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Now some people have cast doubt on the veracity of this blog, so today I shall set out to prove the truth of it. For getting fucked in China is easy. The motherland offers endless ways to get the fucking of your life, a fucking more or less unimaginable in another country, and all you have to do is know where to look. So I’m going to share some of that information with you.

The first thing to decide is who you are. Once you’ve done that, you will know where to find the best fuck possible. Below, a few categories to get going:-

· Miner. Current death toll in China’s mines: about 6000 a year. But if you’re poor and have muscles it’s an easy way to make some money. At the mercy of unscrupulous mine owners, and a conniving, corrupt government, down the mine you go. Feed your family. Send a kid to school. Get your parents the healthcare they need to stay alive. Get fucked. Crushed, gassed, drowned, burned or exploded. Plenty of choice. And not in mines alone – countrywide, an average of 320 people are killed at work every single day.

· Patient. Now you’re at the mercy of doctors who overprescribe expensive drugs to turn a fast buck. At the mercy of hospital administrators who’ll let you die in front of them if you can’t afford their fee. At the mercy of the crooks and thieves who (once more with rapacious CPC officials’ assistance) produce vast quantities of fake drugs. Money! If you threw Zheng Xiaoyu a few dollars, when he was head of China’s State Food and Drugs Administration, you could get a license to produce your own medicine. Before he took over, fewer than a hundred producers got this license. Afterwards, more than two thousand. So take your choice; a fake sugar pill that doesn’t alleviate your symptoms or a poison confection that gives you a whole new set. But China can screw better than that – why fuck individuals when you could fuck the whole country? Take the fake anti-rabies drugs blithely produced by the unscrupulous and greedy, no matter that rabies is currently China’s most infectious disease. And why fuck the whole country when you could fuck the whole planet? Take Tamiflu, a drug that may help stop the next global avian flu pandemic. Tons of it, fake, streaming out of China. But so what? As long as someone makes money, what if 50 million die as the disease spreads unchecked by fake medicine?

· Farmer. Think you have any right to your land? Think again. Expect to be forced off it when the local party guy sells it to a developer. If he’s a commie with a conscience you may get a few thousand yuan share of his millions before he sends in the police to beat you away – or maybe shoot you. Take the village of Dongzhou, for example, where police shot and killed villagers protesting about their land being stolen. How many? The police admit to three, the villagers say 20. But given China’s prowess in such fuckery, who do you believe?

· Student. Assuming you can come up with the bribe to get into university in the first place, there are plenty of ways to get a good fucking here, and the simplest of all is forced sex with your tutor if you’re a cute girl. But how about if you live in northwestern China where, year after year, education leaders shut the schools at harvest time and sent the pupils to work eight to twelve hours a day in the fields? A good hard fuck there for the 18 year old who fell off a tractor and was crushed to death. And what about dancing school that sent 22 of its 15 to 16 year old pupils halfway across the country to work as prostitutes? What of the middle school teacher who forced two sassy girls to drink a bottle of 50% proof alcohol (after which they had to go to hospital) and then beat the boy who stood up for them? Or what about the kids of poor migrant workers? Snobby cities like Shanghai don’t provide education for them, but when the parents set up their own school for the kids, what happens? Shanghai closes it down. So goodbye Jianying Hope School, shut down after 11 years of giving education to poor kids when no-one else would; just one more recipient of the colossal fuck power of China.

· Woman. You get some of the finest fucking China has to offer. Sure, I am doing my best to bed as many of the female population as I can. But I am as nothing to the mighty shafting power of the motherland. Let’s move past the big fact that China has the world’s highest rate of female suicides, and focus on a small fact – Yang Dongyan. He was a farmer who, looking to make a buck, bought a woman (for women are livestock too in China) so that he could sell her on as a bride, making a nice profit. But then he met a pal who told him the woman would be worth more dead. Dead, she could be sold as a ‘ghost bride’ to the family of a recently-deceased bachelor to accompany him as a wife in the next world. And so he murdered her and sold her for a nice 400 dollar profit.

· ‘Ethnic Minority’ – or, as we might also call you, a colonized captive, a slave in your own country, a victim. You’re from Tibet? From Xinjiang? Best to dig a hole and bury your culture in it, for your Chinese overlords won’t let you embrace it – expect to parade you in your national costume at the big Party pow-wows, poor performing bear that you are. Want to learn your own language in school? Want to know the true history of your country? Then bend over for a good CPC shafting. Your country is occupied territory held by force, by might, by anger, a tracked and stretchmarked body, the big pain that leaves you raw, like opened ground. Don’t ever forget it.

· The environment. Ah, now you, dear darling environment, are getting the biggest shafting of all. No wine and roses for you, just straight up against the wall fucked. Oh, did you think the sweet words from Beijing were true? That whispered seduction of ‘In 2006 we’re going to reduce energy consumption per unit of GDP by 4%?’ So naïve of you! It’s the oldest line of all – ‘I care’ - and you fell for it! How did you feel the morning after when you realized consumption increased? How did you feel about those 12 billion tonnes of industrial waste water just in the first half of last year? 70% of your rivers and lakes polluted? But I suppose you must be used to it, ranking 100^th out of 118 developing countries in terms of environmental care.

· A hooker. Now you might think you were getting fucked enough already, what with having to screw any guy with a handful of loose change and bored with his wife. But not so; if you were a hooker in Shenzhen, for example, you recently got fucked good some more when the police rounded a bunch of you up and paraded you in public, reading out your names over loudspeakers.

· A religious believer. Now, sure, if you believe in god you’re deluded. But if your lunatic delusion is of the christian flavor, and prompts you to get together your own religious gathering outside a state-sanctioned church then you’ll better break out the KY and condoms, since you’re going to get it good. As, for example, the nine priests arrested recently for having the temerity to pray in a place that had not been designated as a church by the government. But better to embrace the absurdities of christianity rather than those of falun gong. If you adhere to that particular brand of lunacy, then you can look forward to arrest, a good beating, and then disappearing from site. And that’s just the beginning, that’s just the foreplay. What comes next? Having your organs removed in an army hospital to be sold to the highest bidder, that’s what. China, say thank-you to Japan, say thank-you to Unit 731. They taught you a good lesson, huh? What an eager pupil you prove to be!

· Countryside resident. China has 900 million people in its countryside. Ninety percent of them lack adequate pensions and healthcare. Get this: a survey across China’s provinces found that nearly 70% of elderly people had just one set of clothes. Countrywide, also, only 25% of China’s workers are covered by a pension plan. Best to die before you retire – or else you’ll be fucked by the double whammy of poverty and the neglect of your kids as they zip off to the city to worship the god cash. And yet there are billions of dollars for the vain frippery of putting men in space, billions for the useless expo, billions for the shiny high speed train in Shanghai that doesn’t even work properly and billions upon billions for the army. Yes, China is so enamored of fucking its people that it would rather buy more guns and bombs than a change of clothes for its elderly.

· A journalist – But of course! The greatest enemy in China is the truth, so you guys are in for a particularly good fucking. Still, you’ll have plenty of company – China’s had the highest number of journalists in prison in the world for the last eight years in a row. You deserve it, of course, you journalists. Trying to tell the truth, what arrogance! How foolish of you to think your nation cared about such a trivial matter. And maybe prison is lucky, for you could get fucked as good as reporter Lan Chongzheng, who was beaten to death for asking too many questions about unsafe mines.

