Chapter Ten…Yin & Yang Sex

That afternoon, I sat with my tea at Starbucks…trying to read my book, How to Write a
Screenplay, but couldn’t focus. My mind was occupied by the issue of which company would be
better for me.

Suddenly, I felt under the eye of someone sitting next to me. As soon as I made eye contact with
him, he asked me if I studied screenwriting. I nodded, thinking of how he looked like Mel Gibson:
short, beautiful salty hair; a fine-featured face; gemlike eyes.

“Oh, interesting. You want to be a screenwriter?” He moved his body toward me.

“I did.”

“What do you mean, you ‘did’?” He turned his chair to my table.

I didn’t want to talk about myself, so I said, “You look like Mel Gibson.”

“Oh, really? Am I? NO…but…Thanks. You are the most beautiful Asian lady I’ve ever met.”

“Of course! You can say that again,” I shook my head slightly, raising my chin. My golden-blond
mane danced in the air. He smiled, shaking his head. It captured me immediately, since it was
exactly like one of my uncle’s more significant characteristics. Sometimes it looked like innocent
kids, sometimes it looked like an insolent doctor. He introduced himself: his name was Professor
Hunter, he was forty-nine years old, and he taught mathematics at UCLA.

Anyhow, even though he was a total stranger, he seemed like someone I had known for a
while…especially where his smile was concerned. I thought that I could feel my uncle, if I leaned on
his smile and closed my eyes.

We realized it was that time of the evening. He suggested we have dinner together at The
Cheesecake Factory, which was just a few blocks down from Starbucks. He told me it was his treat,
because he wanted to encourage the realization of my American dream. I thanked him and walked
with him, as if I were going to a special dinner with my uncle.

Over supper, he told me how he had once dreamed of becoming a screenwriter. He still had
several books on the subject, which he said he didn’t need anymore. He offered to give them to me
as a token of his esteem. Free? Always welcomed. After dinner, we walked to his house, which was
only two blocks from Starbucks.

While I was looking through several books in his den, he brought homemade Starbucks coffee
and we settled down at a small table. We started sipping it.

“Do you believe in yin & yang, too?” he asked suddenly.

“Excuse me?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Your yin & yang rings are what I’m talking about.” He indicated the two rings coupled on my
finger. One was gold, the other platinum.

“Oh, these rings? My mom gave them to me.”

“Lately, I’ve been falling in love with the yin & yang theory,” the professor said, showing me a book
titled What Is Yin & Yang?

“I think you know yin & yang well,” he added.

I just smiled. Actually, I had no idea about yin & yang. All I knew was what my mom had said, upon
giving me those rings for keeping my health balanced.

“It’s interesting. As a concept…” the professor said, moving his chair toward me. I wasn’t
interested in yin & yang myself. I was just happy to be having this extended conversation with a
professor who smiled like my uncle.

He went on, “…It referred originally to the shady and sunny sides of a valley or a hill. Yet it
developed into the relationship between any contrasting pair of opposite, and complementing,
forces: the sun and the moon; mountain and valley; the female and the male; etcetera.”
Fascinated, he again moved his chair toward me. I smelled banana incense from him.

“Look at these gold-and-platinum rings. Isn’t it beautiful, the yin & yang harmony they signify?” he
said, holding my ring-finger and rubbing it lovingly. I didn’t know whether he was fondling my ring or
my fingers. Happiness proceeded to write itself all over his face.

“There is always an element of yang within yin, and an element of yin within yang, in any single
object. A clam’s shell is hard, but within that shell is softness…” He looked proud, and I
understood: a Western guy was explaining to an Eastern gal about Eastern stuff.

“Yin and yang also changes according to time, place and occasion. For example, males are yang,
and females are yin. But sometimes males can be yin and females yang.”

I wondered what his next process would be with my fingers and hand.

“A perfect example is when males and females have sex. It depends on who’s active or who’s
passive. Whoever’s active is going to be yang; whoever’s passive is going to be yin.” As he spoke,
the professor put his hand on my knee.

