hide my

(young) Asian female body and

my white father beside me.