After 9/11: A Korean Girl’s Sexual Journey by Younghee Cha©

Chapter Nineteen…Losing My Legal Status

     The following week was extremely busy for me at work. I forgot to call Nara. I even forgot about
naked yoga with Daniel. November fifteenth, Friday afternoon, I got a phone call from the law office.

“Don’t be surprised, Younghee. Your application to get a working visa was rejected,” said Mrs.
Jang, my law-office manager.

“What did you say?” I saw the World Trade Center towers crashing down on me.
“Your application was rejected by USCIS. They sent the letter, blah-blah-blah,” Mrs. Jang spoke

I couldn’t understand what she was talking about. Yes, there was peace until that morning; at least
it was peace. Nothing special, yet nothing bad either. Now, thunder and lightning hit my body from
top to bottom, making me convulse. I leaned on the desk and clutched it. I was disappearing down
underground. No word, no feeling.

“Younghee, we did our best…But it happens, sometimes. The reason…”

“Wait a minute. You don’t need to explain. Just tell me…What should I do now?” My voice was

“You can appeal,” she said in a sunny voice.

“Appeal? How about possibility? How about expenses?”

“We don’t know about the possibility. Only USCIS knows that.

And…I’m sorry, but you’ll have to pay extra expenses.” Her explanation sounded as if she were
reading a textbook.

“How many times can we appeal?” I tried to stay calm.

“Only once.”

“If the appeal is rejected, that means I will be illegal. I will lose my social security number and driver’
s license. Is it true?” I was trying to hold myself still; my whole body was shaking.

“Younghee, don’t worry! You’re a beautiful young lady. If they reject you again, marry any guy who’
s a citizen! That way, you will get a green card easily. As a matter of fact, with a working visa, it
would take five or six years until you’d get a green card…while you’d have to work for only one
company.” The law office-manager now sounded like a therapist. I thought such things only
happened in K-town.

Given that horrible situation, I couldn’t understand why she brought up this stuff about “tying the
knot.” I never thought about getting a green card through a marriage-of-convenience. Regardless
of my feelings, she hung up after telling me to visit her office as soon as possible.

I wanted to get away from everything, to just be alone and at peace. So I walked out of the office
and went to the ladies’ room. I sat on the toilet, wishing I could turn off the light in the bathroom.
But this was a public lavatory. My mouth was all bitter, and I remembered some M&Ms which I had
in my pocket. When I put one in my mouth, the taste was still bitter…and I
felt something strange. So I ate another, but it was still bitter.

I was curious about all those immigrants who come to America from overseas, legally or
otherwise…from across mountains, or even from Under Borders. How do they survive? I looked up
to the ceiling. It was white, just like mental institutions in the movies. I widened my legs and looked
into the toilet. It was a little yellow from my urine. I flushed the toilet and watched everything
disappear, with that refreshing sound of running water. I wished all my anxiety could be made to
vanish that easily. I flushed the toilet a couple of more times.

I picked up a yellow M&M, looked at it and was about to eat it. I put it down again, however, and
slowly pushed it into my vagina. There was a bit of discomfort, but it disappeared easily. I pushed
in another, and didn't feel anything. I pushed in a third, and felt a strange pain.

For the first time, I thought I could prepare something for myself, being illegal. At the same time, I
pushed more and more M&Ms into my vagina. I had no idea what I was going to do.

Just then, the phone’s vibration shook my body. I checked the caller ID of the cell phone…it was
Daniel. I hesitated briefly, but needed something fresh. I opened the cell phone and said “Hi,”
releasing all the tension from my body.

…Tong tong tong tong tong tong…

M&Ms were diving into the toilet water from my vagina, one by one. They didn’t even make any
spray of water, getting a “perfect 10” score.

“Hi, Younghee.” Daniel spoke with a French accent.

Daniel was a U.S. citizen, wasn’t he? Why didn’t I think of him before?

If I marry him, I’ll get a green card as well.