· A doctor with a conscience. Consider Doctor Gao Yijie. Under surveillance. Under house arrest. Monitored. Watched. Harassed. Why? Because she showed concern for China’s AIDS patients, many tens of thousands of whom contracted HIV (and thousands more Hepatitis) from blood-selling in the 1990s. What happened? Poor farmers were urged to take part in a scheme where they gave a pint of blood, useful ingredients were extracted, and a pint was put back in. But that returned pint came from the common stock, jumbled in the common box, which was not screened. The result today? Henan Province’s ‘ghost villages’ where most people have died. Consider this:- 300,000 infected with AIDS between 1994 and 1995 alone. The few who are still alive will be dead soon. How many officials or doctors have been punished for this? None. Only those who try to do something about it get fucked. Think of someone else, think of Wan Yanhai. He tried to speak up. Idiot. Bend over, Wan! How about ‘Snow Lotus’ an AIDS awareness group, funded by the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, whose members were harassed by police after they tried to act over 19 kids who had were expelled from school when it was found they had Hepatitis B?

· A blogger. Want to write something anonymously? No way. You have to register with your real name and details. Chinabounder? Oh, they don’t care about foreigners like me. I can do what I want. It’s China’s own people who get fucked by its government. The CPC doesn’t care about me; I am no captive, no prisoner, no helot. I get all the freedom I want in China. It is the Chinese who are kept in ignorance by their wrathful, watchful, suspicious masters. Take Zhang Ming, who was dean of political sciences at Renmin University – was dean, until he was fired for suggesting on his blog that there was too much bureaucracy at the university, suggesting that those in power were appointed for their party connections instead of academic ability. You’d have thought that someone who had got as far as he had knew better than to tell the truth. But that’s how the fucking goes, that is why it is the Chinese who lack freedom in their own nation, kept shut in the dark. Shut in the dark as they increasingly are, as one by one the CPC switches off the lights of the internet. Blogspot, for example, was becoming something too free and truthful. Chinese people – horrors – were beginning to express themselves and – worse! – read the opinions of others, opinions that did not ‘stand where the Party stands’ (those are the words of Luo Gan, one of China’s most powerful men, on the nature of truth). The site is now blocked in China, many blogs far better than mine inaccessible to those lacking the tech skills to get round the great firewall. But so skilled is the government at the lies attendant on a skilful fucking that should you ask them about this they will tell you, ‘We do not censor the internet’ – and will tell it cool and calm, not a blink nor twitch. For they are the most practiced of liars.

· Migrant Worker. For you as for women, as for the environment, an Olympic style screwing beckons. Gold, Silver, Bronze, you’ll always get one. So many ways to get shafted here. What does it matter that you are the people more than any others who have built modern China? How about Wang Jianchang and Liu Yuanping who, when they asked to be paid their wages, were fired, taken to the police station, and put in hand and leg irons? And for women migrants there’s a double dose – 20% of you get fired as soon as you become pregnant.

· In need of financial help. Expect charity and kindness? Know what you’ll get instead? Only one percent of the ten million registered firms in China have ever donated to charity. Eighty percent of the China Charity Foundation’s revenues come from overseas, and just 20% from China. China, where the lucky few who own 80% of the country’s wealth contribute less than 15% of all monies donated to charity. China, whose charities get 0.05% of GDP. Even mean old Britain is better at 0.88% and the USA a shining example at 2.17%. Let’s put that another way. Per capita income in the US is 40 times higher than China – but donations to charity are 1000 times higher. Best not to be poor in China.

….think that is the end of the fucking? It is scarcely the beginning.

I’m not going to bore you with opinions about China this week. I’m going to shock you.

Question: Do Chinese women ever want to be treated like hookers? The old Western idea of being a mother to the children, a fabulous housekeeper and cook, and a hooker in the bedroom – is that true for Chinese women?

It not being wholly true that I am an English teacher, business has taken me out of China to another Asian nation. Naturally I will not mention which one, though those who know it will no doubt recognize the venue.

Now of course I cannot go into the touristy shtick, and besides there are a thousand other blogs giving that side of the country, its temples and markets, its past and present. And so I will move straight to the matter -- which is that, in the lobby of the hotel where I’m staying, a few days back, I see a woman walk through, dressed in a straight black business suit, walking with power in her stride.

Oh, yes, the business suit, formal wear; an obvious fantasy, but potent for all that. After all, what man in his right mind would not want to fuck every single one of the black booted, red mini-skirted, red-jacketed women’s brigades that goose-stepped their way through China’s celebrations last national day? Ah, uniforms, clothes as badges, yes, there’s sexy. But in addition to the default sexiness of her clothes, what I also see is how she herself also exudes sex, magnetism, potential – to me.

I knew there was a small Chinese trade delegation staying at the hotel, selling some Chinese tech product, and I assumed she was part of it, even as she turned – hell, whipped, snapped -- my head. I had to follow her. In a city full of sexy women of another culture it was the Chinese woman who brought me to stiff attention.

She turns, makes eye contact, and so I immediately speak Chinese to her. This is a shock – a Western person in a foreign country speaking Chinese! ‘Where are you from?’ I ask.

‘Shanghai’ she says, and so, using my meager stock of Shanghainese I fire question after question at her. With the courage of a man on the make – something that most Chinese men would not have – I ask all I want to know. Are you alone? Are you married? Are you here with a boyfriend?

She was astounded, shocked. But was she caught?

My questions came too fast for her to evade or avoid them, and so I got all the answers I wanted including, to my final question – ‘Do you speak English?’ -- a ‘Yes.’

‘I want to have dinner with you’ I tell her. Her eyes widen.

‘I can’t. I’m busy tonight.’

‘Ok, then lunch.’

‘No time...’

But then it’s my turn to be astonished. ‘I have an hour at about 3 o’clock. Coffee? Meet me in the lobby?’

‘Sure,’ I reply, marveling at the confidence she shows.

And then she turns and continues to her meeting.

Three p.m., I’m waiting, having found a secluded table. She comes in a little later, pissed at her colleagues – ‘These guys are so in love with the sound of their own voices’ – and a little nervous too, I can see by her slightly too-quick gestures, the heightened tone to her voice.

So we settle down to get to know each other. Having snared her so far, there’s now no need to rush, and so I begin with the usual chit chat questions, stalking her through her replies, her body language. She’s a middle manager in some thrusting tech firm in Shanghai, a computer science graduate of such and such a university. Her official duties wrap up today, she says, which is why she is so busy. The rest of the group is heading back to China, and she’s arranged to stay on a few more days to tour the city and shop. How unusually independent!

But she’s a woman of surprises, and it’s she who brings sex to the conversation first. Well, truly, the whole conversation is nothing but sex, this entire meeting is about sex. But she’s the one who makes the implicit explicit.

She tells me she’s about to quit the firm.

Why?

