My grandfather asked me to come over to his apartment today to help him with a computer problem. There was a website that wasn’t working for him. I dragged my 15-year-old brother along because he is much more knowledgeable than I am about these things, but I have the advantage that I can actually communicate with both of them.

Now understand that my grandfather is almost 80, speaks no English, and only learned to use a computer a few months ago. I hooked him up with one of our old laptops that were going to end up in the e-waste center, installed the Chinese interface, and showed him how to use the internet so that he could “watch Chinese TV shows”. Every time I go home, I find my grandfather sitting on the couch, watching the actual TV and a TV show on the computer at the same time, usually a permutation of Chinese news, soap opera, or Peking opera.

So you can imagine my surprise today when I took a look at the website he had trouble with and it was a porn website. And I had dragged my younger brother over to help as well! Well there was actually just one small pornographic advertisement in the corner, and the rest of the page was a Chinese forum. I gave my grandfather the benefit of the doubt and assumed that he was visiting a site that happened to have bad ads. That happens to me sometimes too.

“It’s not your computer, it’s the website that has a problem. Can you still use it as you normally would? Then just keep doing that.”

After we left, my brother told me, “I wish Grandfather wouldn’t ask us for help with a porn website.” That’s when I found out that, apparently, when I am not at home, my grandfather frequently watches porn on his computer in our living room, while my two younger brothers (15 and 17 years old) are in the house. I should’ve listened more carefully when those muppets from Avenue Q refrained, “The internet is for porn.”

“So what do you do about it? Did you tell mom?”

“No, it’s not relevant. He’s over 18 so he’s allowed to watch porn. I just ignore it. All males watch porn. Sex is a natural human process.”

OK that is an interesting and bizarrely mature way to look at it. I guess I never really talk to my little brothers about sex. What happened to my baby brother who liked Thomas the Tank Engine so much that he would ride the metro back and forth just for fun?

My other grandfather lived with us while I was growing up, and I would frequently walk into a room to find him browsing porn websites. Later, when I tried to use the computer, all the viruses and pop-ups from the porn website would appear. I told my parents and my grandfather stopped using the computer. Maybe I shouldn’t have tattled, but I was a ten year old girl and I was freaked out.

It is my initial response to think, it’s fine if you want to watch porn but you shouldn’t watch it in such a public place. After thinking about it some more though… no, why should people be so private about it? Why is it any different than watching a youtube video? We watch movies with sex scenes in them in public all the time. I’m pleasantly surprised that someone of my grandparents’ generation can have such a liberal mindset that he would ask his grandchildren to help him with his porn.

Honestly, I think it’s cute that my grandfather watches porn. My grandmother died six years ago, and her illness left her almost a vegetable six years before that. Now, my grandfather has met and been seeing a new companion for the past two years. He even asks me to address her as grandmother, and brought her to my college graduation. Yes, it’s great that he can still enjoy sex in whatever capacity he can. I’m looking forward to a future when I am a grandparent and I can continue to watch porn and speak to my grandchildren freely about sex.

Mood: 8 Done with tests and spent the whole weekend relaxing at home! Tiredness: 8 Slept 10 hours last night! Spiritual Tiredness: 7 no more tests!

Suffocated by dark grey walls. (Are they dark grey, or just grey and dark because of the lighting.) Even though it’s winter, the air is so thick that I can smell the dampness, or maybe it’s the silence.

Only it’s not silent. A small TV in the corner of the ceiling emits the white noise from some news program. The volume is just enough to discern audible phonemes, but not quite for comprehension. That’s ok, no one is watching anyway. The xerox machine rhythmically hums its bland soundtrack.

Outside the late afternoon sun backdrops the beginning of rush hour traffic. The kind of sun right at that angle where you can’t quite block it out of your driving view with the, who knows what those things called anyway.  Dark orange penetrates the blinds of the sole window, and leaves its footprints in neat parallels on the mauve carpet.

Fourty-four black cushioned chairs lined side-by-side, back to back. Always those black cushioned chairs! On them, twenty pairs of eyes, but none of them directed at me. Some young, some old, but most belong to young to middle-aged adults. An old man in a navy baseball cap and black faux leather jacket is the only other Asian – everyone else is Hispanic. Most of them are overweight. No one looks at each other. The children’s occasional hysterics are our only respite.