“What time are you coming over here? Or shall I come to your place?” His voice suggested the
angelic Messenger of Peace. Daniel became my new hope and new future, the sun of my
universe. I wanted to be his flower,  because he was a U.S. citizen. Above all else, he loved me.
“Pardon me?” I was thinking of something else.

“Where shall we meet tonight, for participating in tomorrow’s Screenwriting Expo…and naked
yoga? Or don’t you remember?”

I remembered we were supposed to meet that evening—either at my place or his—and go to the
Expo together the following day. Nevertheless, I wasn’t in the mood. I’d just been rejected by
USCIS, and my only hope left was my screenplay. I decided to polish my speech for the five-minute
pitch at theExpo. Who knew? Some Hollywood producer might buy my screenplay, and then I could
sell it for $100,000…give or take. Then I could fake a marriage, with the help of some lawyers, for
only $40,000. Then I would get a green card in less than two years. It could be a big option.
In my sexiest voice, I said, “Oh…Bonjour, honey. Of course I remember. But you know what?
Honey, I have to polish my speech. Why don’t I go to your place tomorrow morning and pick you
up? And tomorrow evening, we could have naked yoga with my newly-sold screenplay.” My hope
was flying here and there, like a butterfly.

After hanging up, I made my simple plan: after trying to sell my screenplay at Expo, then I would
propose to Daniel. I flushed the toilet happily, and with the beautiful sound of running water, all the
M&Ms were gone. I cheerfully spoke to myself:

“Goodbye, M&Ms. Hello, green card.”

Chapter Twenty…Marriage For a Visa

11/16/2002…I attended the First Screenwriting Expo at the Los Angeles Convention Center,
without mentioning my visa problem to Daniel. There were over 20 thousand people who came
from all parts of America, wanting to be Hollywood screenwriters.

They were all Americans. Yet, based on English ability, I was the last person in the order. I felt like
dust compared to them. Daniel and I attended several sessions…Ten New Great Storytelling
Technologies, and Creating Narrative Tension, and the like. In the afternoon, I participated in the
five-minute pitch session. I had that long to sell my screenplay to a potential agent.

As soon as time started, my broken English broke down even more. I tried to fix my English, but
lost the selling point of my screenplay…and, with it, my potential agent’s attention. Along with the
ticking sound of the clock, I was getting into the ocean of my own sweat. Finally, my tears dropped
into that ocean. I rushed out from the session with a quick “I’m sorry.” Then I got out of the
conference room, hiding my tears.

On the stairs of the Convention Center, I tried to figure out what was going on in my life. I felt I was
hopeless. I studied for over four years at ESL school, learning “the language.” I couldn’t explain my
own screenplay in English. My English was useless.

I looked inside the Convention Center. Thousands of screenwriters tried to improve and sell their
own work. How can I compare with them? I just wanted to get out of that place. At that time, Daniel
walked up to me and asked if I was okay.

“Can you make a romantic French dinner for me? I miss baguettes with garlic butter,” I was smiling
at Daniel.

We changed our plan and left early for his apartment. On the way, we bought sunflowers and a
watermelon…and I made plans to propose. I put sunflowers and candlelight on the dining room
table. Daniel, surprisingly, prepared a French-style chicken dish—which he'd never done before—
and opened a bottle of wine.

There was a romantic feeling in the apartment. It was love. It was happiness. His accent was so

Over dinner, we looked like a couple of happy long-time lovers…complete with toasts of wine.
There was fire as we made eye contact. He suggested naked-yoga-sex. I guided him into bed
because, in my mind, all was dominated by the word “propose.”

On the bed, he gave me deep and incredible pleasure with his yoga-trained fingers…toes, palms,
knees, elbows, and even his proud manhood. He inhaled my body, every nook and corner of it,
with his libido…and with his well-trained yoga spirit. He delivered me to Heaven. I was floating on
Cloud Nine, twisting my entire body with intolerable pleasure. Finally, he walked
into my world with his proud manhood…slowly, slowly…

“Oh, Daniel—you are incredible!”

“Will you marry me?” he said, breathing heavily.

“…” I was just looking at him, like, “What!?” I was panting.