Because, she says, she cannot get ahead. She tells me most of the staff there are guys and this makes it impossible for her. If she gets promoted over the men in her team, then the whole office will be alive with gossip that she fucked her way there. Not that she uses the work ‘fucked’ of course, but rather, ‘My boss just cannot promote me since he knows if he does everyone will assume I slept with him.’

Of course that’s what I want her to do with me, but naturally I do not say it, instead making the requisite remarks about what scumbags Chinese businessmen can be.

Busy woman that she is, she only has half an hour or so, and so as our time ticks out I take the gamble. ‘So you’ll be here on your own tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I told you.’

‘Then I want you to spend the day with me.’

A moment of hesitation clouds across her expression, so I press on. ‘I think you want to. Say yes.’

And she says yes.

But I am not done yet. This woman intrigues me, I see hidden fires in her that I flatter myself I can bring to the surface. I want to explore her, and I want her to explore her. And so I double down, increasing my bet.

Leaning close, I whisper into her ear, ‘But I have a condition… when you come tomorrow, don’t wear a bra.’

She’s shocked by this. ‘Wha – what?’

‘You heard me. No bra. I want to be able to touch you.’

And right then her phone buzzes with a text message, her boss wanting her back; and so she must go, the question unanswered, still reverberating through her mind in raw shock.

But I know this is a make or break bet. If she obeys me, comes the next day braless, then we will be lovers. If she does not, we won’t. That night I lie in bed, thinking it over, playing out strategies, scenarios, seductions. Calculating the odds.

And the next day?

We meet where we have agreed, and I can tell by the mixed shame and excitement on her face that she has done what I asked. I slide my hand high around her back feeling for the lack of bra and, satisfied, kiss her on the cheek, whispering in her ear, ‘Beautiful. Thank

you.’

And so we do the regular thing, the temple, the market, the tiger park, all that.

I know this is not what you want to read. You want the end of the day, not its beginning, its middle, none of its touches and pauses, testings and probings.

But it turns out I have unleashed something I did not expect for, towards the end of this day, things take a turn I had not foreseen. As, over dinner, I tell her she is coming home with me, she says –

‘Yes – I know – I am – but – but-’

‘What?’

‘I want you to pretend I am a prostitute. I want to be a prostitute for you, like the other girls in the city.’

Now this is new. Really new. Shockingly new. My acquaintance with the good women of China is rather extensive, but I have not come across anything like this. It is my turn to be stunned now. For a moment, I am speechless – and indeed so taken aback am I that I lapse into a rare moment of honesty.

She explains more. ‘This city is full of hookers – it’s Asia’s sex capital’ (she’s right there) ‘yet with all these sexy women available, you chose me… but I want to know what it is like to be one of them, I want you to treat me like that…’

‘But I do not know quite how… I have never been with a hooker before…’

That’s all I say before I say to myself, What the fuck are you saying?, and so I finish up, ‘…but, sure, yes, if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.’

And so we go up to my room, riding the elevator with both tension and expectation in the air as I decide how to play out her fantasy. How would it be if she was a hooker, I wonder – what would I do?

Yet after all, the equation is simple. A hooker is but a toy, a plaything, a servant; she does what the guy wants and pretends to like it. And he, I guess, cares only for his pleasure and none for hers. So this is the attitude I take, using her solely for my desires, first kissing her, exploring her body with my hands, her breasts naked beneath her top, kissing her with more passion and urgency and then undressing her, slipping her jacket from her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, slipping her top up over her head… push her to the bed and kiss her here, there, lower to her skirt, unslip the clasp, toss it aside, to see – ah, rare woman! – sexy panties, a perfect choice, creamy-white lace and satin combined, stimulating, maddening, fragrant. Momentarily I wonder if I should rip them off her before deciding that is a scene too obviously from a porn flick (and reckoning besides that slight as they are they will not rip so easily) and so I just take them off the normal way.

‘Talk to me, talk dirty, tell me what I am, what you want to do to me’ she gasps as I go down on her, and so I do. Talk all out of a bad blue novel, a third-rate stroke-story, sure, sexy this and fucking that and oh yeah babe, but it works its purpose, each illicit word from my mouth notching her higher. Her reaction turns me on even more, and as my desire grows deeper I let myself get wrapped in the fantasy, treating her like so much bought goods, entering her with a sudden thrust that makes her yelp, pushing deep inside, grabbing her legs and lifting them higher, deepening my angle of attack; and then flip her over, come from the side, and behind, tell her to come on top, to get on all fours, to suck me, fuck me, harder, faster, quicker, deeper, louder, messier, telling her to talk dirty, telling her to say how it feels, to say how much she likes fucking, that she is my whore; and each forbidden word out of her mouth, each feeling and desire that would not be permitted back home drives her to heights upon heights, until riding me, my finger on her, myself inside her, she comes, comes, comes; and now lost in it myself, the closing scenes of a hundred porn flicks in my mind, I let my own orgasm rise. She’s still in the throes of hers, and I grab ahold of her, as she rides on top of me, roll her down towards the bed, still inside her (not such an easy technique, but one that with enough women to practice on is not so hard to learn), and, after few fast thrusts withdraw from her and, she all this while still gasping through her climax, I come on her breasts, her face.

‘Oh yes, yes, yes yes yes, do it on me, do it’ she cries, captive in the fantasy driving her, half disbelieving it is really happening, both outraged and excited. It is intense for me too, since I have never treated a woman in this way before (save in my mind) and I gasp and roar, until I am done, whereupon I collapse on the bed beside her, my mind a perfect, contented blank, sunk in what has just happened…

As she is too; and so we lie there dazed, dazzled a few minutes, slowly slipping back to normality. The first thing she says is, of course, ‘Tissue… tissue..’ and so I toss her a handful from the bedside table. Having wiped her face, body clean she says, ‘That was.. that was…’ but has no words for it; and, I feel, as the fantasy cools and shrinks, she starts to see it a little differently, to feel some regret for what she let herself become, for the inner self she showed.

And so she decides to go – showers, on her own, dresses, on her own, and makes to leave.

But the surprises are not over yet.

‘I have a question,’ she says. ‘How much would you pay me if I was a prostitute?’

‘Nothing’ I say.

Boom, just like that, anger, fury, the spoiled Shanghai princess protesting…

‘What? You would not pay me anything?

I say, ‘I told you, I don’t use prostitutes.’

‘But if… if..’ she cries, starting to vent the anger rising in her.

‘Still nothing’ I say.

‘Fuck you’ she says.

‘I did’ I reply.

A silence prickles around us.

I can see she’s deciding what to do – hit me? Yell at me some more? Turn away and stamp out?

Finally she says, ‘You foreigners always wish to take advantage of Chinese people, in China or abroad.’

She might as well have hit me. In an instant I am back in China apologizing for all the wrongs China has suffered, imperialists, invasions, massacres, burnings and lootings, hell, even the value of the yuan.

She glares at me one more time. Whirls away.

And she’s gone.

Shanghai women.

Love them or hate them.

Fantastic.

