Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 1)

Rong Ying was the prettiest girl in Wanshan, a tiny, impoverished village, in a northern province of China.

Like so many girls in Wanshan, as soon as she turned eighteen she bought a third class train ticket to Guangdong Province, in the south of China, to search for work. Many from her village who’d gone down there had made enough to live well and also send money home to their families.

Upon arrival, Ying’s cousin, who’d gone south to Guangdong seven years prior, let Ying stay over at the cramped eighth floor one bedroom walk-up she shared with her husband, her husband’s mother, and the baby girl they didn’t have.

After a couple weeks of job hunting, Ying found work in a factory in Dongguan assembling iPhones. There she worked twelve hour shifts, with only two twenty minute breaks. All additional breaks, including toilet breaks, were timed to the second. Anyone on break too often or for too long was terminated.

Ying lived at the factory in a dorm room with five other girls. They slept in bunk beds wrapped in mosquito netting, washed their clothes by hand, and had an 11PM curfew every night of the week. At 11:30PM the factory shut off all the dorm rooms’ electricity until morning.

At the factory Ying met another pretty girl named Qwai Di. Di spoke of how her friend was working at a KTV (karaoke bar) and making ten times what the two of them made per month at the factory.

But what exactly did the work involve? Ying queried, as she and Di stabbed chopsticks into plates of spicy noodles during break.

Di said they’d provide company and drink with the KTV’s male customers, and every so often the men, usually businessmen in their 30’s and 40’s, would tip them extra for favors, Di said, hesitantly but not ashamedly.

Ying knew what this meant. She wasn’t completely naïve. She also wasn’t a virgin, having had sex with her high school boyfriend, which was part of the reason she’d left her hometown.

(The two of them had discussed marriage, but after they’d had sex, he’d quickly broken it off with her, saying that he couldn’t be with someone who’d have sex before marriage. Heartbroken, and having lost her precious commodity of virginity, she’d decided to go south for work.)

Looking down at the callouses and blisters blotting her once soft hands, and thinking of their floor boss, that fat little middle aged woman with the terrible acne who screamed in Cantonese at all the workers, especially the pretty girls, but mostly thinking of the money she could send to her family, Ying made a snap decision…

She decided to join Di on their day off and apply for a job at the KTV.

Shoplifting Bravado and Straight Kink with Cassandra Dallett

Ferine

He eats me whole
foot first

No fear of dirt
or blood

I live in deodorant commercials with whistling bars of soap
and romps through wheat fields in crisp white maxi pads

He doesn’t mind grit
Washes his hands in mud puddles

confesses
he likes to leave my smell on for days

Inhale it when the shower’s water hits him
makes him hard

He says,
Is that bad?

I imagine my worst homeless funk and think

about

a feral love
gamey and raw.

***

The Dress

was too small
it ripped up the slit in the back
a straight line up my ass crack.
Red and shiny
It was all that I coveted.

Could have been worn to a prom
if my boobs weren’t falling out.
My aunt hid it with my boosted bottles of booze
when the cops brought me home.
I stole it from Macy’s.

Wore it on New Years
it was nowhere near big enough
halfway through the drunken night
my ass was out.
Larger than life
as usual.
I sometimes stuffed too small shoes
let the back of my feet hang over
Stan Smiths.
In three colors
the only colors I wore
black, white and red.

A drug dealer friend paid for the limo
told us to a choose a restaurant.
We saved him money by stealing the drink
did lines in the bathroom
my boobs and ass peekabooing on both ends.
The red shiny material useless uncomfortable
ended up in the trash
and I wished I’d worn something my size.

a detrimental & detoxified december w/ Jason Neese (.2)

-i in the you form, am in the are, you're in the our,
or a meglamaniac
or god all over your face-

an orgy of information is exchanged
but nothing is scene.
every one backs away from you with cocktail trays in hand.

it's discouraging but you deal with it in a typical way that ends
with a 120,000 dollar a year salary but unfortunately,
everyone that dies around you
has a heaven to go to.

everything changes
for ten minutes,

if you could say things to yourself with a straight face and in an objective way it would come out like this,

you are a cunt like entity devoid of any real quest for satisfaction, the complete toxic event looming in the sky like guilt with five studded questions that ask themselves over and over as the negatively charged ion super splices into a seeded cloud of temperature passion for climate controlling your anger in cumulus pouts

this changes nothing, it just sits there in the air like 3000 years.