“Will you be my bride?” He smashed his manhood D-EE-
P into me.

I completely forgot the word “propose,” due to his lust. I hadn’t expected him to propose to me,
especially in the middle of sex. I immediately said, “Yes, I will.” My heart and vagina were wet, from
both mental and physical happiness. He tried to get even deeper inside me.

“Can we register marriage first, before having the wedding ceremony?” He asked.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” I squeaked.

He began pumping again. I held his shoulders tighter.

“You have a green card, right?” Daniel asked, groaning.

I had no idea what he was talking about, just looking up at him. He took his penis almost out before
pushing it even more deeply into my vagina.

“My visa expires in a couple of days, so I want to register for marriage before that,” He said.

“What!?” I was startled.

“As a matter of fact, the high school where I used to work has let me go. The school board has
decided not to teach French anymore. So they won’t sponsor my visa any longer; I’ll be an illegal
resident soon.”

“Pull it out!” I announced coldly.

“What?” He looked down at me with surprise.

“Pull your piss-pump out of my pussy,” I insisted.

His half-dead staff was withdrawn. I jumped out of bed and started to pull on my clothes like a
fugitive. My whole body was wrapped in fear. I lost my balance, and fell down, while putting one of
my legs into my pants. The M&Ms spread out from my pocket onto the floor. He didn’t even say,
“Wait a minute.” I just wanted to get out of there. I left his apartment, watching as his place filled up
with his anxiety and my M&Ms.

As soon as I came back home, I brought a bottle of soju and sat on the toilet. I started drinking
from the bottle, while chain-smoking. I was scared from something, but I couldn’t figure out what it
was. It was probably morality, or my self-esteem, or God.

I just sat there, trying to figure out the reason I’d fled. I thought there was an exact reason, but I
couldn’t pinpoint it. At least one thing I’d figured out: it wasn’t that he lacked US citizenship. Now
what? I asked myself. I thought: I’ll probably have to practice jumping a fence and running away
from the police, sooner or later, to survive here as an undocumented resident.

…Some boys kiss me…Some boys hug me…I think they're okay…

My cell phone’s ringtone assaulted my ears while I was trying to figure out exactly what time it was.
I didn’t care who was calling. The ringtone continued.

…Living in a material world…And I am a material girl…

At the same time, something hit me on my head. Yes, I’m Catholic. I completely forgot that my Lord
was with me. I suddenly missed the Lord my God. I decided to ask the priest to pray for me. Later, I
would join the L.A. Leggers Marathon Club, to prepare myself as a runner. I didn’t want to give up
my dream yet. I wasn’t ready to kick off from America yet. I would run and run and run, until my
dream came true. Suddenly, I was greatly encouraged: God is good. God is hope.

For my American dream, I threw my fist up in a victory salute…like the Statue of Liberty; like Joan
of Arc; like Ryu, Kwansoon from Korea. I stood up and shouted, “I can do…” Before I finished the
sentence, I collapsed to the floor. My leg had fallen asleep. I was lying on the cold tiles by the toilet.
“I will stand up someday, in victory.”

Chapter Twenty-One…Priest’s Libido

In early December, my lawyer asked me to prepare several more papers for my appeal. In the
meantime, I sent Christmas cards to my mother and brother—and to my friend Dokdo—in Korea.
While I was writing my Christmas cards, I asked myself, “Next Christmas, will I even be in America
or not?” My Christmas was going to be a downer.

Nevertheless, my company was busy. I also believed the only way I could survive in America was to
work hard, and to build up a high reputation. I worked hard, from dawn to midnight.

With Christmas around the corner, K-town was getting busy…due, in part, to celebrating the 100th
Anniversary of Korean immigration to the USA. As the issue of participating in the Rose Parade as
a Korean American was getting bigger, who was going to ride in the big flower car? Who brought
glory to Korean Americans? Ironically, around the 100th Anniversary of the first Korean American
immigration, I faced the issue of whether to be legal or not.