The Huaihai Road Starbucks was, as usual, sprinkled with a few beautiful women, in ones and twos, some with guys and a couple of those guys hip and stylish too; and so from the woman dressed in the black and gold cashmere top and slinky purple dress and the student with the wet kiss-me lipstick, the bold, gold notice-me earrings and the long, soft white sinuous leather fuck-me boots to the wanna-be super model in her shades and false fingernails, cultivating an air of detached boredom while talking into her phone, I was spoiled for choice, as guys like me (which is any guy with an ounce of gumption and slack morality) always are in this city.

Now there are a number of simple ways to initiate contact in such a situation, but talking Chinese into a mobile will do it best. Chinese people are still surprised when a foreigner can use their language (just like they are often absurdly surprised when a foreigner can use chopsticks, or has heard of any city other than Shanghai or Beijing, or can point to, say, Liaoning Province on a map). And so doing this will lead to that moment of surprised eye contact that allows one to make an introduction gracefully. The ultimate variation on this theme is to talk Shanghainese into my handset. Doing that is so jaw-droppingly unbelievable to Shanghai locals (for if many Chinese are proud of their culture and routinely believe foreigners simply cannot understand it, the Shanghainese are pride upon pride and have trouble enough believing Chinese from other cities can understand their dialect, let alone foreigners) that most often the Shanghai girl in earshot will introduce herself to me on hearing her language in my mouth.

Of course, one does not really need the subterfuge, for just being foreign and confident is quite enough of a ticket to walk up to a woman and get to know her after making even random eye contact. And so I made my selection – the woman sitting in a corner armchair whose attitude, posture and location seemed promising, made eye contact, and walked over to make my introduction.

Being a Shanghai Woman, she was of course unfazed by my approach, inviting me to sit down with a spark of mirth and interest in her eyes. And so we got to know each other – an easy trick to do, just taking interest in her life, who she was, what she did, and answering her questions about me, more or less truthfully. Her name was Kay (Kay the Coffee Shop Girl, in my little black book), and as we relaxed into each other, our body language became looser, freer, more intimate – she’d lean forward to talk to me, our legs and arms would touch, eyes meet, our hands still doing the little dance that hands do before they finally rest with each other. The pauses in what we said were every bit as meaningful as the words themselves…Talked for an hour, shared another coffee, talked some more.

Finally I moved in for the kill.

‘So what are your plans tonight?’ I asked.

‘What are yours?’ she parried. But surely she knew what my plans were. Bed, sure, passion, pleasure – but not straight to bed, for that’s no fun. I wanted the chase to last a bit longer, so I suggested dinner.

‘Do you know somewhere nice?’ she said.

Do I know somewhere nice? But of course. I took her to a great restaurant near the coffee shop, on Xinle Lu, a French place. Now in the general run of things, Chinese food is the world’s greatest and most diverse cuisine, but sometimes it’s pleasant to make a change – and all the more so given the great lamb this place does and the fantastic Chasse-Spleen 1988 they serve; and even better than this, they have dining alcoves which provide just the seclusion for the intimacy I was looking for.

The meal done, the wine drunk (by both of us – unusual, this, for a lot of Shanghainese women do not care for alcohol – but beneficial to my purpose since it relaxed and excited her) and sitting next to each other on the sofa seat, we shared yet more coffee and desert and, our body language now sparking and crackling, we moved closer… closer… and then my lips on hers, a kiss, from which she pulls away, then to return and kiss me more. I slide my arm around the backrest of the sofa, around her body, my lips on hers once again and let fall my hand to her breast. A sharp intake of breath from her as I touch her, perhaps a little too soon, but she presses against me, murmurs into my mouth, and I am pretty sure I will be taking her home with me this night.

But challenging this thought she breaks away from me – ‘No... no, I can’t, I like you, I do, I like you – but I have a boyfriend – I have to – want to – I can’t, it’s too much... it’s hard enough as it is.’

No man will give up easily when he has got so far and so I moved to kiss her again. What should I care about some other guy? She was with me, here, now, accepting and returning my kisses, caresses ‘No –really – I cannot, I must not, he is important to me…’

But considering the ‘No’ factor, a man should not move any step beyond a refusal that is sincere and so I smiled, defused the tension in the situation, kissed her cheek and said, ‘That is fine, don’t worry, there is no pressure at all.’ I suggested another coffee, and an Armagnac, and slid reluctantly a few inches out of body contact with her.

‘So what’s hard about it?’ I asked. She explained that her boyfriend was an African guy, a black African guy. I was shocked by this. I had never met a Chinese girl with a black boyfriend. My interest turned from sex to survey. On the streets of Shanghai I had occasionally seen black guys and Chinese chicks walking together. It always piqued my interest.

She told me that her parents, her aunts and uncles, cousins and ‘friends’ not only could not understand her choice, but also urged her to dump the guy. ‘Of course I knew that when I got together with him,’ she said. ‘That’s why for the first six months of our relationship I did not tell anyone about him. No one ever says it, but the fact is Chinese people look down on black people… sure, they will deny it to your face, but I know it is true.’

‘So what happened after six months?’ I asked.

She bowed her head thinking carefully, and then said, ‘I saw that I was being unfair to him. He was the guy I chose, and why should I hide that? I thought they loved me. I could do what I want. But my parents were enraged about it, as I feared they would be – well, they are typical ‘old China’ and if I did not marry a ‘nice Chinese boy’ before I was 24 or 25 they would be horrified. I had hoped my friends would understand me. But they didn’t, not one of them….’

She told me her boyfriend was studying here at university, and that he was a sportsman, apparently a good one, with a shot at joining his country’s Olympic team (I will not say what country: I cannot always tell the absolute truth), and that he had gone back home for training. This made it more clear why she responded to me; in part she was just a bit lonely, but there was certainly more to it than that. Pressured by her family, friends and society she was buckling, weakening – for who can stand up to the endless (and inaccurate) boast of ‘We have 5000 years of history and this is what we expect you to do’? Bored (so she said) by the limitations of the Chinese guys she had dated, I was the more socially acceptable cross-cultural relationship. In China, her athlete was not.

In other circumstances I would have made another attempt to persuade her to come home with me. I could have done it, I know. But not now; this woman was a revolutionary enough already, having a black boyfriend. There was simply no way I was going to mess that up for her. Playing the devil’s advocate I wanted her to keep the boyfriend, to marry him, to challenge traditional Chinese thinking of color limitations. Perhaps selfishly, I wanted to use her as my own little revolutionary soldier against Chinese racial imperialism.

Immediately China’s recent involvement with Africa flashed through my mind, the almost daily pictures of political heavyweights visiting downtrodden, economically needy African states.

Jin Yuanpu, Director of the Humanistic Olympic Studies Center (HOSC) says, ‘The Western world has to remember what the Chinese have been through in the last one hundred years of misery.’

I wonder if China will remember the last 200, 300, years of misery Africa has been through? Remember a hundred years of Chinese misery? I say, Why? Should the Olympic traditions of almost 3000 years and what Pierre de Coubertin did take second place to China’s overwrought sense of suffering, in large part self-inflicted? Is the Olympic games a sporting event or a historical equalizer?

It crossed my mind how the Chinese workers in Africa satisfy their sexual frustrations. It left me wondering whether they put their frustrations to hand, or do they put money in the hands of less fortunate black women to satisfy their urges? I assume, of course, that they have such urges, spending many months away in hot climates in foreign countries.