vonnegut slowly nietches our concerns into a long trail of slack eyed movement, rearranging our brautigan all over the back wall of plath’s vagina as it's dug out a pile of soul parts by the lost memory of sexton’s throaty voice like robots clocking back and forth inside the deconstructed molecules of whitman’s mad soul.
a star machine creeps out and palahnuik’s silky hate just melts your laugh track into a bending statue of truth so raw it’s hard to vomit, instead, you collect stats that turn your invisible into a venn diagram with most of you inside the middle parts.
it’s a fully detached uterus causing hysteria,

and we can name that tune in three notes, spin the wheel till our universal studio is a sparkling blur given to the ether in the form of a quiz question that must be answered in the form of a question which secretly sums up every single frown on this entire planet that isn't wrapped around a corpse's face which is still the imprint moment of release reflecting the last time any of us
REALLY
ate a cone of ice cream like it was the whole day.

In response to article: "What Will Obama Do About Marijuana?"

Originally published in "The Root" magazine:

by Steve Swimmer

Mr. POTUS and his V.P., smiling through the “drug war.”

Better to be aware of wide smiling Americans like “drug warrior” V.P. Biden. Who, as Sen. Joe Biden, was directly responsible for enacting Draconian drug laws, here, in our United States. He voted for extraordinarily harsh drug laws, lauded them for political gain and displays, at ever turn, his theatrically wide toothy smile about them.

Today, our Great Nation’s V. P. flashes that large plastic smile accentuating his political periods to convince you he is sincere. Of course, my fellow Americans and I recognize the old time Joe Biden as a complete phony who will “smile” on political cue.

And, to our great misfortune, our Great Nation’s President, Pres. Obama, is adopting the Biden “toothy grin” for much the same reasons.

Lately, with big toothy grin, the V.P., along with Pres. Obama, emphatically reinforced the Draco approach to drug control by boasting, in no uncertain terms: The United States will stay on the same favored course the “drug war” has always driven.

No matter, 40 years “drug war” of ruinous death and destruction. Or, for that matter, whatever peaceful solution many people here in America and across the World want. No, the intransigent; yet, all smiles, Obama / Biden will not consider, not even on a small scale, the “legalization” approach. Not those two; they just keep smiling, as the band plays on.

Thus, here is the inside line. Be warned and aware: wide smiling “drug warrior” Americans, almost always are telling you lies. When the U.S. Pres. and V.P. tell you, complete with big smiles, the “drug war” is just fine; believe me, it is time to tighten your helmet.

This is what Obama / Biden policy has in store for you. And, I can assure you it is no “smiling” matter.
As a “drug war” casualty, I know first hand all about United States government authoritarians, and their ability to kill, arrest and destroy without compunction.

Here are the facts of my personal encounter with the “drug war” Obama / Biden shoot first mentality. Judge for yourself: is this what you want for our Great Nation?

Fact one: My Son, Michael, is among the all too numerous "extra judicial" homicide deaths, here in the United States. He was gunned down by, quite literally now, hooded jack booted “drug” thugs with police badges. This is the ‘drug war” Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden whole heartedly support with their obnoxious on cue extra toothy grins.

While Michael stood naked by his own bed, the “drug” kill squad burst through his front door and riddled his bedroom with machine gun fire. Michael was shot 10 times and died a few hours later.
The “drug warrior” “shoot first ask no questions” authorities, lauded by a smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden, all agreed killing my Son (who had no police record) was just, because an “unidentified informant” said: Michael had 368 tablets of ecstasy.

And, of course, the “drug” police “cover-up team” claimed there was the always just too convenient gun which was most certainly never fired; nor, for that matter, even produced. Here, in the United States, police notoriously “plant” guns on innocent victims they kill in order to cover-up their own murderous ways. Yet, President Obama and V.P. Biden keep on smiling.

By now all should know, regardless of our Leaders smiles: United States “drug” authoritarians, with little or no compunction, complete with impunity, shoot people to death often based on nothing more than “suspicion.” Is this what you want America? More "extra judicial" death? Well, go along with the all smiles Obama / Biden “drug war” and that is exactly what you will get.

I know, for an experienced unequivocal fact: Obama / Biden commanded “drug” authorities, at will, set up arrests, shoot people (along with their dogs), until dead; and, not one regular Citizen can do anything about it.

Fact two: I was arrested, and manufactured into a criminal in New Orleans for marijuana. United States’ “drug warriors” manipulated the entire matter and delivered the marijuana. I was to pay what I could, when I could and if I could. I had no where-with-all to accomplish the crime so the “drug warriors” provided all of that.