Over Christmas Mass, we prayed for the American troops in Afghanistan. I prayed to God that I
would have Christmas in America next year…and every year, until I had realized my American

On December 31st, I called Nara to say Happy New Year. She told me that she was busy, that she
had to go with her in-laws and participate in a Korean American New Year’s Eve Ceremony…at the
Korean & American Friendship Bell. Allegedly, all of this was over her father-in-law going into
politics. The ceremony consisted of the tradition of hitting the bell thirty-three times.


1/1/2003…was really busy for Korean Americans in Los Angeles, especially in politics. They had to
participate in the Korean American Friendship Bell Ceremony at midnight. They went to the
Hollywood Mountains for the New Year’s First Sunrise Ceremony: a New Years’ custom of Korea.
At the same time, they went to Pasadena for the Rose Parade. During all of this, I slept until 11:00
A.M. As the New Year started, so did my anxiety about resolving my issues with USCIS.

The first week of January, Dokdo sent an e-mail to me; he mentioned having watched the Rose
Parade via Korean Broadcasting. He learned that someone who rode in the big flower car had
brought glory to the Korean American community. Then why was there no Margaret Cho? I didn’t
know much about Margaret Cho, so I asked my co-workers about her.

“Oh, Margaret Cho? She’s not straight,” Miss M. answered nonchalantly.

As a matter of fact, I didn’t care whether Margaret Cho was picked for the Rose Parade or not. Nor
did it matter to me that she was Dokdo’s idol. My legal fate was in USCIS’s hands, so how could I
possibly care about anything else? I didn’t even care whether or not Margaret Cho was a lesbian,

George Bush’s lover, etcetera…any more than I cared whether she brought glory to Korean
Americans or not.

My lawyer called me about registering my appeal, saying I would have to wait about three months. I
felt it would be the longest three months of my life.


1/13/2003…There was a 100th Anniversary Ceremony of Korean immigration to here. It was held
at the Seoul International Park in the middle of K-town. Many participated and shared galbi
(Korean barbecue). The ceremony—according to newspapers—turned into a festival, since the
government announced January 13th as Korean American Day…beginning
with 2004.

I wasn’t there. I was busy making an appointment with Father Scott from church. I wanted to have
him say a special prayer for me. Getting myself a green card was a hundred times more important
than K-town having Korean American Day.

The following Saturday morning, I walked into Father Scott’s office. He flashed his big Will Smith-
smile. While I was talking with him about this and that, I saw his rollerblades…which were right next
to the desk in his office. I suddenly wanted to go rollerblading. If I could do that in Venice Beach, I
would feel much lighter.

After telling him about my situation, I asked him to say a special prayer. We stood up. He put his
hands on my shoulders, and I bowed my head to pray.

He started praying, “Blah, blah, blah…” He spoke softly and smoothly. Somehow, his low voice was
like that of a radio announcer, tickling me deep inside my ears. I was just thinking that I needed to
study English more, since I couldn’t understand exactly what he was saying.

How sad it was: somebody was praying for me, and I couldn’t even understand exactly. But I was
there, overwhelmed by the feeling that an honest-to-goodness priest was praying just for me. I felt
almost royal for it. It even made my eyes misty.

Anyhow, Father Scott finished praying with an “Amen.” Then he hugged me slightly. His smell
touched my breasts; I hugged him back softly, inhaling his scent. His chubby stomach met my slim
belly, and the soft feeling walked into my navel. I was really comfortable, thinking my whole
troubled life was now in God’s hands.

“Father Scott, do you enjoy rollerblading?” I asked, leaving his office.


“I wish I could rollerblade, like the wind,” I said, forming a plane with my hand.

“That's a great idea. If you ride like the wind, your oppressed heart will feel renewed.”

“But, Father Scott, I can’t be the wind.”

“Why not?” He chuckled.

“I don’t know how to rollerblade, although I really want to be the wind,” I imagined myself riding on
the beach road, clad only in a bikini. I visualized the ocean: erect like Poseidon’s giant manhood,
with my sexual attraction. Thus did my lie come out: “I’ve always thought about learning how to
rollerblade. Could you please teach me?”