Jin Yuanpu says the Olympic Games will be a chance to present to the world an accurate picture of China rather than the ‘preconceptions’ constructed by the ‘distortions’ of the foreign media.

Precious.

Let’s think about the Chinese media’s distortion regarding one of their sporting prodigies.

Zhou Mengmeng, a rising pool star, rejected the affections of her boyfriend, a fellow pool prodigy, whereupon he reportedly harassed and beat her. Her protests were gagged and dismissed, according to her father Zhou Ruixin, who recently spoke out about the shabby treatment she had received. He also leveled charges of corruption against games officials who, he said, had inflated expenses to siphon off thousands of dollars into their own pockets.

Jin Yuanpu says, ‘The world gives us 15 days, we will give it 5000 years.’ I say, Of what?

I think ahead to those 15 days and the young athletes who will come here to compete – strong, confident, at the top of their game, toned and muscled, lithe and focused. And human, very human. What will happen when other nations’ sports heroes in the Olympics of 2008 fantasize, fancy and lust after tall sexy, female Chinese volleyball players, petite, shapely Chinese divers, well muscled and toned Chinese tennis players, and lean, supple Chinese swimmers? What will happen (should China live up to her claims that she will let her sports stars be people, not machines) when a diver’s skin meets the muscle of a basketball player? When flexibility of gymnast meets strength of weight lifter? Sex? Terrible!

Jin Yuanpu says, ‘It is very clear Chinese culture cannot be Westernized or replaced.’

I say, Which culture? The culture that gags this woman for standing up for her rights? The culture that, in preparation for the Olympics, will sweep the ‘undesirables’ from the street and pour billions of dollars into two weeks glorifying China while millions of her people still live in hunger, disease and ignorance? This blustery culture of pride that is already heavily Westernized? The culture that looks up to White and down to Brown and Black?

Thankfully it’s very clear that Western culture cannot be Sinicized or replaced, the Olympics being from Greece, the motherland of democracy.

I imagine how life is for Coffee Shop Girl. The fear she feels how, when she is with her boyfriend, she will be discovered by parents or friends. But the ultimate shock of being caught in a sensual embrace must terrify such a couple – being caught by family and friends, or, worse, I see them in a hotel somewhere, snitched on by the inquisitive, judgmental and watchful staff, the police at the door, opening it with the pass key, stealthy, quiet, to see her and him locked together on the bed, into each other, expressing their passion, their human needs and desires, loves and lusts; and the cops, unable to mentally process it, grabbing him, hauling him off the bed, cursing words of spite and contempt at her, traitor to China, slut, whore, and bundling him off to the station.

And what of the other side of the coin, where a small handful of local currency in some African nation must bring satisfied smiles and derisive gales of laughter from sexually satiated Chinese workers adding their own sexual imperialism to China’s mercantile imperialism?

Jin Yuanpu says, ‘Westerners should come to China and see how people can complain and criticize the government.’

Well, they can certainly criticize Chinabounder. But let’s see how open they will be in their discussion of romantic liaisons between Chinese athletes and other sports stars when they are possibly exposed by one of the thousands of international reporters who will be scurrying for the latest hot flash at the world’s biggest sports meeting.

The International Olympic Committee has said it may allow for the first time Olympic athletes the chance to blog the 2008 Beijing games. Then I say let the Games’ sex blogs begin.

I wonder if China’s internet police will allow their own citizen athletes to read such blogs, let alone to post in order to search for their own true cultural identity through freedom of expression.

A warning – once you begin to peel back the covers of Chinese history in the last hundred years, you may find more terror than tradition, more cover-up than culture, and more mystery than the frequently appealed-to misery.

So there’s this new girl.

She’s quite the head turner. Young, vivacious, full of life, feminine fire to the masculine mud that is so common in China. Even though she’s expected to conform – for everyone must conform in this society – she finds little ways to be an individual – sometimes just her smile, that twist of the body, that sparkle in the eye that is her individuality; or maybe it’s the way she walks into a room, surrounded by people yet still all herself – or the way she answers a question, or asks one. It’s the way she rides her bike, whipping full of life between the more staid cyclists, up on the pavement, dodging between the lampposts. It’s the way she dances to her music, the way she drinks a cup of tea, the way she twirls a pen between her fingers.

From the first time you see her you know she’s special. She’s got that something, that spark of sass, of drive; it animates her, energizes her. She’s full of secrets and laughter, plans and hopes. Her presence fills a room and her absence empties it. She’s not someone you forget. I want to know her, know what her life is, who she is, how, what she thinks.

She’s young, and she’s got her life ahead of her. She’s not going to become a robot, not going to put up with the grind and the shit, with the third-rate university education China offers, with its meaningless lip service to ideas no one believes in. She’s not going to sit through Mao Zedong theory or learn about Hu Jintao’s trite, risible ‘Socialist Countryside’ (that a once great country comes to this!) She’s not going to wear the staid, dull regulation haircut her tutors will want, and she’s not going to get up at 6am in the morning to do their silly physical exercises and go to sleep at 11pm when they put the electricity off. She’s not going to be a good girl for them, quiet, polite, obedient.

Not her. Not for her the three or four years of rinkydink ‘higher’ education nor all the English tests; not for her the semi-slave labor as some prof’s lab flunkey, nor graduation in some cheap, gaudy robe, nor the kindergarten-style routine of the tassel on her mortarboard being moved from left to right. Nor, after that, the fuss and scrape of finding a job, and having to pick out the right clothes and style to make some dull potato of a Chinese guy offer her some shit job with shit wages in a shit firm, with a shit contract that says she must work as many hours overtime as she’s told and must not get pregnant. Not for her the causal abuses of her humanity that getting a job in China requires (for getting a job here is putting yourself on the slave auction block). Not for her putting up with the inept, bashful wooing of office colleagues, their fawning when they chase her and contempt when she declines, nor the constant drip of sexual harassment coded into the country’s DNA; and certainly not marriage to some passionless clod followed by decades of servitude and conformity.

None of this for her.

None of it.

None.

She’ll have no future, she’ll have no life, no chance, no joy, she’ll never grow and develop and explore her potential, what she could be.

Because she’s dead.

Her name was Zhang Yaoyi. She was 11. She was a pupil in a school in China’s central Hunan province.

I imagine her. I see her. She’s sitting at her desk and there’s that smile in her eye, that little wisp of steely will that marks her individuality. She says something to the teacher – Li Hengyi – just a little comment, just slightly too bright and certainly not servile enough, not docile, humble, as all good girls should be.

And then the lunacy that lurks beneath the male skin slithers to the surface.

He smashes her head against the desktop several times, hard, brutal; she falls to the floor. He kicks her, thick, heavy blows from his feet into her stomach, her ribcage. He jumps on her, kicks her head. Already she’s covered in blood and barely conscious. He grabs an iron bar that’s used to pull open the high windows and beats her with it, beats her, smashes her, bloody, murderous, brutal.

And now she’s totally still, blood spreading out over the floor, the soft slick spread of the puddle of red, teeth smashed, fingers broken. He picks her up –picks her up – and carries her to the window. Opens it. And throws her out. Four stories she falls; it kills her.