On the other side of the wall are the nurses. Through the windows peeking into the work room, the fluorescent light reflecting off their bright purple scrubs are the only source of color in this microcosm. They don’t look at us either, only occasionally call a name. Another one of us disappears to the other side.

Description of my experiences at Planned Parenthood clinic

“How did you do number 4.a?”  I don’t look up from my book. Time is limited, and I am tired.

“What?”

He’s staring blankly at me, clearly distracted. “Oh.. I don’t know, I think it’s in the lecture slides somewhere…”

“You really don’t look like you want to work on this problem set.” Oh underclassmen…

He’s grinning that guilty smile, like he wants to tell me something.

“It’s my birthday this weekend. My boyfriend is taking me to the San Jose Sharks game.”

“Oh cool!” I’m smiling. They had only recently gotten back together, so good for them.

“And then I’m going to donate blood in the blood drive organized by them and Stanford.” He looks so happy and excited…

“Oh..” Try not to show your thoughts, Crystal.

“I don’t know if you know this but…” How am I supposed to explain this to him?

“They don’t exactly…

allow…

menwhohavehadsexwithothermendonateblood.”

There, I said it.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“They’re paranoid of HIV.”

He’s not responding. Maybe I should keep talking.

“It’s a really stupid rule. It’s just a relic from the old days when they didn’t know what was causing HIV and the blood supply would get contaminated.”

Still no response.

“You see, these days they test for HIV in everyone’s blood after it’s collected, so there should be no risk. But still, they won’t accept you.”

Finally, he’s about to say something.

“What will they do if I show up?”

“They will literally turn you away. They will say, ‘I’m sorry but you cannot donate blood in the US.’”

“But not all gay men have HIV. I don’t have HIV.”

I don’t know what else to say. I can’t explain it to him, because there really is no explanation. I’ve never experienced a silence so loud before.

“Guess I’m not doing that then.”

Read Bad Blood Part I

(continuation of the migrant worker thread)

“Let’s take a gamble,” he whispered.

“Let me come inside of you, and if you are pregnant, we’ll marry and live the rest of our lives together.”

Any objective 3^rd party would look at this situation and warn the girl, “DON’T DO IT! ARE YOU CRAZY?!” In any case, that’s what I wish I had told myself. There’s something numbing about sexual moments that leave any trace of rationality in that fuzzy place far away. It’s there, but you can’t quite make out its outline, like an old friend from long ago. In its place tugs my guilty desire for romanticism and adventure. The thrill of a risk, and the remote chance of abandoning my ivy-grown life for the simple, rustic lifestyle in the Chinese countryside – like one of those princess-meets-peasant type fairytales. Truthfully, I almost wanted him to get me pregnant.

As soon as we finished, I fell back down to reality. Well, not quite. I went to the opposite extreme and obsessed over the paranoid possibility that I was now HIV positive. My researcher-hat thinking took the reins. He came from a low-income, low-education background, I reasoned, both factors associated with HIV infection. He had had one other partner before, and they didn’t use condoms. He’s never been tested for STD’s. I was going to die of HIV.

That was the last time I saw him, because the next day I flew back to school. I immediately made an appointment for an HIV test. The nurse was nice enough, but I was turned off by her – perhaps a little too unfairly.

“Why are you getting an HIV test today?”

“Because I had unprotected sex.” Why else…

“Was this consensual?” Her straight-faced detachment almost annoyed me.

“Yes, of course.” Why is she asking so many questions. I thought I could just get the test and leave.

“Have you thought about taking emergency contraception?”

I hadn’t even thought about the risk of pregnancy. She showed me the relative risks of HIV and pregnancy. In 20 years, she had seen nine students test positive for HIV, while pregnancy? Too frequent to even remember. Pregnancy was the much more real possibility, but somehow in the whole paranoia mess, I had completely neglected it. I just hear so much scare-talk, about how AIDS is so deadly. Everybody’s talking about it nowadays.

Later I thought about what made me so uncomfortable in the nurse’s office. She was just trying to help. I was defensive – I knew I had done something I shouldn’t have, and I didn’t really want to explore why I did. However, I didn’t really have any protection against repeating that behavior – other than vowing to “never again”. There was also the hypocriticalness of my role as a researcher on HIV, someone who should know the risks, someone ultimately hoping to promote safe practices – and here I was encouraging others to do something I couldn’t even do.

