DON JUAN IN DONGGUAN

Dongguan is a Chinese city where men are scarce. There are so many women that they’d rather share their boyfriends than be alone, so a guy can easily have three women without a problem. Plus, he gets to be kept, because the competition is tough, and the women would rather support a man than end up alone.

After reading that bit of news, I saved it to my favorites. Then I sold my house, my dog, and my collection of pictures of Asian girls, and set off for Dongguan to try my luck, like that lucky cat you see in every corner store of the 21st century.

It was incredible—wow. As soon as I arrived, the airport workers were handing me their names and phone numbers, which I couldn’t even read and cracked me up because they were just a bunch of doodles. I remember I slept with a girl whose name looked like a tree; there was another one whose name was like a bunch of little animals, and she was a real tigress in bed. Then I realized there were a lot of indecent and bizarre proposals—let’s remember they’re Asian—these weren’t even names. One girl was named “I want your dollars,” which was just too weird; she said she liked the smell of my wallet. Luckily, I only use MasterCard. I took the train, sipping a Coke that obviously didn’t have my name on it, but I felt it was mine, exactly, a possession, just like I felt about that city. I’m a super egocentric guy, and feeling like the only man surrounded by a bunch of girls getting surgery on their eyes just to look at me was extraordinary, though weird. I felt like the only man in a deserted wasteland where a thousand women were just a grain of sand. Fucking overpopulation! I could feel the pheromones go wild when I walked by. I felt those anime eyes, like when they’re about to burst, except this time not from sadness but from pride, excitement, depravity. They asked me for photos, I grabbed their asses, then they grabbed mine, several of them fainted. I remember my most spectacular and outstanding feature—the thing that drove them crazy and horny, my sex appeal—was exactly that I was a man. That melted them, not literally, or at least it melted part of them, if you know what I mean. I felt like a regulated product in a communist country with shortages. At least in my country, girls have options and I can feel good-looking. Here I’m only good-looking because I have a third arm pointing to the horizon, like a spaceship entering a very well-known galaxy—thanks, Google Images. That made me feel a little bad, but when I started telling them I came from a tropical country with a lot of oil and much prettier women—and men—they got even more interested and I became like a luxury regulated product in a communist country, something they’d never see again for the rest of their lives, at least while in that extremely feminist city.

At the hotel, which by coincidence translated to Spanglish as: MACHO MEN, the moment I checked in, women started knocking on my door with indecent proposals. The first one was dressed as a cleaning lady, which turned me on a bit, even more when she lifted the rag and a broom, because she really was the cleaning lady who was offering to be my wife. I sent her away, gave her some Venezuelan sweets, and she donated everything she had in her pleasure account. That sounded beautiful... not really. The girl whacked me with her broom every time I said “oh yes!” Also, I don’t know how she got my real bank account info, but I felt wronged. I started thinking, two hours later the hotel manager came in, stroking her vanilla-colored tie suggestively, as if it were something else she wanted in the near future—something that rhymes with “dick.” I invited her in, said I just wanted to talk. So I offered her my laptop to write whatever she wanted to say. She opened Google Translate. After a bunch of Chinese symbols on the screen, there was just one word: fuck. I told myself it was fine, I was already sore all over, but it was fine. I looked up at the sky where there were lots of muscular angels, with beards and Swedish model looks. I gave in, already a little tired of how easy the women were in that place. She asked how I could pay her, I said, “no way,” but since she insisted, I just told her to follow me on social media. And she left, so happy she gave me her joy, but mixed with boredom. Five minutes later I had 10 million more followers online. I asked how she did it. She just told me she posted on the Dongguan city page that a man had arrived and was at the Macho Men Hotel. She just said she posted that there was a man.

The next day I woke up to the chorus of Asian girls, in what sounded like a hormonal carnival. As soon as I looked out the window, there was a crowd of women filling the street, with banners with my face, my name next to hearts, their names like a ribbon tying us together, and inflatable dolls to scale of my dick. I felt proud and at the same time scared. I tried to call someone for help, but the phone only received messages from desperate women. I started to get dizzy, had vertigo, and they started throwing snacks shaped like penises at me, breaking the window. I got dizzy, scraped my leg a bit. I fell out the window, and although I remember yellow hands catching me and then groping me, I don’t remember anything else until I woke up naked in a city hospital. With the doctor giving me a blowjob while the nurse stroked my hair. I was destroyed, destroyed by pleasure. I was the sex doll of an entire city.

A man with a yellow wig came into my room, shooed the two women away like birds eating rice. I was hard and sick, he pulled up my pants, and once he made sure we were alone, he said: Run while you can, friend. The women are crazy. I pretend to be one of them to survive. I started to cry. I had finally found someone who understood me. I felt like I was in jail with 6.446 million inmates who wanted to rape me. My poor little dick was sad and scared. I wanted to go back to Latin America and just have coffee with someone who would keep me in the friendzone. Seriously, I never thought I’d say that, but I can’t stand women… or, well, I can only stand one, who can’t stand me as a lover. Even so, I’m a super hopeful human. I’d rather make an effort and feel less pain, than a lot of pain from fucking a whole city. A hug would be enough to make my day, not five hundred assaults or a thousand blowjobs, or fucking in latex, or playing music from the xxxx’s. I’m heading back to my hometown. Full of orgy and foam, graduated from the country of women, and sore—ouch!

But a few years have passed since then. My little friend and I are recovered and—ha!—by chance, I’m not with anyone. I’m just with my fortune of a billion dollars. This morning I found out I repopulated Dongguan with men, that is, with macho men, and that my little offspring are treated like demigods by the girls. I also got a message from one of my ex-girlfriends, supposedly wanting to see me to talk about philosophy fresh out of the oven. I don’t care about the friendzone. I think I’ve met my goals for the day.