Father Scott hesitated, then…“Okay. When do you want to start?”

“Today,” I answered cheerfully.

“How about 1 P.M.?” Father Scott asked me, after checking his calendar.

I was so happy, feeling special because Father Scott spent his time with me. I suggested
carpooling, and told him I would be here at 1 sharp to pick him up. After we bought my new
rollerblades, we went to Venice Beach in the afternoon.

He taught me how to stand up, and I practiced how to fall safely. He showed me how, and I followed
through. There was no pain; it helped that I was wearing elbow pads, knee pads and gloves. I
wished there was protective gear for my life in general, a Life Pad. Then he taught me how to walk,
guiding me, holding my hand. I followed him step by step. Like a baby learns how to
walk from its father, I learned how to rollerblade from Father Scott. Whenever I moved my feet, he
encouraged me: “Okay, great…be careful…okay,  then…you’re doing well…” I was nervous, but
felt safe and happy.

It reminded me of when I was a little girl, learning from my uncle how to ride my first bike. When I
was ten (give or take a year), my grandmother bought me a little rusty red bike. My uncle, then in
high school, taught me how to ride. While I was trying to ride solo, he briefly held the bike from

“Great, great…Okay, you’re doing well…”—until I shouted out that I could do it alone.

My uncle released me. I rode along the riverbank, him running alongside and applauding. “Don’t
fall,” he cried, when I wobbled. We both shouted out, “Yahoo!” many times. With my uncle following
like a warm shadow, I rode until dusk.

I wished my uncle were there to teach me rollerblading. I could have learned it
immediately…gliding along Venice Beach, like the wind, until the end of the ocean.
After my first lesson, Father Scott and I returned to the bench and I started undoing my
rollerblades. He said I did a great job. I thought of my uncle in him.

As I sat there resting, he donned his own rollerblades and said he’d be back soon. Except for his
Catholic Priest-getup, and for the rollerblades he wore, Father Scott looked exactly like Will “the
Fresh Prince” Smith. He skated away like the wind; manly dignity and grace flowed from him and
made him appear to fly across the landscape. I realized it was just me and the ocean now. I
envisioned my hometown, Daegu, thousands of miles across the sea. My homesickness began to
pile up on the sand.

A minute later, he came back with an energetic smile. I hoped to ride with him after I trained some
more with my rollerblades. If so, we would look like Will Smith with a dazzling Korean girl.
We made an appointment for 7 A.M., every Saturday morning at Venice Beach parking lot, for my

I thanked God, because rollerblading seemed about the best way to refresh my body and
mind…which got tired easily, through the course of my American life. On the other hand, it was
more than a sport. It gave me a chance to spend time with Father Scott. It also made my butt
tighter and sexier. Already I felt like I was skating on air.

The week flew by like a day. The first Saturday morning, I woke up too early. I arrived at the
parking lot earlier than Father Scott, so I practiced standing and walking in blades. I looked like a
baby learning to toddle. While I was practicing, Father Scott’s car arrived. I waved to him,
smiling…which made me lose my balance. I fell down on the asphalt, butt-first. My ass felt broken
for moment.

While practicing, I became friends—as it were—with Venice Beach. The song of waves welcomed
me. The gulls blew hope into me by flapping their wings. I finally started to skate the path along the
sandy beach, faltering. Experienced rollerbladers passed us, which somehow scared me. Father
Scott held my hand tightly. Holding his big hand, I rode unsteadily. My heart, however, wasn’t
unstable. His hands were getting wet, and my hands got wet too. I looked back at the road, to see
how far I’d come. I wanted to make sure I hadn’t gone too far away, since it would be difficult to
come back. Sure enough, I had come too far. So we were late getting back to the parking lot.
After that, we went to a restaurant on the beach. There we celebrated my second rollerblading
lesson. We selected the table giving us the best view of the ocean, and sat there for brunch.
California sunshine descended to join us.