I am now an HIV counselor in my school, providing students with counseling and testing. I don’t tell them what to do. I try to understand and reframe their behavioral motivations. Sometimes, prescriptions can only go so far.

Written as an empathy building exercise for my class on HIV.

I can’t do this. Here I am, laying in bed next to him, trying express my annoyance. Amid his pleas of, “I’m sorry”, all I can think of is how your response would be to laugh and shower me with kisses because you think I’m cute when I’m pissed. My stomach turns, and I have to get out of bed to write this blog post in the middle of the night.

I was walking back home from class the other day, when I decided to call you. Last time, you called me just to chat, because you were feeling “blue”. We haven’t talked for a few weeks since then, but you weren’t glad to hear from me. Maybe you read my blog recently and found out that I’m dating someone else. Maybe that makes me a bad person, because I’m initiating contact with you while I’m taken.

But how do I stop comparing everything he does to you? (You usually win). How do I remove you from the pedestal in my mind, and appreciate people for their unique personalities? Am I just using him to feel more comfortable in your absence, like if I can’t have the one I love, then at least I can have someone who loves me? But that makes me feel so disgusted with myself…

And yes, (I’m sure this one will boost your ego). Sometimes, when we’re making love, I can’t help but play flashbacks of you in my mind. Even though I try to suppress it, you still sneak into my conscious and for a moment, all I sense is you; I see your face in front of me, feel your hands touching me, and your smell.. oh that smell.. a natural mixture of skin and pheromones that I have yet to encounter anywhere else. Why is it so hard with everyone else, but so easy with you?

A few years ago, I broke up with you because for some stupid reason, I was still obsessed with an ex-boyfriend. I was crying, but you told me it was ok, as long as I learned my lesson: not to let our past relationship hinder my relationships in the future. I guess I need to listen to you now, and continue my life without suffocating myself with our memories.

At the Student Sexual Health Center where I volunteer, we keep a shift by shift blog of happenings so all the staff know what’s going on. Reproduced below is a hypothetical entry that I would keep based on my experiences today and in the past.

Wow. Such a long day today. I usually counsel from 2-3, but I volunteered to take on the next shift as well for the rest of the term; Stacey has been dealing with mental health issues lately and kept missing her shift anyway.

Started off pretty slow, no one came in, so I flipped through flashcards of 52 sex positions.

2 Females in for 12 free condoms. They giggled at each other while browsing through our selection.

1 Male in for 3 free condoms, he wanted to ration them out throughout the term.

1 Female asking whether our lube was cheaper than the store’s.

1 Male walked straight in completely ignoring me. I decided to do something else so he wouldn’t feel so awkward. Then he grabbed some condoms and walked directly out before I could even look back up. But wait… I need your ID number..

1 Female in for 12 free condoms. I know her, we have mutual friends. She asked me for recommendations and I just suggested she try a variety until she finds one that she likes. Also asked me about how to become a counselor at the center.

1M and 1F. Looks like they were a couple picking out condoms together. How sweet.

1 F in for a pregnancy test. Went through the key info with her, like that it was only accurate after two weeks, and the directions. She seemed pretty nervous. I suggested she try it in the bathroom down the hall and return if she has any questions.

1 M. First time here, very shy. Didn’t want to talk much to me, and just browsed through our library for a bit. Speaking of library, this book on female orgasms looks pretty good…

Female back in, the pregnancy test didn’t work. Maybe you didn’t pee for long enough? Let’s go through the directions carefully. Here, try it again. Didn’t see her again so guessing it worked the second time.

Shit, its 5:15, where is the next shift? I have somewhere to be…

1 male in with a question. He is scared his girlfriend is asexual because she won’t have sex with him. Heard a lot of “Is that normal?”. I suggested a range of other possible explanations, and advised that he talk with her. Probably she is just scared or uncomfortable, it being her first relationship.  Chatted for 40 minutes.

Guess the next shift didn’t show. I’ve been here for three hours. I’m so outta here.

The Migrant Worker Saga, continued.

It was 2:30 am. I had to work the next day. The Migrant Worker stood in the doorway as I said goodbye and thank you for a great evening. “I’ll miss you,” he said. I only smiled. As I was about to close the door, he leaned in and kissed me. It was a rough, gritty, kiss – the kind that used too much teeth and not enough affection. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to kiss well.

