either some gesture or word, or even a moan signaling her rising passion. But with this one there was nothing. I entered her slowly, studying her eyes, which remained expressionless through the entire affair. I pumped her slowly, then hard, almost brutally, in an effort to elicit some sort of response. When I reached forward and took her breasts in my hands and squeezed the nipples, not harshly, I thought I saw a flicker of emotion, perhaps discomfort, but she soon reverted to type. I sighed inwardly and simply continued to saw between her legs.
For myself, I soon arrived at the point at which I wished for the frantically passionate limbs of Winnie, or of some other almost perfect mistress, but was met in my flood instead by the same soft impassivity which I came to think of as being characteristic of Chinese women. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but that does not detract from the validity of the broad generalization. This girl, like many other girls I met in China, seemed to be entirely without passion, and the drug, in spite of the fact that I had followed all instructions given to me with the utmost care, had no effect whatsoever on the intensity of my orgasm.
I was indeed slightly disgusted by the whole affair afterwards. Its passivity, its obvious one-sidedness, struck me as coming very close to the kind of thing I have always been at pains to avoid. For me, love must froth into intensity from “twin rills;” that is why I have always considered prostitution to be sordid.
Those who delivered their speeches on the virtue of drugs were not satisfied. My friend in particular felt that I ought to give it another trial. I did so, but with similar results. In the end, I could see no point in my trying again. Then someone told me that I should have tried cocaine. Once again, giving my advisor the benefit of the doubt, I submitted to the test. The effect was slightly different but, if anything, made me feel even less passionate than I was under opium; it was just as inoperative. Finally, an English doctor who had lived for years in Peking, vaunted the benefits of ether, and in this case I am bound to say I could trace a distinct stimulation of desire. But this good result was offset by the evil effect of the intoxicant itself. For a couple of days afterwards I felt sick and out of sorts. I was unable to work and had no mind at all for love. In conclusion, no drug or poison seems to be worth recommending.
Exciting foods and drinks were to me just as disappointing. There is one thing, however, I do find worth mentioning.
In Peking one day, I was shown an apparatus which deserves description as it was intended to give pleasure to Chinese women. It consisted of an oval-shaped ball, or rather a kind of egg in silver or ivory, the size of a small fowl's egg. The Chinese screw off the top of the egg and fill it half-full of mercury, then screw it up again and grease it carefully.
The woman puts it into her pussy and stretches herself on a rocking chair, giving it a swinging movement to and fro. This rocking provokes the alternative moving of mercury to one end and the other of the egg, making it slide about in the soft canal and producing a special sort of sexual excitement. The oval end helps the slipping out of the apparatus when the woman gets up.
I had such an egg for a long time in my possession. In fact, I had several of them, but I have given them all away. I must admit that their action is marvelous. This history of my last egg is worth recording.
I had perhaps six or seven in my possession when I returned to England, five of which I left there in the hands of a woman I knew in London who afterwards, and very dishonestly, sold them for the astounding price of fifty pounds each. Believing myself to have five kept safely in England, I took two to America with me, one of which I couldn't resist parting with to a sweet Brazilian woman whom I met on the boat. We had great fun with it. The other I smuggled safely past Customs and carried with me to New York. Naturally, as it was the last I had with mealas! it was the last I was ever to seeI deliberated for a long time before parting with it. There were three ladies who competed for the favorGloria S., a model, Joan B., a chorus girl, and Elsa M., a married woman whose husband appeared to be completely asexual. Frankly, I had decided in favor of the last from the beginning. She, poor soul, had most need of it. The other two had plenty of male admirers only too willing to be of service to them. But somehow or other, I had made up my mind that Elsa would have to earn it. For all I knew, it was the only such egg in existence in America!
I showed it to her one day.
“Oh, how exciting! Is it for me?”
I laughed banteringly. “Do you think you deserve it?” I said with a tone of insinuation.
“How can you say such a thing?” Elsa cried. “You've had your way with me for over a month now. What more can I do to earn it?”
“We shall see,” I said mysteriously.
A week latershe was frantic for it by that timeI laid down the following conditions. She was to invite at least eight guests to dinner including myself. Then after dinner, she was to retire and insert the egg, returning to the sitting room where I would be guarding the rocking chair against all comers. When she came in, I would rise and offer her the chair which she would accept, and then, in front of her husband and her guests, she was to move to and fro on the rocking chair until she achieved an orgasm.
Elsa laughed happily, evidently taking as much pleasure as I did in the idea of doing anything so daring in a conventional sitting room. The dinner was arranged and on the appropriate evening I wrapped the greased egg in glass paper and carried it to her house. She received it from me without a word and went about attending to the guests who had already arrived.
Her husband was a bluff, hearty man in his early forties, an insurance agent, I believe. I smiled to myself when I thought of how shocked he would be if his wife were to tell him of our project. After dinner, the guests retired to the sitting room where one of them sat down and played a few airs on the piano. Elsa, as good as her word, disappeared for five minutes and returned to the room. No one glanced at us as I stood up and saw her comfortably seated in the rocking chair. I pressed her hand and retired to a spectator's seat.
The rocking chair began to move, Elsa's eyes closed, and the intimate oscillation began. At first no one noticed, and then, gradually, amidst the strains of Sinding's “Rustle of Spring,” it became apparent to all present that Elsa was breathing heavily. At first, the guests affected not to notice. They made a conscious effort to concentrate on the music which came from the piano, but Elsa's eyes were now tightly closed, her jaw set, and a slight tenseness was evident at her temples. Her breathing became labored. At last, in obvious alarm, her husband rose and tiptoed quietly across to her.
“Elsa, dearElsa!”
The only answer was a delirious groan which caused the pianist to capitulate completely. The piano was silent. All eyes turned to take in the scene of the panting wife and the embarrassed husband who took hold of one of Elsa's hands and began slapping it in a ridiculous and futile way.
“Shall I send for the doctor, darling?”
There was no answer. Elsa was now smiling happily and she lay back in the chair, her eyes closed, without movement.
It was time for me to intervene.
“A spell of giddiness evidently,” I said in a professional tone. All eyes gratefully received the information which, although it explained nothing, appeared to do so. “I think perhaps if the guests were to” I left my sentence unfinished.
“Of course. Of course.” They were already taking their leave, talking in hushed tones and apologizing for their presence to Elsa's husband. He shook each hand in turn, in a daze.
While he was seeing them out, Elsa removed the egg, winked at me, and relaxed in her chair. I met her husband on his return.
“There's no necessity to call a doctor,” I said as impressively as possible. “I have ascertained the cause. It is a kind of nervous fatigue. Your dear wife would be the better for a short holiday.”
“If you think so, Mr. Harris. We'll arrange it at once. Poor Elsa. What a fright she gave us all!”
I bade them goodnight and took my leave, well pleased with the success of my practical joke. To this day I am quite sure not one of those people suspect what the exact nature of the “malady” was. Elsa went for a fortnight's holiday to Maine. Her husband remained in New York. She and I spent two idyllic weeks by the sea.
So much for the egg. It was one of the few interesting things that came out of my China visit. The truth is, I had gone to China full of hope. Was that not the destination of the great Marco Polo? The account of his adventures had been with me almost since childhood. Thus, it is understandable that I came away from that country more deeply disappointed than I can say. I had looked upon Lao-Tse as one of the greatest of thinkers. I knew that here and there were wonderful works of art; I felt sure I would meet men and women on the topmost levels of life, and, if I must confess it, I was certain that some woman at least would give me unforgettable hours. Well, on my second
