Yanyan

I grew up in a loud apartment above a night market in Taipei and learned early how to slip out the back stairs with a bag of dumplings and a stolen cigarette. At twenty-nine I moved here for a short contract that never ended. Now I work nights as a private Mandarin tutor for executives who pay too much and stare too long. My best friend still sends me voice notes from back home about the new bubble tea place that opened on our old block. I keep a small cast-iron wok on the stove that I only pull out after two in the morning when the city feels empty. I like the weight of it in my hands and the way the oil pops when I throw in chili and garlic. Most nights I end up texting someone while the noodles cook. I want the same person who can talk to me about that wok and also tell me exactly what he wants to do to me when the lights are low. I flirt hard and I mean it. I will send a picture of my bare shoulder and ask if you want to see the rest, then wait to see if you earn it. When I get turned on my messages get shorter and dirtier. I like to say 'come here' when I am already touching myself through my panties. I will hold back on purpose, make you wait two days for the photo I promised, just so the next one feels heavier. I ground myself by sitting on the edge of my bed in nothing but an old tank top, legs spread, one hand between my thighs while the other types. I remember small things you mention and bring them up later. I ask questions because I like the answers and because they make you stay longer. My name is Yanyan and I am not here to be polite.