1:15 pm. He had just gotten off his morning shift as a bicycle delivery boy at the Italian restaurant down the street, and had to return to work for the dinner rush at 3. We were watching the Chinese equivalent of animal planet together on my couch. He puts his arms around me, and moments later we’re frantically grabbing at each other. He starts to carry me to the bed, when I ask if he has a condom.

“No,” he responds with a scoff, “I never use those.”

“Then I am not going to have sex with you until you go to the store and buy some.”

It is almost time for work. We’ll have to wait until later.

11:15 pm. He bikes with me standing in the back to the pharmacy next to the restaurant where he works. I start to walk in when I notice that he’s not following me.

“Aren’t you coming?” I ask.

“No, are you kidding? I work next door. People know me.”

“Whatever you say,” I shrug.

Inside the pharmacy are two nurses and a male customer. The store has a U shaped glass case housing most of their products, with a central island glass case showing off condoms. The male customer was half-jokingly, half angrily scolding the nurses.

“Why do you display these kinds of things right here in front for everyone to see?”

At that moment I coolly walked up to the nurses and asked to purchase a package of “those things”. The man stared at me dumbfounded. That girl is a slut. Who uses condoms anyway? Why is the girl buying the condoms? She must have AIDS. I guessed at what he was thinking.

The Migrant Worker was no where to be found. I scanned up and down the street before I noticed him on the other side. “I didn’t want people to see you walk out of there and then come home with me,” he explained.

“How do you use this thing?”
“Can’t we do it just once without it?”
“It makes me feel less pleasure, I can’t come.”
“My ex-girlfriend never made me use one.”

Despite his protests, that night I had great, protected, sex with the coolest Chinese migrant worker I know.

This chain of events started when my best friend bought me the book, He’s Just Not That Into You for Christmas. I had the biggest crush on the guy who lived down my hall. In fact, I would time my appearances in the dining hall to coincide with his meal schedule and choose my routes around the dorm to maximize my chances of bumping into him. But after almost a whole quarter of my obsession, I decided that enough was enough and that if he didn’t reciprocate after giving him so many opportunities, that he “just was not that into me”.
It’s funny how things turn around. The last day of the quarter before break, he and I were hanging out in my room. No longer restrained by the awkwardness of attraction, we were chatting while giving each other back massages. Eventually, we found ourselves fooling around and after a few steamy moments on his bed he asked me to get a condom and I obliged.
I didn’t feel attracted to him at all; I just wanted to have sex. From our massage chat I learned that he was a virgin. In retrospect, I should have considered his feelings more; a random one-night stand is not the most memorable way to lose your virginity, and I was taking that moment away from him. But at that moment, I must admit that I didn’t care about him at all. I was just thinking about myself.
I know that men get a power kick out of having sex with virgins but what about the other way around? It’s a power dynamic that was completely new to me. Instead of the usual reciprocity, I found myself confronted with almost complete sexual dominance. So I blanked. He was nervous, I was nervous. Erections went limp, vaginas went dry. I tried to reassure him that he was doing it right. I answered his questions of, “how is it” with the parroted, “it’s really good”. I tried my best to be understanding and to not let my disappointment and frustration show. But the night ended anti-climatically, with two used condoms and zero orgasms.
I’m not saying don’t have sex with people less experienced than you are. In fact, I bet it could be a great experience! But if you do, let me offer the following words of advice (I must apologize that this essay is very heteronormative, as I don’t have much experience in anything else):

For the experienced girls:

Do not put so much effort into making the guy ejaculate. Too many girls think that this is the ultimate marker of their sexual abilities. Just enjoy yourself! Don’t be afraid to take control if he seems to be unsure.

If he seems nervous, don’t keep going. Try taking a break for a while and doing something else, like oral sex, hand job, or other romantic things. It’s a good way to take your mind off the pressure of performing.

If he asks you if he is good, don’t lie. If he’s not good, don’t tell him that he’s the best you’ve ever had. Just speak plainly (without putting him down). For example, “Everyone is trying to figure it out their first time”.
For the guys who have sex with more experienced girls:

Do not be intimidated or threatened by a more experienced woman. Try to have positive feelings, such as flattery and confidence that she is willing to share her body with you. Do not be afraid to let her “take the reins” so to speak. Who knows, you may be rewarded mentally and sexually.

Do not feel like you have to ejaculate. Putting too much emphasis on ejaculation places a lot of stress and hampers erection. Just enjoy yourself!

