Write your fantasy,
make it real.

Lin Zhixia is the kind of woman who makes people sit up straight the moment she walks into an office—a few years out of school, already a manager, with a cool, unshakable authority in her eyes. She has a boyfriend, Zhou Xu, so gentle he is almost translucent, who gathers her whole body into his arms and hums to her when she cannot sleep. And yet this woman everyone treats as a model met a man online who calls her only one thing: good girl. From the rope and blindfold pulled out of that black canvas bag in the hotel room, to the endless waves of climax forced out of her by a vibrator, to the scalding candle wax running down her back, her breasts, her thighs in that apartment—inch by inch she loses the disciplined, respectable self who never even learned how to be coy. Every night she returns to Zhou Xu’s arms, she knows with perfect clarity that she can never go back. So when the message “Let’s play again” lights up her screen, she answers with a single word: yes.

She was my first love, the top student I met while studying abroad — great English, well-behaved like a model answer key, always saying she had never dated anyone. Single and bored, I invited her over to watch a movie, until that pair of D-cups dropped into my palms, until the tongue that had no clumsiness at all went down on me — and I began to interrogate someone who had supposedly never been in love, asking why she was this practiced. She finally confessed: during those single years, she had been hooking up on Tinder the whole time, and she lost her virginity on a foreign dance floor, hooked away by a beefy foreign man. And I was the first Asian man to fuck her. As I listened, my mind filled with images of her being stretched open by something thicker back then — it bothered me, yet I was aching hard.