The Pat Wong Diaries

Harry was right: there was no looking back. But there was much to look forward to. We had long ago resigned ourselves to the thought that our real sex days were behind us and that the best we could hope for was the occasional mutual masturbation here and there, and if we were really up to it, a quick coitus session that may or may not culminate in either of us having an orgasm. Now Harry was playing with his cock all the time, masturbating and vocalizing his thoughts, and since we started talking about the neighbor, repeatedly penetrating me and several times ejaculating in the manner of a young man.

Then it hit me: all this commotion was caused by me -- me, an old Chinese woman who is about to turn 60! How could that be possible? I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my face, my saggy eye bags, my flat nose, my wide mouth, my large teeth and pointy cheeks -- and my wrinkled skin. Why would a handsome white man such as Paul become possessed with a furious animal passion for me? There was nothing attractive about me or my body, I thought, and besides he does not know me at all, so it couldn't be that he was attracted to my personality. Why on earth was he attracted to me?

As the days passed, Harry and I began to calm down and our initial shock at seeing Paul ejaculating in our bathroom subsided and made way for a feeling of pride and even accomplishment at what we had together done working as a team. We played the short video of Paul's ejaculations in continuous loops and it served as background for several fuck sessions that we had. His thin cock securely inside of me, Harry loved to pretend to be indignant at the whole episode, sometimes yelling in formal Chinese, imitating the language of moralizing party officials, his face contorted with mock anger.

"You have failed the people by engaging in such immoral acts," he would declare, wagging a finger at me while his cock slid in and out of my pussy.

"You have corrupted a young man and have soiled the honor of this house," he would add. "You have dishonored your family and your comrades."

Once, he even played the Chinese national anthem and a short Youtube clip of Mao Tse-tung, the hero of our youth, giving one of his rousing speeches.

As Mao spoke in his strong high voice, Harry's horniness seemed to intensify and his face turned crimson red, contorted by the lust that was flowing through his veins. He looked straight at the wall in such moments, his eyes wide open beneath his thick glasses, grabbing my shoulders tightly as he penetrated me doggy style at a frequency that I thought his back had long ago forbidden him from ever trying again. He would then turn around and quickly glance at the video and at the Youtube images of Mao, and then would turn back and loudly slap my ass and bend towards me and shake a finger at my face.

"Look Pat, look at how far you have strayed from Mao's path of righteousness. I have no choice but to penetrate you repeatedly to cleanse your soul." He would then lean back, grab the top of my pantyhose sock and rip it off my foot, and lean forward again and dangle it in front of my nose. "Smell it," he would order and would himself smell it with me.

This usually lasted a few minutes and always ended with Harry ejaculating on my back or on my breasts, letting out a loud cry in Chinese: "I am the cock! I am the male!"

Harry's productions excited me as well, but I could see that they drove him to far loftier heights of delight. His imagination was coming alive again, as it used to be in his younger days, and he began to carry around a small notebook where he jotted down his little kinky ideas. I tried several times to decipher what he was writing, but it was a hopeless task and I gave up on it, letting Harry surprise me when we executed some of his fantasies.

One of his first ideas was to test the hypothesis that young American men were, for whatever reason, attracted to me, an aging Chinese woman.

"We have one data point," he explained when he introduced the idea to me. "What we need now is to validate or refute the hypothesis."

"And how do you suggest we do this?" I asked.

"Very simple. We will eat dinner at restaurants for the rest of the week and you will stare meaningfully at American males and let's see how they react."

And sure enough, most of them stared back intently at me and smiled, some broadly and openly, others nervous and embarrassed.

I stared at them hard, especially if they had a woman with them. We made sure to always sit in such a way that I was able to face a few men, and I began exchanging glances and strong stares with the men facing me as soon as we sat down.

At first, I was a little nervous and even scared, but after a few times of doing it, and realizing that the men were harmless and that they were more scared of me than I was of them, I became more daring and even aggressive. At times, I would work on several stares at a time, which usually meant that while I stared fixedly at one man, the others were staring at me stare that the man, causing a ripple of quiet jealousy that clearly excited the men. Here was an old Chinese woman, sitting with what seems to be her husband, and she was obviously horny. Perhaps her hormones were so out of whack that she was losing control of herself and was not able to observe even a minimum degree of etiquette. And she was not even attempting to conceal from her hapless husband her overflowing lust. And the husband must be aware of what his wife was doing and yet he is putting up with it....

When I stared, I never smiled. This was serious business and I was not in a mood to be playful or even nice. Harry was somber in such sessions, letting me do my job as he sat, enjoying the spectacle.

Speaking in Chinese, I would describe to him the men I was staring at, how they were reacting, whom I felt was reacting positively, who was reacting with confusion, and who seemed to be turned off. He took copious notes and nodded, once in a while interrupting me with a question or a request for a clarification.