Yesterday, I met a man. Not in a bar, not in a club, not somewhere sleazy. We met at 798. I'm giving out this detail to indicate why I was more receptive than usual to chatting with this guy since we weren't in a cheapie, hookup joint. He seemed nice so I agreed to meet him that evening for a quick drink at Centro. Ok, not the most creative location but hey, it's down the street from my office and due to the sad lack of chivalry in this town, I considered his willingness to brave traffic down from 798 to CBD as a grand gesture. (Hey, when you're starving, any crumb of bread looks delicious!)
He paid for the first round of martinis. I insisted on covering the second round. "Ah, you Western girls," he said appreciatively in his sexy northern European accent. "Nice to be out with a girl who can treat me." I smiled, pleased.
Two martinis for each of us later, the mood was relaxed and the chat was getting flirtatious. But it was a work night so around midnight, I indicated that I was ready to go home. "Your place or mine?" he asked, patting my bum.
I scooted away from his hand. "I'm going home to sleep."
"Sure you are," he laughed and winked.
He looked shocked. Shaking his head in disbelief he walked off, but not before muttering "Damn hardass Western girls."
Since when did buying a girl one martini entitle a man to public groping and an assumption of sex? Oh yea, in China.
If "western girl" means having enough self-respect not to hop into bed with a man I've known for less than six hours in gratitude for one lousy 60 kuai dry martini, then I'm proud to be a hardass Western girl.