I had to ask myself if this was accidental, or some kind of proposal. I felt something strange. I
wanted him to jump on me. I wanted to be his yin. I wanted him to be the third man I made love to in
my life. He continued:

“…And also, for same-gender sex, it is exactly the same as opposite-gender sex. Whoever’s
active is going to be yang; whoever’s passive is going to be yin. When they are balanced, there is
going to be perfect harmony…”

I pretended to be listening, but I’m not sure how convincing I was.

Suddenly, he kissed me. He caressed my lips with his own. He became a REAL yang. I just stayed
there…wondering what the yin & yang sex was going to be. I would let him go wherever he wanted
to go, then…

After he stayed on my lips for a second, his lips moved down. Then he pulled down my jeans and
started to rub my clit with his tongue, his nose, his chin, his cheeks, his ears, and his entire face.
Yang was hot and hungry. Yang’s lusty breath kicked into me…

I felt something new, something I never got from Jose. Jose sometimes had kissed my vagina
before, but it wasn’t good or pleasurable. This professor Hunter was different. He licked my clitoris,
faster and faster. At the same time, his fingers were in there, going deeper than ever…opening
another Disneyland there.

Yang was in chaos, creating spectacular pleasure in me. I was getting high, crooning like a wolf. I
couldn’t breathe or stand.

For the first time in my life, I realized being vagina-kissed could be Heaven…Aaahh…It was a
totally New World for me.

After he brought some “protection” out of his desk, he guided me to sit on his desk. From in front
of me, he started to visit my pussy. His manhood came slowly in, and further in. In,
in…out…out…in…in…IN…out…in…out…IN…IN…as a horrible yang, insulting my libido…torturing
my instincts…killing me…slaying me…

I was concerned; the balance between yin and yang was breaking down, going into Armageddon.
Little by little, he sped up. Finally he rushed, like a piston being driven into me. Then he rammed it
in tight and held it there for a while. I thought he was done, but…

He lifted my butt and turned around. Now he sat on the desk, and I sat on his manhood, holding
his neck. He became yin voluntarily, and I became yang regardless of my will.

As yang, I started to smash my pelvis on his manhood rhythmically. I controlled his manhood,
pumping against him again and again. Like a moth immolating itself on a flame, I plugged into this.

It was first time that I realized lovemaking was really bigger than I have known. It was beyond those
throbs of his manhood inside my pussy. Then, we both began to pull each other’s bodies with all
our might…tighter and tighter, faster and faster. We both became yang and yin ultimately,
screaming and moaning, heavily and wetly. Then everything stopped.

“…”

“…”

There was a perfect harmony of yin and yang. There was only the sound of our hard breathing in
his den. After that, he brought watermelons.

“Oh My God…This is great!” I didn’t realize watermelon was so sweet. It was sweeter than the
cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. He explained why watermelon is the best sex-chaser
of all, both physically and psychologically. It’s because the watermelon’s moisture and natural
sugars quickly replenish what we lost during sex; also, because the watermelon’s temperature was
soothing to our hot and thirsty bodies.

That day I learned two things: that being vagina-kissed, and watermelons after sex, were both
Heaven.

Several days later, I chose the OB Advertising Agency…who would sponsor me, even though they
paid small amounts per project. I had no other choice; I needed that green card and visa. The
company knew what I needed. I knew they knew it.

After I got started on my first project, Professor Hunter called me. I told him I was busy. I
considered our affair to be just a one-night stand. For one thing, he would be fifty soon; I was just
twenty-something. It seemed weird. Yet he kept calling me. Anyhow, I recalled how great he was
when he kissed my vagina. It was like having my own private Disneyland.

One day while I was about to take a rest (I had just emailed my design to the advertising agency), I
got a phone call from Professor Hunter.

Again I excused myself, saying I felt sick. About an hour later, he visited my apartment with ten
sunflowers. He told me, “Sunflowers—big yellow ones—can give you positive energy.”