Dead. Gone. Erased.

And where were all you frothing lunatics then? Where were the witchhunts then? Where was the anger and the outrage? Where were the frenzied press reports? Where were the blog sites calling for this guy’s head?

One Western man has sex with a bunch of women. Women who are adults, who consent freely, and who enjoy it thoroughly. He writes about it, throws in a few run-of-the-mill opinions. Behavior nothing special. Thoughts little new.

Chaos. Millions of madmen fussing and strutting and firing off absurd emails.

Zhang Yaoyi beaten to death by her teacher – by her fucking teacher – and what? A story here, a story there. Page 4 of Shanghai Daily. Ignored by China Daily. A few reports in one day's papers, a smattering of interest from the lazy, idle, muzzled Chinese language press, none of it front page. And then silence.

Nothing much for a few days. More silence. Then a buried-away follow up report that Li Hengyi was mentally ill and thus would face no charges.

He’d been working at that school since 1998, and began to show signs of mental illness in 2001. Li Hengyi’s treatment, which came in late 2003, two years later, lasted two months and then he went right back into the classroom. That’s why he was still there in 2006 – despite it being perfectly well known he beat the kids – and that’s why Zhang Yaoyi died.

So where were you, you angry fuckers? Where were you then? Where was your outrage? Where were the letters to the press?

Silence from you all. I have in class many times raised the name Zhang Yaoyi, written it up on the board, in Chinese and so far not a single student has known the name. Not one!

Unbelievable? Not in China.

Another girl: Zheng Shaojuan.

Zheng Shaojuan was a second-grader, nine years old, in the village of Putian, in Fujian Province. Her teacher , Liang Liyu, sees her peeping at the deskmate’s answers in a math test, and so he – of course it is a he, it is always a he – grabs a broom handle and begins to beat her on her back. She starts sobbing, which enrages our fine, honorable teacher all the more and so he starts hitting her head, blow after blow after blow – all the while her brother, sitting in the row behind, is forced to watch this display of pig brutality. The girl tries to move her body forward, away from the rain of violence and this just adds fury to anger.

What! She tries to get away from him? He jabs the broomhandle into her, viciously rabid thrusts, trying to force her body round so that she will meet his eyes. For how dare she not look at him as he beats her? What disrespect!

And so frenzied are the blows, so great his brutal rage the broomstick snaps in two, splinters of it piercing even through the thick fabric of her school tracksuit and lacerating her skin. His wrath is purged and he’s taught her his lesson. Back to teaching he goes, full of pride at his display of good teaching methodology. Shaojuan spends the rest of the afternoon slumped on her desk. Later, another teacher walks by and sees this and she, having the decency the man did not, acts like a teacher (parent?) should, comes into the class to see what’s wrong with the girl. Shaojuan says she is not feeling well and the woman teacher suggests she goes home; she gets to her feet, shakily walks to the door, respectfully asks permission to leave from Liang, fighting down her shame and anger and contempt, leaves the classroom but collapses, right there, in the corridor, no strength in her body, her head fuzzy, unfocused. Liang carries on not giving a fuck and so the woman teacher helps Shaojuan home, carrying her part of the way.

An ambulance is called but this being China takes an hour to arrive; by that time another child has died in the Chinese educational system. By that time Shaojuan is dead.

And what of Yaoyi, whose bright future, whose hope and potential has been beaten to death, whose parents have been bought off for a mere US$25,000 and are now expected to shut up, seeking no further redress? And what of Shaojuan’s parents, who had gone to other provinces as migrant workers, leaving her with relatives? Of them I have found no trace; for they, being migrant workers, belong to that class of people who have built this country and who are routinely despised, belittled, cheated, abused and subsequently forgotten.

Where were you brave citizens of China then? Where was the anger? Where was the press, so like dogs baying for Chinabounder? The outcry? The mass of internet idiots so concerned about China’s honor and dignity? They offered silence and remain silent. Not a word, not a sigh, not a shrug of the shoulder, not even a raised eyebrow.

Here is an example of the anger I received just because I slept with a few women, just one of the ten thousand emails I got, from luckybulletinyourhead@yahoo.com:

Food, Wine, and Women

Food, you will be eating your own shit covered in shards of blood-stained metal.

Wine, you will be drinking your own blood while drowning in your own piss.

Women, the only bitch you had and will ever fuck is your mother's raw and bloody corpse.

I am supremely confident that you will enjoy the inhumane pleasure of being skinned and buried alive in a metal coffin fill to the top with sulfuric acid 6 feet under a stranger's grave.

Live everyday like your last, one day you will wake up in a bathtub full of ice with parts of your family all around you, I know you will enjoy the smell of dead corpses and you will definitely love to hear the black flies circling you while maggots crawl and burrow themselves under your skin.

It's springtime in Nottingham for me to watch your sadistic and pleasurable misfortune.

Shame on the citizens of China! Your children are dying and your silence is complicit in their death.

Let us press on.

As I was saying the other day, before I got overwhelmed with rantiness (for which I apologize since, let us agree, Zhang Jiehai is scarce worth the time) I’d spent an afternoon looking for a date.

Though those feelers I’d put out came up dry that day, they made for a busier weekend, as each of the women I’d called suggested meets over the next few evenings.

So now it was my turn to put off Holly and Joy, and make time for Sweetie instead, Sweetie who I had not seen and not much thought of since our last encounter. She messaged me from work and suggested we meet for dinner, and since (for me as much as her) this was merely the prelude to sex I took her to the Quanjude restaurant just near where I live, so that it should not take us long to get to bed. It’s a trifle touristy, full of foreigners and fake Qing stuff, and the duck is a little greasy. But it answered to the purpose.

Naturally she arrived holding her gameboy in her hands, engrossed in whatever vapid game she was now playing. This was perhaps just as well, for, having been out with her a few times by this point, I had more or less exhausted all I had to say to her. Having almost nothing in common with her, there was little to talk about. So while her game buzzed and twittered away I leafed through that day’s Spiegel, exchanging the odd comment with her.

But our conversation picked up a little as we ate. She told me about an affair she’d had in the months since I’d seen her. As I mentioned before, she works in a Japanese company and, like Ellen, she seems to have to put up with some weirdness.

Now her boss was a Japanese guy, married, older, and a real brain, too. He’d graduated from Stanford while still a teenager, and was fluent to native speaker level in a fistful of languages. She’s known him a few months and one night, things `just happened.’ But it got fucked up bad, and soon. For he does not trust women, having come through a tough divorce; and is highly traditional and things a woman should be just-so. As Sweetie is highly untraditional, the path off the rails was clear right there. But it went to smash far bigger than just that.

Sweetie knew the wife, too, and had spent time at their home. `That must be quite tough, to have to pretend in front of her?’ I said. But Sweetie was insouciant. `No, not really.. I can do that easily.’

So after one dinner these three shared together, the wife suggests she stay the night, it being late and wet, a situation in which, in Shanghai, finding a cab is next to impossible. And so she stayed, and, a little while after she’d gone to bed, the guy came to her. “I guess just to say goodnight,” Sweetie explained, “But passion took over.. I asked him if he’d locked the door, and he said he had.. and I checked it, too. But then somehow it was open and his wife saw us.. saw us fucking on the bed. And when she saw that she just turned away.”