What I had was the "propensity" to do the crime; therefore, according to United States’ crafted law for political gain by the likes of the phony grinning Joe Biden; rather than obvious entrapment as in the rest of the World, all the United States’ “drug warriors” did was considered completely legal. I was forced to agree to a set prison sentence while, quite oddly, forced to tell the Judge I was not being coerced. In my case, there was no violence, no marijuana (other than the U.S. Government's), no guns, and no money.
　
Yet, at 50 years old, with no police record, I became a “manufactured criminal” in the “drug war. (side bar: a huge percentage of the prison population, here in the United States, is made of manufactured criminals, imprisoned by legal design to keep the Prison / Industrialist fat) while the taxpayers spent around a million dollars on my arrest, conviction and incarceration.

I mean, if you want the police state like the one Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s “drug war” has created here in our Great Nation, you ought to be prepared to pay for it. Considering the tax burden Americans unflinchingly pay for this high priced Obama / Biden “drug war,” small wonder the POTUS and his V.P. are all smiles: they are smiling all of the way to the bank.

Here, directly attributable to Obama / Biden drug politics, the U.S. imprisons 25% of the world's prisoners, more prisoners than anywhere else in the world, while United States population comprises 5% of the world's people. Per capita, The U.S. imprisons six times to twelve times the number of British, French, German, Canadian or the rest of the civilized world prisoners; and, the U.S. imprisons young Black males six times the number of their White counterparts.

Do you really think United States’ people are that bad?

Here is what we have to show for 40 years of “drug war”: 46 million of us have police records, with 2,500,000 Americans behind bars and 12 million plus more under post prison restrictions, it is small wonder there are so many jobs available for 12 million undocumented immigrants (who slip by with clean fingerprints and $40 worth of false identification) and no money left for much needed health care.

Despite our President and his V.P.’s toothy grins, trust me on this one: A huge number of U.S. prisoners should not be in prison. True, some people need to be incarcerated; unfortunately, due to smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s leadership along with their “drug warriors,” U.S. prisons are full of non-violent prisoners serving outrageously long sentences.

Is this what my fellow Citizens want? More “manufactured criminals” filling more prisons? Follow the smiling ways of Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden; and, this is exactly what you will get.

Fact three: Absurdly extra wide smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden along with their “drug warriors” will not tell you the truth about the “drug war.” They are in it to deep and have become the important part in generating money (and I mean, lots of money) for their authoritarian ilk and very importantly, the prison / industrial complex.

Pushing the “drug war” in the rest of the World enriches the same vested interest crowd all that much more. Meanwhile, this entire ugly crew is paying no mind to the death destruction and endless horror foist on regular people by the greedy quest for as many United States tax dollars as they can get.

True, the “drug warriors” force me to bow by implementing procedures like sanctioned murder of my Son, Federal imprisonment, character assassination and confiscation of property. Also true, today, I am completely cowed, jobless, afraid and powerless to resist. All smiles Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden commanding their gang of drug thugs have beaten me down as they have millions of other United States Citizens.

I know, for an experienced unequivocal fact: Overcast with theatrical grinning, Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s United States’ “drug warriors,” at will, can take or destroy any property they like, set up an arrest or shoot me, as they did my Son, Michael, and often do to other people (along with their dogs), until dead. And, not one regular United States’ Citizen will be able to do anything about it.

So, lastly, I ask the big question: In order to appease wide smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s U.S. authorized “drug warrior” blood lust approach to “drug control”: Will all of American citizenry be forced to cower (complete with phony smiles), before Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden sanctioned gun toting, soon to be drone flying “drug warrior” kill squads as I must cower, here in this Great Nation?

Hey, if that is what you want: All you got to do is keep on smiling. I mean it sure works well for President Obama and his V.P.

a detrimental & detoxified december w/ Jason Neese (.1)

-The cocktail party and the group clot.-

Here they are!

he is a re-purposed southern baptist
a masturbated clot of asshole sitting squarely inside a self-confidence
put together by a flash pan.

she blows him every night as they renew their marriage. God is in her mouth.

over there a man masquerading as a robot
tours the room with his eyes trying to find his island.

circles form like teeth.



you enter the room like a blank statement, your face surprised like test results

everybody keeps looking
smiling,
looking,
smiling.