I thanked him and told him that it was my favorite flower…and also my uncle’s. We started talking
about how my uncle loved sunflowers. I learned from him what the word “sunflower” meant: “You
are my sun, and I’m always looking out for you.” I told the professor how my uncle had influenced
my decision to move to America. I mentioned the irony of his being anti-American.

We also discussed my daily life, working in K-town, with my student visa. Finally, he began kissing
my vagina, which started melting. I wondered if he was born with said talent—vagina-kissing—or if
the vagina itself was showing Heaven whenever it got kissed. No matter what, it was
gooooooooood.

Then our libidos clashed with each other. We started to mix our bodies together, like crazy, in the
living room. We both wanted to be yang. We both tried to be yin at the same time. We both acted
like hungry wolves. We were both willing to be sacrificial lambs, as it were, at the same time. The
living room became an ocean of sweat from our bodies. All the living room’s oxygen turned into
carbon dioxide with our heavy breathing. Eventually, two contrasting bodies achieved balance and
arrived at perfect harmony…Heaven.

After that, we enjoyed a watermelon while being naked—squeezing it by hand, feeding it into each
other’s mouths. It was milk and honey, like Adam and Eve had enjoyed in the Garden of Eden.

My Uncle’s Diary: 5/21/1986

“No War! No Dictators!”…Running on the street, we screamed out, “We are against America,
which supports our dictator!”

To forget my fears, I hollered my lungs out. “We are against America…!”

The Korean SWAT teams rushed into us like swarms of bees, and we ran away like crazy to
survive.

After that, my professor called me ‘the Communist’ in front of my class. He knew what that meant
in South Korea: a dead end.

Chapter Eleven…I, a North Korean Terrorist

…Like a virgin…Touched for the very first time…Like a virgin…

My cell phone’s ringtone assaulted my ears while I was sleeping. What time is it? I tried to open my
eyes, and held out my hand, looking for the alarm clock. It was just 5:05 A.M.

…Gonna give you all my love, boy…My fear is fading fast…

I asked myself, who was calling at this time? Was this call from Korea? From Mother? Did
something happen in my hometown, to my family? Intuitively, I felt that something terrible had
happened in my home; otherwise, my family would never call at this hour. I opened my cell phone,
praying no such thing had happened.

“Yeo-Bo-Sae-Yo? (Hello?)” I answered in Korean.

“Are you Younghee…Young—Hee Cha?” A woman’s voice answered in English from the cell
phone, unexpectedly.

What is this? I couldn’t answer immediately.

“Hey, are you Young…Hee?” she asked in a cold voice.

She pronounced my name accurately. It seemed like she had used my name many times. I couldn’
t recognize her immediately. Anyway, this call wasn’t coming from Korea. I was relieved.

“This is her,” I answered uncertainly.

“Did you sleep with my husband?” she asked.

What? I had no idea.

“Did…You…Fuck…With…My…Husband?” she repeated.

What did I hear? I felt chills through my whole body.

“Blah, blah, blah…” She said something but I couldn’t make it out clearly. All I could think was that
somebody got mad at someone who slept with her husband, and that she mentioned my name.

Ohmigod I had sex with a man yesterday…My heart was now struggling to free itself from my
chest. The pounding in my brain was too loud. All I heard were the motors revving in my head.

“Blah…blah…What the fuck…blah…blah…” She was talking about something or other; I wasn’t
even listening anymore.

When I had first woken up, I hadn’t noticed that flock of sparrows arguing noisily…right next to the
window. As usual, every morning, they gathered at the palm tree right by said window. They were
competing to talk about what they saw through this human’s bedroom windows the previous night.

I knew why they liked the tree beside my window. Since I always slept naked—especially after Jose
left—they probably wanted to see my nature. Their argument looked like a congressman’s debate.
I promised myself that one day I would shoot them. Nevertheless, that morning was different. The
sparrows were watching me tremble, and were listening to my unstable gestures, whether they
were guilty or not.

“…Younghee, are you listening to me?”

“…” I couldn’t say anything.