Upshot was, Japanese guy decided he wanted Sweetie to move in full time, and treat his wife like her sister (which she said to me with a snort of scorn.) The wife, for her part, was unmoved. This was but her duty, as she saw it. The guy told Sweetie – “When we got married I told her I would never divorce her, as long as she did not leave me, but that if I met a woman, and something happened, I might bring her home..” And this, it seemed, was quite acceptable for the wife. It’s a fucking shitty piece of behavior on his part, since clearly an offer like that would not work both ways, and if she took a lover a guy like that would just do one. Scumbag. This wife’s lot is tough, to hear Sweetie tell it. She is merely a slave, walks dutifully behind him, waits on him hand and foot; while he is drinking and laughing with cronies she sits stock still in the next room, tending the tea so she can bring it to each guy as soon as his cup is empty; cannot work, cannot socialize, can do nothing but housework, nothing but tend to him.

And then he tried the same attitude on Sweetie; so, the next evening she said she was going out for a walk and he, “Wait until we are ready to come with you.” She explained she wanted to go on her own, wanted time alone; and he did not like that. And so this putative relationship soon blew up into arguments and fights and she got out of there, back to her own flat.

After our meal it was to this flat she wanted to go, rather than back to my place. And that was fine by me – better, in fact, since it meant I could leave in the morning when I wanted, rather than, if she stayed with me, chafing and fretting until she left.

Not, of course, that she quite said ‘Let’s go back to my flat to fuck.’ Instead, she used the line I generally use, that she could ‘show’ me her flat. So into a cab, and off to Kanping Lu kissing, caressing, touching as we went, to a rather pleasant, leafy part of town, where she had a place on the top floor of a five storey flat. As I walked up the steps behind her, my eyes played across her butt, her legs, the tight short black skirt, the black stockings, looking forward to what was to come, knowing she would soon be dying under me. I fast-forwarded in my head to how it would be when I undressed her, what color panties were waiting my gaze under the fabric of her clothing.

Unusually for a woman, her flat was an absolute mess; but a sexy mess, with bras and panties strewn everywhere, some clean, drying on racks, some dirty, slung to the floor. Reds and greens, silks and satins, frills and bows and laces, blues and blacks…

She made some half-effort to tidy up, before I stopped her telling her it was sexier this way, stimulating; so too was the unmade bed, the duvet half on the floor from when she had got up this morning. I liked it like this; clearly she had not prepared for my arrival, had had little thought of seeing me when she began her day. It was a titillating idea, that she had got out of bed with no particular plan, that her mind had roamed to me and she had called me, sought me, and was bringing me back here to fuck. I liked the casual way of it, the simplicity, and the intimacy too – to see her bedroom as it really is, her life raw, not prepared. It was also sexy because mess like this is more generally the province of a teenager, and while she is 23 or 24, the strewn lingerie made it seem like the room of a younger woman.

And so while she freshened up I lay on the bed, reaching down to pick a pair of panties from the floor, feeling their slick silk texture under my fingers, pressing them to my nose to inhale her scent, and once again running through in my mind what was about to happen.

Now here’s another lunatic. Here’s a mouth-frother, here’s a bigot, here’s a stiff-necked buffoon who, in one ranting article, shows all that is wrong, footling and absurd about modern China.

This man is a professor at the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences. A professor! In this is shown so much that is wrong about today’s China. A country’s educational system should be home the best and brightest, to those who can think, weigh, balance, judge. And instead what does poor China get? Knee-jerk nationalists like this, myopic, thoughtless, a crass dolt who thinks like a sheep, rages like a hyena, and is impotent like a mule. Ah, Zhang, proud Zhang, dressed in a little brief authority, like an angry ape.

And – astonishment piles on astonishment – he is a professor of psychology! A man who should have some insight into the shades and ways of thought, the grades and colors of morality, comes out instead with such an article! Every word of it in a nail in the coffin of his credibility.

Yet this is what passes for the educated in China. This is the caliber of person China has in its most prestigious institutes. What hope can there be for China when people like this educate its young? How can the country ever take its rightful place among the leaders of the world when this is the standard of its thinkers?

I hold my head in my hands as I read his article. I had hoped China was moving beyond such folly; but as I read and re-read what he writes I see how strong the path to failure is, how compelling. If China cannot get past its Zhang Jiehais, what hope?

Look at this man, look, listen, listen and see what modern China can be.

Today, with tremendous anger, I will tell you the story of an immoral foreigner and I call upon all Chinese compatriots to get together and kick this immoral foreigner out of China.

Ah, the pomposity of his tone, the bluster, the arrogance. Yet this is a common thing in China, the group mind, the `all Chinese compatriots’ stance, the suggestion that to be foreign is to be inferior. And then too the safety in numbers stance, the righteous indignation of the crowd. Zhang Jiehai (and he is not alone in this stance) can only see the world in one way; he expects everyone to see like him, think like him. He cannot understand that others might have differing views, cannot see anything but black and white.

And so on he goes:-

This is intolerable and this piece of garbage must be found and kicked out of China!!!

This also is another common knee-jerk phrase that most expats in China will know well. China for the Chinese. We are one. We are us. You are you. You are here only as long as it pleases us.

This is mere variation on the chime most expats will know well, the by-rote patter they hear when they have any complaint about the country -- ‘If you don’t like China, go home!’

Once, he was even shameless enough to say, "I 'm tired of her already. A cunt is a cunt. I keep her just so that I can play with her again."

Which is perfectly true. I did say that. I am not proud of it, but nor will I lie about it. And I hardly think it is a rare attitude. I am sure many guys – and women too – have slept with a person they care nothing much for merely for the pleasure.

This piece of garbage's favorite show is to use obscene and pornographic language to describe the bodies of Chinese women and how they made love. For example, "My dearest Tingting, you have a very good and beautiful body. I cannot stop thinking about your beautiful skin, your lovely, smooth and soft breasts, you sexy, smooth and fine waist, your sweet and pretty legs and arms ... oh, of course, you are so pretty, so sexy and so perfect between your legs!"

Obscene and pornographic? To tell a woman how wonderful she is? The crashing irony of this, that after lecturing me for being dismissive of the average Chinese guy’s romantic skills he shows how few he has, escapes him. To tell a woman she is pretty and sexy is obscene?

While in general Zhang Jiehai reports what I said accurately, I must take issue with his claim that I wrote Chinese men are ‘incredibly ugly.’ It is possible that he merely misunderstood me – for sure he is no thinker, no reader – but I never said anything remotely similar to this.

But what makes it intolerable for me is that this piece of garbage deliberately hurt the feelings of the Chinese national feelings in his class and he openly spoke to divide China.

And there it is again; the inability to conceive that other people might think in other ways. Ah, no such uncertainly for Zhang Jiehai, no; to him all Chinese people think the same, feel the same, are the same. Sure, when I say `Chinese guys are..’ I am `a piece of garbage’; but when he says `Chinese national feelings’ he is nothing but justified, insightful and correct.