we all drink slowly, reclining on the couch, or holding walls up,
flamingo standing on one polished heel
pushing orange slices around with our tongues
as the inevitability of what this is, hit.
a waste
of fucking
time. but not real time. real time is reserved for those frozen in the open mouth scream
that doesn’t take place at this party.

the himmler of the group smiled
shooing away positive thoughts with his mustache

the receiver of the table pulled both cheeks apart as the tab is inserted.

the keeper quietly gets drunk, acting unaffected by the entire event.

the shifter shapes our game plan into a toilet bowl and shits

the helper, helps us fundamentally understand how we are going to fail through the sharp filter of august heat

the healer retires and leaves a note in the corner

he sets up a trust fund for our future,

the victim continues to end every three minutes with a sip of his drink.

we hurl around the universe in place and we smile.
whole countries of people die and we smile
the waiter forgets the twist of lime and we don’t smile.
we kill, we kill with disapproving looks tucked under our noses
and then we smile.

throughout the talk edgy comments are made
and then waved away and then re-justified with passive attacks
on the other’s knowledge of the topic,
which is then tossed up, volleyed back, debunked, reconstituted
and finally helped along its way to ruin sum other subset of the next generation.

everyone is pleased

that this will keep happening.

a million of these moments are happening right now.
a billion of these moments happened right then
a trillion of these moments will happen right soon
and we smiled.

I don’t know what I was then or am now, but the view
was wonderful.

And the clot of our group unraveled while we ordered more drinks.

walking through memory's places (Final Act) by: Jeremy Hight

I am now getting a glass of water. In my memory of 1976. The hall carpet is puke orange shag which is probably something from films that was deemed to fit. The walls are crooked and seem extremely high, this must be from being a boy of 6 ; the scale is off like the child’s drawings of purple sky, planes with wings at odd angles with the logic of faces in a fake Picasso portrait painting, of cars flat as crushed cardboard and cats and dogs seemingly made of wires and cute awkward smiling faces. This makes sense in an odd way. The bathroom as I pass is vivid and feels accurate. The kitchen as I turn a light on in this memory comes alive with earth tones and a sense of having left in the real world just minutes ago until I now reach for a glass and essentially violate the belly of a cloud. The cupboards have eroded away in these decades, the sad bastards not relevant enough, maybe not individuated, like those people in the background in iconic photos and crowds . A romantic notion is to imagine these people as somehow incidentally remembered, some passive sort of recall becoming extras in dreams at night. Who knows, probably not. The glass has little gold flowers on it as the water from some place holder of 35 years fills the glass.

walking through memory's places (Act 2) by: Jeremy Hight

A fierce santa ana wind is blowing so hard it is bowing in the window here in 1987 in my bedroom. The dry wind other years will send huge fires up and raging, some to burn to the ocean shore so far from here. My mother’s Multiple Sclerosis has sent her through the sad progression from walking to cane, to 3 prong cane , to walker, to wheelchair…soon it will be the humming electrical one she will ride around in until her body denies her even this. But in this memory and place she is asleep downstairs while the wind blows and will awaken to another day here in this world , this tissue paper thin world of many slivers of past and place. The stereo plays a Kraftwerk record, that one scratch soon to click and pop. The wall posters are Theda Bara and SST records. The bed by the wind has covers that change colors , I guess I can’t remember which ones to fit here so it flickers like some insane illuminated sign or a John woo film fight scene set to fabric. It is a melancholy room. The walls are a bit dirty and the closet is cluttered. The bright green of the artwork Cameron Jamie gave me when we were friends glows in recall amongst crushed books, magazines and old clothes still vivid now. The wind again bends the window, this time in the shape of a glass toenail. My brother’s room down the hall as I walk toward it moves from painted lines n the wall, rush records and a surfboard to the empty room and mattress on a floor, the dusty hall of spiders it became a decade later. The bathroom as I pass has bent wood for the floor, the shower is a glass so frosted in recall that it is near white. The sinks are aligned and waiting with a sad little floor dresser full of aging junk and beer cans. The window is a hole and the wind should blow through now as I move toward it but this synthetic place has no wind, only this illusion outside, outside the illusion inside that I still dream of, have nightmares of, hold onto for reasons I can never grasp. I walk down the stairs and front door is vivid and feels accurate while the hallway is half empty and half some stock image from a hundred horror films, the huge impossible banister pointing out to the windy night that forever exists and is long crushed into a past never to again be touched. This place I want to leave but in dreams I will always return.