Between Father Scott and myself, the California sunshine and my own happiness were making
love, mingling their bodies. I was drunk with happiness, completely forgetting about my visa
problem. I felt really comfortable, as if I were born here…as if I’d lived here for a hundred years.
I realized something else: coming over here to America was the best decision I had ever made in
my life. I was just so contented, so at peace. I was intoxicated by the sound of the ocean waves. I
was melted by the shimmering outdoors. I danced with the scent of the breeze. I closed my eyes to
Father Scott’s Fresh Prince-smile.

Venice Beach was Heaven. Thanking my Heavenly Father for bringing me there, I invited Father
Scott to a Korean dinner.

“I love Korean dishes,” he said, sounding like a kid.


The following Friday night, he brought sunflowers, my favorite.
I arranged them next to the galbi and kimchi pie on the table. They looked uncomfortable together,
like Father Scott and myself. After we started to eat, the ice broke. Laughing and shouting, we
stuffed ourselves, with kimchi pie for dessert. When we sat together on the sofa, there was ice
again. It was getting dark outside.

“Your rollerblades are still in your trunk, right? Father Scott?”

“Do you want to ride around the neighborhood together?”

We immediately got set and rollerbladed toward the village like lovers…only without holding hands.
He complimented me on becoming a much better rollerblader, and I responded that I had a
wonderful teacher. We both smiled. Moonlight was descending on the city, little by little, between
us…the whole neighborhood seemed lovely. After coming back to my apartment, he taught me
how to climb the stairs with rollerblades.

“This is the way to get used to balancing on rollerblades: by wearing them all the time at your
apartment.” He indicated my living room carpet.

At the same time, I saw there was a TV remote-control, almost under my rollerblade. So I tried to
save the remote, which was more important than my body. I lifted one of my legs, and totally lost
balance. As I was falling to the floor, Father Scott tried to help me by stretching out his hands.
I grabbed his hand, only to fall down. Father Scott fell down too, right on me. Luckily, there was no
great pain. Yet we were both embarrassed, and as we tried to stand up, our legs intertwined. We
fell down again, together. By accident, he put his hand on my breast. I grabbed his head. It was
more than just coincidence. My lips met his lips…

We both froze. He didn’t try to withdraw his hand from my breast. I didn’t feel uncomfortable, either.
I just didn’t know what to do. I honestly didn’t expect to have sex with him; I didn’t want to make him
uncomfortable, either. He was one of the greatest guys I’d ever met. He was so gentle, so graceful,
and so mannered. It was a dilemma: I couldn’t ask for sex; I couldn’t
refuse, either.

The dilemma was gone immediately, as his tongue broke through my lips and got into my mouth.
Frenzied, he sucked my tongue. All at once, his lips and tongue and libido crisscrossed over my
body…randomly, here and there, like a madman on fire. His once-inhibited instincts were
exploding, spreading out all over my body.

It was like the flood from Hoover Dam, the day it was burst by the Big One. The unleashed instincts
licked and bit wherever they reached: my throat…my lips…my left ear…the right side of my
neck…my right ear…my forehead…my chin…my right boob and nipple…my navel…my left boob
and nipple…my left armpit…my nose…my elbow…behind my left ear…the back of my neck…

My whole body was mingled with Father Scott’s saliva and anxiety… moaning...agony… ego…
anger…sight…lust…fire…His carnal desire lost the tempo of breath. Like the flood from Hoover
Dam, it rushed into the lowlands, toward the Pacific. His carnal desire sped, lower and lower,
toward my womanly oasis.

My womanly oasis was already overflowing with his unleashed instincts. He jumped into the oasis
like a thirst-crazed desert-wanderer. Then he started swallowing every last drop of water in the
oasis…licking it dry, turning the bottom of the oasis inside-out.

I was floating in Heaven, guided by Father Scott. I almost said, “Oh, Father…” I shut my mouth
immediately. Basically, I didn’t want to remind him that he was a priest. I wished he would simply
follow his instincts.

The way was to let him do whatever he wanted with my body, to respond physically and cheerfully,
to show it was okay and that he could have all of me. It succeeded in making him think that I was
his meal.

