As it Happens

Chapter Tags: OC Ageplay MF Minor2 NoSex WIP

Okay, so I met this girl, IRL, two weeks ago. ‘Wow!’ I hear you say, should I even bother reading this?

See, I’m new on here but I have learned fast that original romantic fiction is a minority interest, so if it isn’t your bag, I suggest you stop right here because this will bore you shitless.

Okay, full disclosure, we met once more, last weekend. A date, if you will; but not quite what I expected.
But she’s special and I have a good feeling—after all, she bothered to come.
I’m writing as it works out. A kind of blog, I suppose. So this story may be two chapters, or many more. What happens, happens. And you might learn something of modern China, never a bad thing.

They allow Ting one afternoon to herself. Usually Saturday, because Sunday is the family day so, if I see her, it will be a new chapter. As It Happens is what it suggests.

I realised after proof reading that As it ‘appens was the regrettable catchphrase of one of England’s most odious characters, a disc jockey and major serial sexual predator of the sixties and seventies who hid behind charity work, and remained protected by the BBC up to his death. Not the proudest moment of a once great, declined, country.
To be clear, the man was a total shit and I will not whitewash what he did, but Ting is almost thirty years younger than me and I’m chasing her. So, I left the title as a reminder to myself, as a reality check.

Xiamen is a modern port city on the eastern seaboard of China, a third of the way up, facing Taiwan across the Strait.
I teach English here, to kids between eight and thirteen at a private school. At forty-two, I’m one of the oldest TEFL teachers in the city because I’ve been here ten years.

Why am I still here? Well, when the monsoon winds swing to the south in summer, the air’s clean, unlike the rest of China. Winters here on the coast are short and mild but smoggy. Contracted teaching hours allow me cram school work and private tuition on the side so my standard of living is way better than back in southeast England. I’m a good teacher; conscientious, I get results and schools appreciate me.

While I live like a king, I save tons, too. And then, the girls, oh my god, those girls.
The Asian female. The most beautiful creature on god’s planet. I don’t need to, do I? Okay, one more time.
Their colour, the silky hair, those eyes, their lithe bodies with satin-fine skin, thighs without cellulite, legs never needing a razor, firm little breasts with perfect nipples and pert tight asses. The magic bit, though, is how they age, or rather, don’t. I have girlfriends thirty-five who look twenty-five and I never struggle to get laid. I’ve dated girls as young as twenty and slept with a remarkable, stunning, married lady of fifty.

So, I’m stuck. For two years, I toyed with leaving but, returning to a British climate, the Brexit clusterfuck, the massive living costs and the general misery of daily life—no thanks.
Colleagues suggest Australia (too expensive); Canada (winter); USA (Trump); New Zealand (so many Chinese I wouldn’t tell the difference).
The trade war, xenophobia, militarism, our Winnie-the-Pooh leader-for-life. All negatives, for sure, but with ten years of Mandarin invested, I’d rather stay.

I’m too much of a perfectionist to describe my Chinese as fluent, but it’s not bad.  I can read but my writing is basic. The law of diminishing returns applies and I prefer to spend my time keeping in good shape than getting fat, perfecting calligraphy.

About Ting, then. Already thirty degrees and humid—they forecast showers late morning. Early summer  heralds seasonal weather called the MeiYu front, better known as plum rain. Rain pisses down from south China to Japan for two or three weeks before the typhoon season starts. Sub-equatorial rain doesn’t bother me, it’s warm, and it dries up, so I went out on my bike, regardless. Eighty kilometres of sweat brought me back into the city just as the first thundershower broke, so I chose a shortcut.

The path took me past a middle school at lunchtime when a few students slip out for a half-hour. They set staggered concrete blocks to restrict access to scooters and bicycles. At the far end, a plumpish girl held an umbrella over her friend wiping dry the seat of the ubiquitous electric scooter, blocking my way.
“Dui bu qi,” I said (sorry/excuse me). [Okay, I won’t do this anymore, it’s annoying, I know. Engrish from here on, I promise.]
The plump girl moved aside, but the scooter blocked me. Its driver turned, buckling her helmet. Fuck, she was cute. Then, she smiled. At me.
For all China’s faults, women have equal rights so misogyny is rare. I would never say to another woman what I said to this girl, then. I became lost in that smile.
“You are so pretty, little sister.”
Slipping off sweat-smeared cycling glasses to better see her, she smiled once more, one of those whole face smiles—it burned me.
I gabbled now, “what’s your name, what grade, which school is this?”
I tugged my phone out of my cycling jersey. “You are really pretty, Ting. Can we shake? Please?”
Ting pursed those lips and tilted her head just that way and melted my heart. “Okay,” she said, slipping out her iPhone and flicking WeChat. We shook our phones together, clicked, and there was my new, gorgeous, young contact.

The plump friend’s horrified eyes had become the size of saucers, “Ting, we have to go.”
Ahead of me, I let them manoeuvre through the blocks, overhearing the other girl say over Ting’s shoulder, “you are stupid crazy,” then I chased them along the street, pedalling like a maniac.  Ting threw her head back, laughing as they tore away.

The rest of the ride Ting stuck in my mind, I became lost in both senses, more than once. After a long, hot, jerking off shower, I messaged her before my class. Ting’s reply arrived as I taught and I couldn’t wait to read. The direct translation is perhaps best: ‘friend from the west, stranger than my heartbeat, I smile for you.’

I haven’t deluged her with WeChat but, in the evening, when she’s alone, I tease her, sometimes in Mandarin.
Saturday, is a date and I’m as nervous as a kitten.

To be continued (as long as it lasts)