As everybody knows, on the 15th of this month, Japanese prime minister Koizumi will visit the Yasukuni Shrine once more and thereby draw strong protests from China and many Asian countries. But this piece of garbage openly wrote on his blog on August 17 to denigrate the nationalistic feelings of the Chinese people!

And again. If I do not agree with `the nationalistic feeling of the Chinese people’ then I must be trying to denigrate China. If I do not think in the Zhang Jiehai approved manner, I must perforce be wrong.

On goes the parade of ignorance:

In the essay "The two fatal flaws of the Chinese people," I praised the Israelis for "hunting down the Nazis" at all costs and then finally sending them to hang on the Israelis' own gallows.

Now while this is true, and commendable, it has little relevance here. As I made explicitly clear in my blog, the justified target of anger is those who were guilty of crimes. Such people are the target of the Simon Wiesenthal center, and rightly so. But in China today, Japanese people in general are hated, merely for being Japanese. In any case, China’s own government suspended action against a large number of Japanese war criminals in the interests of fostering good relations between the two countries.

the Japanese would have apologized to us a long time ago and they would not dream of going to any Yasukuni Shrine.

Man, I am getting to sound as absurd as Zhang Jiehai himself. There is so much lunacy in his article that merely by replying to it I am tainted with his sickness myself. For this particular gem of nonsense I will merely point out what I said before – that Japan has apologized. And I will also ask, can one apologize for a crime one has not committed? Today’s Japanese government, after all, murdered no one. But if one can apologize for the crimes of one’s predecessors, when will the CPC apologize for the 30 to 50 million deaths it caused?

But what does Zhang Jiehai want? For today’s Japanese people to apologize for something they did not do to someone they did not harm?

He even dared to openly engaged in activities to divide China. For example, he once asked a student from Xinjiang: "Is Xinjiang really a part of China?" At the same time, he told his students any number of times: "Taiwan is really an independent country."

And once more I hold my head in my hands. I expect such knee-jerk tosh from students, but to hear it from a professor saddens me greatly. Again – how ever can China hope to become great when this is the caliber of its intellectual elite?

I am willing to listen to the person who tells me Xinjiang is part of China.

Zhang Jiehai is not willing even to countenance the opposite argument. What kind of academic will not even accept an argument that opposes his own? Well, a shit kind of academic, that’s what.

I have talked to several Muslim students from Xinjiang. They most certainly do not feel Xinjiang should be part of China. And as for Taiwan... It simply is a separate country, and there’s no possible way to deny it. Now whether it should be separate or should remain separate is a different argument. But now, today, it is separate. The Taiwanese choose their own leaders; they have their own laws, language, currency, passport. Beijing has zero direct power over Taiwan; and therefore while all sides may preserve the `one country two systems’ fiction, the fact of the matter is that Taiwan is separate. One needs look no further than the international attitude to a Taiwanese passport and a Chinese passport for the truth of that.

It is the job of an academic to try to see things as they are, not as they are wished to be. Zhang Jiehai falls at this elementary hurdle. He is not even on the lowest rung of the path to true intelligence.

For the Chinese women as well as the Chinese men, this is lively and hard-to-find education material!

Indeed. Clearly the kind of education material Zhang Jiehai is capable of producing has no merit.

He gloated: "It is very difficult for western women here. Someone like me will not even glance at a western woman. I treat them as if they are invisible. They don't exist."

This is again perhaps a misreading of my point, and I cannot really criticize Zhang Jiehai on it; after all, I am sure his English is a fuck sight better than my Chinese. Nonetheless, I was not gloating. I was merely pointing out the reality of life in China today.

On one hand, as a scholar and a man,

You are no scholar, Sir. You profane the very word. You have no claim to the title. A scholar is everything you are not. You are merely a bigot and a parasite.

I have relentlessly and directly criticized Chinese men, because I am one of them. On the other hand, I have always been reticent with respect to Chinese women, which included our mothers, wives, sisters and daughters.

In a nutshell, there it is. China man’s attitude to woman. Most thinking women would find such an attitude offensive and patronizing.

Zhang Jiehai, women do not want to be treated with kid gloves, they do not want to be put on a pedestal, they do not want to be treated as works of art. The want to be seen as equals. They do not want your offensive, patriarchal bullshit.

Especially this piece of garbage, who is in the business of an engineer of the soul, and the engineer of the soul of our elites!

And after all this, you have the gall to talk about engineering souls, my lord fool? You who clearly can only engineer the most paltry, staid and desiccated of thinkers?

I am a researcher in psychology.

Barely.

The Chinese women that he dallied with are his students. Outside of China, relationships between teachers and students are strictly prohibited. But this piece of garbage used his status as teacher to deceive his inexperienced female students. We ask how such a beast can be a teacher?

Learn to read, Zhang Jiehai, learn to read. I only get involved with women after they have ceased to be my students.

Our relevant departments really ought to step in!

Ah, yes; if you do not like what someone else says, shut them down. And you call yourself an academic!

The most valuable hint is that he went to the Tianping Hotel with a female student and the room has no window. Everybody knows that very few hotel rooms have no window (I have never encountered a windowless room). When I went to check at the Tianping Hotel, they really did not have any windowless rooms.

This is perhaps the most astonishing comment of all. This man went to a location I claimed to have been to see if it existed. He sees some blog on the net and gets so righteous indignant about it that he turns himself into Sherlock Holmes. He did this; he went to the Tianping Hotel to ask them about their rooms. What a bumbling, impotent buffoon! And this is the caliber of China’s academics. This is what they worry themselves about? I am just one guy, of no especial importance, not much more or less than many expats and certainly no different to a goodly number of local men, who cheat and cog and play just as much as I do.

Listen to yourself, Zhang Jiehai, listen to yourself.

If people think that there is a foreign language teacher who fits these descriptions, or otherwise find valuable clues, please leave a comment at my blog or contact me directly via email.

Netizens and compatriots, if you are a Chinese man with guts and if you respect Chinese women, please join this "Internet hunt for the immoral foreigner"! Let us act together! I believe in the power of the Internet, because I believe in the power of the Chinese people!

I am just aghast at this. Truly, I fear for China. Not just because of the utter paucity of thinking, life, truth and honesty that typifies the Zhang Jiehais of today’s China, nor just that if he is any representative of the country's academic quality China is doomed, but also because in calling for a witch-hunt he calls for ugliness and hatred, he calls for fascism, he calls for ignorance.

Zhang Jiehai, you are a far greater danger to China than ever I could be. You spread ignorance, lies and poison; you stifle thought, freedom and intellect. You are stupidity, folly, contempt.

It is because of people like you that so many of China’s best and brightest seek education abroad. You have nothing to offer the young of today’s China but bankrupt ideas and meaningless platitudes. You drive the finest minds of China to the West. You have nothing to say. You have nothing to teach.

Poor China, to still be so hurt by her own people!

(This entry was edited after posting to correct the fact that Zhang Jiehai is a member of the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences, not the Chinese Academy of Sciences. Part of my anger at Zhang was that I erroneously thought he was a member of the CAS, which has had my respect for a long time. They have some truly outstanding thinkers and researchers, and I was disappointed to see a clod like this among their ranks. I will let the entry stand; but I offer an unreserved apology for having briefly traduced the CAS)