We started to remove each other's rollerblades, working feverishly. After that, we returned to our
jobs, more eagerly than before. He looked like a half-starved hyena. I guessed he needed help to
enjoy his meal. And I needed to guide this Father into Seventh Heaven.

He opened his fly and put his manhood onto my vagina, rubbing his and mine. Unlike most guys,
he didn’t suggest that I suck his dick before he went inside me. Either he forgot to bring it up, or he
just didn’t know that step exists.

Anyway, it was the first time in my life that I’d made love without protection. I believed his Holy
manhood itself protected me. When he got just an inch into my world, somehow, he stopped
moving his manhood…just an inch inside my vagina.

The pause seemed to go on for an hour. There was a strange feeling between his manhood and
my vagina. I prayed to myself, Please don’t stop. Don’t think about who you are, or who I am. Just
make love to me. You deserve it and I deserve it.

“Excuse me—I gotta go to the bathroom,” he said, pulling up his pants and leaving my vagina out
there alone. He entered the bathroom. I was there, lying on the carpet in the middle of my living
room…naked from the waist down, with my womanhood wide open toward the sky.

The world was quiet…too quiet. I closed my eyes, waiting for him to come back. Time was passing,
and my womanhood was getting cold. I wondered what he was preparing to do in there.

After a while, he came from the bathroom and walked toward the gate of my apartment. I was just
lying in the middle of the living room.

“Younghee, you are a wonderful lady,” he announced, holding his rollerblades without even
looking at me. With that, he left my apartment. It happened all at once. I just lay there, blinking my
eyes with my empty womanhood.

A blast of cold wind blew into my living room, and ran away toward the other window. After it hit my
thigh, the sexual fever of the living room followed it. It was cold. My boobs were cold. My nipples
were cold. My vagina was cold.

I wondered what was wrong. Did my body smell bad or something? Perhaps it was my armpits?
Maybe it was that garlic I had eaten. Or maybe it was the kimchi that smelled. I started sniffing at
my own body, but I could perceive only Father Scott’s smell there. I looked down at my boobs,
which he played with, and touched them myself. They were elastic, and incredibly sexy.

I touched my own vagina…it was still off-road, where less than ten people had passed in my life.
There’s nothing wrong with me, I thought. I went to see the bathroom, walking into it and checking
it out, here and there. It was just a regular organized bathroom, with soap and shampoo and
cosmetics. Asking myself why, I walked in front of the mirror.

There was a beautiful 5’6” Asian girl with decent-sized boobs and a slim waist in the mirror. She
was half-naked and had uncertainty written all over her face. She was watching me all over, so I
grabbed a towel and wrapped my body. I asked myself, If I were Father Scott, who would I see
here…? Is it God…?

No matter who it was, I thought he deserved to have a woman at least once. I wished God would let
him do something for himself, if just once. I whispered, “My Lord, why did You scold Father Scott?
Why did You make him leave me? Tonight wasn’t for me; it was for him.”

The next day, Saturday morning…He didn’t show up at the Venice Beach parking lot, and I was
standing there alone. I was looking at the parking lot entrance for a while, expecting him. Yet I
knew, and even the gulls knew, he wouldn’t come up.

I started rollerblading on my own, through the sandy beach. Two weeks ago, when I first came to
Venice Beach, I saw happiness over the sea. That day, there was loneliness in the drifting sand.
I missed Father Scott a lot. The cold ocean wind blew through my hair and my heart, making waves
in my soul. I felt terribly lonely. I thought I could live without happiness, but I couldn’t live with
loneliness. Then I asked myself: Do I like Father Scott? Why do I feel so lonesome? Am I in love
with him?

“No way! It’s no time for you to fall in love!” Somebody yelled at me from the sky. I stopped and
looked up; gulls passed over my head. I started skating back to the parking lot, with an
uncomfortable-but-very-sexy form.