“Are you there, bitch?” Her voice was like a knife-blade.

“Yes, ma’am, I am here.” I answered like a prisoner admitting her guilt.

“Do you know what you’ve done?’ She emphasized each word.

“Excuse me? What is your husband’s name?” I felt immediately that it was the wrong question, but
I couldn’t remember his name. All that I remembered was the name Mel Gibson. Even so, I couldn’t
ask whether her husband looked like Mel Gibson or not. Anyway, I wanted to make sure this was
the right wife…or whoever.

“What? You fucked a married man and don’t remember him?”

“Is he married?” It just came out. I wondered why I was still talking with this woman. I just felt my
intestines twisting.

“Are you kidding? You walked into our house and fucked…blah blah…You destroyed my
marriage…Are you happy about destroying a household, you home-wrecker…Listen,
Younghee…If you see my husband again, I will let the USCIS know that you work illegally.”

As they say, when a cat chases a mouse into a corner, the mouse comes out swinging at the cat.

I cleared my throat. “Are you threatening me?”

“No, I am not threatening; I am guaranteeing you. I will let the Department of Homeland Security
know that you are working illegally, and that you were influenced by your anti-American
uncle…You have the potential to be a terrorist…Who knows? You are connected with North
Korea…Can you prove that you are not a terrorist working for North Korea? You! Home! Terrorist!”

The phone clicked off. At the same time, I felt my heart click off.

After 9/11, the word Terrorist wasn’t just a word. For terrorists, there was no longer any trial in
America. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me.

The man was the third sexual partner I’d had in my life. I had met him only twice. I didn’t know he
was married.

I never doubt he got married for no reason. I could still feel his tongue in my vagina, shaking my
libido. Then I’d received a phone call that shook my whole body, and it was only five in the
morning. The argument among the sparrows was getting louder; I really wanted to shoot them all.

***

3/18/2002…After I got the phone call from Professor Hunter’s wife, it just started: the word
Terrorist tattooed in my head. A terrorist working for North Korea—how could I prove I wasn’t that?

All of a sudden, my childhood came back to me. One evening, my uncle rushed home. He began
packing all his books and other stuff. Then he hid them in Dokdo’s house, and after that my uncle
left. Just about ten minutes after he left, several investigators came to my house.

My grandmother asked what was going on, but they shoved her to the floor and started searching
everywhere. They even brought back my uncle’s trash and letters.

I stood up and started checking my own stuff, to see if I had anything related to North Korea. I
checked my e-mails for whatever I might have said against America.

I couldn’t eat or sleep. I couldn’t do anything, not even call Nara or Hilary. How could I convince
them that I wasn’t a terrorist working for North Korea? They had known me for more than three
years. I just realized something: I had no friends and no family in America. I freaked out.

I saw what America thought about North Korea. After George Bush announced North Korea was
one of the axis of evil, one of the TV news anchors mentioned North Korean missiles would
incinerate Los Angeles. Funny…if North Korea launched missiles at Los Angeles, those missiles
could be destroyed by Scuds right after launch. Everybody and his three-year-old kid

knew that.

Maybe it could have been evidence that I didn’t have any evidence, which proved that I was a
terrorist working for North Korea. To assume was enough, no matter what they wanted to name
me, or whatever they wanted to do. If they assumed me to be a terrorist, I could actually be that.

For sure, Fox News would be happier than anyone else. They would be dying to talk about me
from head to toe, naming a North Korean girl a “female terrorist with dazzling beauty”…until they
found other sensational issues to get attention from their audience.

I kept chain-smoking, and guzzling booze. My apartment was filled with a gray haze, and my body
was filled with soju. I couldn’t work or lie down or stand up.

Several days later, I called Nara. For some reason, she was even gloomier than myself. I couldn’t
even begin telling her my story.

I called Hilary, who was tired from laboring on her “bisexual” dissertation.

My only escape from the fear and anxiety was my work. I tried to focus on the advertisement
project. Even though the OB Advertising Agency required me to produce two samples, I had kept
producing more and more.