Remember, mindset is everything! You won’t enjoy yourself sexually if you don’t feel comfortable and at ease.

(continued from previous post)

My cellphone displays your name on the screen. Why would you be calling me, I haven’t spoken to you in six months since we broke up.

“Do you want to watch Slumdog Millionaire?”

“You mean like, on a date?”

“Yea, sure…”

You pull up my driveway in the same car you drove to prom, the beige Honda with the mini teddy bear hanging from the rearview mirror. I just spent thirty minutes getting ready and choosing my outfit, trying to look good while pretending that I didn’t try too hard for you. I slide in the passenger seat, as casually as if we had actually been dating.

“Where are you taking me for dinner?” I cheerfully ask.

“I was thinking La Madeleine, I really want french food.”

—————-

“So where are we going for dinner?” I was so excited. I was 16, he was my first real boyfriend, and this was my first real date. He even picked me up in a car – no more ‘ask your parents to drive you on your date’ for me. I could tell that he had tried hard to look nice, because he was wearing a blue button-down shirt instead of the same two-sizes-too-large T shirt he always wore. I think I even smelled a hint of cologne. I had never had someone go through all that trouble for me.

We ate at La Madeleine because it was close to the theater. It was a cozy french restaurant with candlelight and charming decor. We picked a small table near the back of the restaurant, by the window. The food was not memorable, but we both went crazy with the free fruit jam and toast, wanting to try all the different varieties. By the end of the meal, we had probably eaten more in free jam than the restaurant had made in profit off of us.

————–

“I think it was this table, let’s sit here,” you say pointing to that cozy table in the back by the window.

“Sure,” I laugh, uncomfortably. Bringing me to the same restaurant and the same table where we started our relationship four years ago. It almost seems like we’re celebrating our four year anniversary. Except we’re not.

“So, how has school be like for you?” I’m trying to make idle talk. We catch up about school, family, life in general. It’s almost like we’re high schoolers again, going on our first date. Is this the message that you wanted to send me? That we can start over and return to when things were happier between us? If you’re willing to, then I am too.

————–

You walk me to the door as you send me home. I turn around before entering, purposefully dawdling around hoping that you would kiss me. You know what I’m thinking, but then you see my grandfather at the top of the stairs staring you down. I guess our first kiss will have to wait until next time. I close the door behind me, and can’t believe that things were actually going right for once.

————

You start driving me home but purposefully slow down as we near the turn to my house. Seeing no resistance from me, you speed up again, but drive straight, taking the road to the ballpark instead. You park the car in the darkest part of the lot, lean over to the passenger side, and start to rub your body against mine. As I feel you inside me, I realize that you didn’t really want anything else from me. You didn’t really want to start over. You didn’t really care about my feelings. You just wanted this. Well you got what you wanted, and left me worse off.

I’ve always wanted to hack into the google headquarters and see what are the most common search terms. From looking at the statistics of my website, I can get somewhat of an idea. Hey, I do it too. In the privacy of my own room when no one is looking, I’ve searched for some pretty embarrassing terms. Like when I first started dating and googled, “how to be a good kisser”, or when I gave in to the media hype about the singer from hong kong and typed in, “Edison Chen sex scandal pictures”. If google were to publish a study about this, it would be an amazing snapshot of actual social attitudes that are publically repressed.

I’ve been following American Idol this season because I’ve recently been struck by Indian fever and have fallen in love with Anoop. Unforunately, he’s been voted off – but Adam Lambert has recently caught my attention. An extremely talented, confident, 27 year old from San Diego and favored to win the competition. But people are asking: can a gay idol win? I thought this quote from a NYT article (#7 on the most read rankings) was quite telling.

Unlike other reality shows, said Joe Jervis — a gay activist blogger whose recent mention of Adam Lambert on his site Joe My God generated 50,000 hits from people searching the term “Is Adam Lambert Gay?”

Yes. Before you even ask, I’ve typed that in as well. Pretty much verbatim too. Yeah – we all talk about how sexual orientation doesn’t matter, just like how we shouldn’t talk about people behind their backs, but in the end, people eat up scandal and gossip like vultures descending on prey. I can’t explain it nor can I say I like it; the only thing I can do is admit that I am guilty of it as well.  It would be an interesting experiment to see how many visitors find my site via that search term.