After I got home, I sat at the computer and thought of an e-mail to write Father Scott. I couldn’t
start, because I didn’t know why he had left. I didn’t know whether to invite him again, or to suggest
that nothing had happened last night. I started writing, rambling:


Dear Father Scott,
Please don’t feel sorry—or ashamed, or guilty—about what happened last night at my apartment.
These things just happen.
I guess you need something for keeping your physical balance…Yin and Yang….


I found that I didn’t know what I was talking about. I stood up and began to walk around my living
room, holding a lit cigarette. My cell phone ringtone started singing on the coffee table.

…Cause we are living in a material world…and I am a material

It was Father Scott’s friend Kevin, who told me something had happened to Scott. According to
Kevin, he’d visited church to discuss some business. Instead, he found Father Scott in the prayer

Father Scott hadn’t slept or eaten since coming in the night before. He’d just left word that he was
praying, and was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever. It had been twenty-four hours
since he’d begun. “I understand you and Father Scott had an appointment for dinner last night,”
Kevin went on. “So I wondered if you’d heard anything from him.”

Something was shaking me, somebody was talking to me. I don’t remember exactly what I told
Kevin about Father Scott. I simply told him I didn’t know anything. After hanging up, I unplugged my
PC immediately…feeling terribly sinful. I thought, instinctively, my adulterous soul was dishonoring
Father Scott. I knew I was living in a material world. Nonetheless, I’d never been truly ashamed of
myself until that point. This time, I’d gone too far, past the point of no return. I drank Sopep,
bottoms-up…but the clear memory filled my mind to the brim, bottoms-up. I wished I were a
computer. That way, before I went to sleep, God could ask me…


Do you want to remember today?
Yes / No


I would click on “yes, or no,” That’s right: especially after hanging up the phone with Kevin, I
wished I were a computer. I could click “No,” to erase all memories of Father Scott with myself.
Even if the computer was dying of an electronic virus, I didn’t mind at all because my life was
already infected. I turned off the light and closed my eyes. I wanted just to disappear from my own
memory. For a time, I was just sitting deep in my sofa. It was all darkness. From somewhere far
away, somebody was reciting…something or other. It was loud, and getting louder
all the time. “…Hail Mary, full of grace! The Lord is with thee; blessed are thou among women…” It
was my grandmother, who was doing her daily rosary-prayer thing.

It was dawn; her routine was waking up my uncle and me. I was probably three or four years old,
sleeping next to my uncle in my grandmother’s room. My grandmother’s prayer was getting louder
and louder: “…And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for

It was now exploding like thunder in my ears…and then I woke up from my bizarre dream with a
sweat. I had been sleeping in my living room chair. It was pitch-dark. In my early childhood, I was
awakened every morning by my grandmother’s rosary-prayers. So, naturally, I became Catholic. I
couldn’t understand why my grandmother was appearing in my dreams at that time. I wondered if
she wanted to tell me something, and if so, what? Was it about my uncle?

I suddenly missed my grandmother. She was the seed of my family’s Catholic faith. I loved her
even more than my mother. She loved me as well. She enjoyed watching me dance while she was
singing her favorite tune, Elegy of the Desert.

I was still in the armchair, still surrounded by darkness. Little by little, my grandmother’s favorite
song came out of my mouth:

…Every day I wake up on a road in the desert…Even in my dreams…I am on that desert
road…The desert road is eternal…The road of exhausted wanderers…

While I was singing, my childhood came up: my grandmother sang, and I danced…following her
song, before her. And I continued singing:

…Loading a camel with my dreams…While I walk across the desert…

Above, on the looming horizon…The twilight is a elegy…


Ironically, I was living in a desert named Los Angeles. I was walking on a road through this desert,
bearing the weight of my American dream on my shoulders.
I had tried not to lose the road, not to go astray. Now I was confused. I was lost, and had no sense
of direction. I had no way of finding my dream. Which way was North? South? East? West?
I was just in the middle of the desert.

Chapter 1-3   Chapter 4-6   Chapter 7-9   Chapter 10-12   Chapter 13-15

Chapter 16-18

© 2006 Younghee Cha

Thank you for reading this fiction, published January 2006. If you want to know more about this
novel, please visit
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