After I had finished my tenth sample, I suddenly heard the siren of a fire engine. I checked outside
and discovered a SWAT team running toward my apartment building. I looked up and noticed
police choppers hovering like a swarm of bees.

At that time, somebody banged on my door continuously, as if trying to break it down. Shocked, I
tried asking who it was…but nothing would come out of my mouth. The choppers were making
thunder above my street. I felt my ear splitting due to the noise.

From nowhere, Jose appeared and shouted for me to “RUN!” I was in a state of chaos. He took my
hand and yanked on it, telling me to run away. I couldn’t move; my body seemed glued to the desk.
I shouted out, “Stop, stop kicking my door! Stop, Jose! Please stop!”

I fell from my desk onto the floor. Everything stopped and all was quiet. Only my frightened
breathing remained to fill the living room. It had all been a dream.

Lying on the floor like a beached shrimp, I saw the clock. It was 3:24 A.M. I started counting
sheep. “1 sheep, 2 sheep, 3 sheep…

“…76 sheep…77 sheep…78 sheep…

“…213 sheep…214 sheep…

“…845 sheep…846 sheep…847 sheep…

“…1,999 sheep…

“…3,875 sheep…3,876 sheep…3,877 sheep…” I opened my eyes. It was now 9:38 A.M.

After that, whenever I fell asleep, choppers flew in the sky—and a SWAT team kicked down my
door, and Jose shouted for me to run. I would wake up to a siren outside.

I lost sleep. I just kept typing on my computer, over and over:

I’m not a terrorist, not for North Korea, and not for somebody’s home.

I am NOT!

Chapter Twelve…Mom is Sorry

Late April, 2002…Although a month had passed since I’d been named a terrorist, I was still
suffering from insomnia. Not only that, I got startled whenever I heard my cell phone…or whenever
somebody ran through the hallway outside my apartment.

I got new habits; mostly, I kept my cell phone turned off. Whenever I felt drowsy, I went to bed and
waited for sleep, because I really wanted to sleep. So sometimes my days and nights were on the
opposite foot, as it were.

After that, I never wore my yin & yang rings again. That was because they were the reason my
insomnia started. Also, my balance of yin and yang was now perfectly destroyed.

Nevertheless, there was a bright side to all of this. I worked all night, because I couldn’t sleep. So I
created much better advertisement graphic designs.

The OB Advertising Agency loved my work. I thought I could smell my green card.

One day, I heard that Nara had had a miscarriage. En route to visit Nara’s house, I called my
hometown from the parking lot of my apartment building…due to the anniversary of my father’s
passing away.

My mother wasn’t there, however, so my younger brother answered the phone.

During the conversation, he suddenly said, “Mom’s health is not good. We haven’t enough money
to care for her. Forget about your American dream; why can’t you just come back home?”

Blood rushed to my head immediately. “I haven’t even started yet. How can I come back home
now?”

“Because of you, Mom cries every day; it makes her health worse. Don’t you feel sorry for her?”
He was getting emotional. “Wake up, sister! Come back!”

“Hey, what are you talking about? You think I enjoy living in America? Yes, I am dying to be happy
living in America: just tell Mom I called to say hi.” I hung up on him. I was getting mad at him.

It was not new that Mom had gotten concerned about me. Also, dreams don’t come true in a single
day; they require a long-term commitment. I picked up the phone to call him again. As soon as he
answered, I shouted back:

“Hey, immigrant life is not that easy. Wake up? Hey, you can’t tell me to stop! Here, nobody
believes in the American dream. People pretend that they’re living to pursue the American dream,
to make it come true. Without pretending, everybody will go crazy; that’s because life is so difficult
for immigrants here. You know that? You stupid piece of shit!”

After I hung up, I started talking to my cell phone…pretending

my younger brother was on the line:

“You know, I couldn’t even sleep for a month because I’ve been too happy living here.”

I was too angry to control myself, shaking the steering wheel in my hands. So I took the back
streets instead of the 10 Freeway to reach K-town; on the way, I threw on my favorite Madonna
CD. I pushed the volume up, up, up.

Madonna started to dance in my car, and I danced too.

…Everybody comes to Hollywood…They wanna make it in the neighborhood…They like the smell
of it in Hollywood…

When Madonna was laughing, I laughed too. When Madonna was crying, I cried too. I just
pretended I was her, following my Hollywood dream.

When I passed Century City on Olympic, my mom called me. She didn’t say that my younger
brother and I got into a fight. She just wished me good health, and good luck. Then we talked
about this, that and the other.

“I love you, Younghee; if I send you some extra money, it would help you focus on your dream.
Mom is sorry.” Then we hung up.

The words “Mom is sorry” gave me a strange feeling from my knees to my breasts. Her voice got
bigger in my ears: Mom is sorry. Olympic Boulevard was getting blurry with my tears. My eyes
became river-spawning lakes, and I spoke out loud to myself, as if Mom were right there next to me.

“Why are you sorry, Mom? What about? I’m fine, Mom. There’s nothing to be sorry about. Yes,
definitely I am going to be fine.” I started to rub the passenger seat, imagining her leg was there.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, Mom; not you.” I started sobbing harder, and I couldn’t drive
anymore. I stopped across from the Korean Times Building on Wilshire Boulevard.

All of a sudden, everything reminded me of the day I arrived in LAX until now…exactly four years
and four months.

I looked at the picture of Mom and Dad from my wallet. “Mom, I’m tired of living here. I wish I could
give up everything, come back home and see you.”

I didn’t remember how long I was there, but I couldn’t move because of all my crying. Moreover, my
body was weak due to over a month of insomnia.

After I cried for a while, I felt empty. At that moment, there came a knock on my car window. I
turned toward the sound with surprise.

Somebody was there, but I couldn’t quite make out who it was…since my eyes were still wet. It was
dark outside, which didn’t help.

The person knocked again. It was a policeman with sunglasses, like in the movie Psycho. He
motioned for me to lower the window.

I wondered what for. I hadn’t done anything wrong, had I? After I wiped my teary face, and blew my
nose with a Kleenex, I pushed the button to open the window.

“Are you okay?” the cop asked, taking off his sunglasses.

He looked at the inside of my car.

“Miss…?” He indicated my breasts with his fingers.

What?

I wondered, not realizing. I looked down at my breasts. My shirt was open. Probably, while crying
hard, I had opened it to cool off. Quickly, I buttoned my shirt.

“Can you get out of the car?” the cop asked.

By then I realized he probably thought I had some marijuana, or was high on something.

I opened the door and put one of my feet outside, trying to hold the door. Somehow, I was too
weak. I didn’t even feel my legs. I almost fell down, but the cop tried to help by catching my arms.

Now what? He was holding both my arms. My face was exactly one inch from his manhood. It
looked like I was giving him a blow job. We both freaked out. The cop pushed me back into the
driver’s seat, and started to check my car, both inside and the trunk.

After that, he returned to me and said:

“I saw you here over two hours ago, crying and laughing alternately. And you’re still here. Is there
any problem, or anything you need help with?” He got close, and then closer.

“Mom is really sick.” I didn’t know why I told the cop that.

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s getting late. You should go home. Can you drive?”

I couldn’t even feel my arms. I shook my head.

“You have any family or friends?” he asked.

“I’m hungry,” I said, surprising even myself.

“Okay, I missed my dinner too. You want to go somewhere and eat together?” the cop asked.

I simply nodded.

“Someplace in particular you were thinking of?” he asked.

“Something hot!”

After that, I got in the cop’s car, next to him. It was the first time I’d ever ridden in a police car.

Chapter 1-3     Chapter 4-6    Chapter 7-9

© 2006 Younghee Cha

Thank you for reading this fiction, published January 2006. If you want to know more about this
novel, please visit
http://www.youngheecha.com
After 9/11: A Korean Girl’s Sexual Journey by Younghee Cha©
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