(Thursday evening)

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 "He was never without ginger when he ate."

• Analects, X.viii.6

"Who you talk to, my dear?" That was Fu Ping, my wife, calling from the kitchen. Her lilting Asian pidgin melodiously counterpointed with the clank of the wok shovel, the sizzle of soybean oil, and the subtle aroma of frying bak choy. The slight trace of tones added a sensuous spice to her speech that I never tired of hearing.

"Oh, that was just Noah, Duckie," I echoed back. Her Chinese name translated roughly as "Floating Duckweed," but I often just called her Duckie for fun. 

"You have one your long talks with her, and don't make any money?" She also never seemed to get her pronoun genders right, on purpose I often suspected. 

"No. This time we actually talked business. He even gave me an expense account," I added with a touch of justification.

"More optical computer. You gonna make me feel boring again?" 

"No. Just consulting about what you crazy Chinese really believe and why you behave the way you do." 

"Ben dan, ni je shir shumma yi-ssuh? Ei? What you mean, silly goose egg! If Noah have money, why he don't make the optical computer?" 

"Well, you see," I explained, walking into the kitchen to make my defense more viable by habeas corpus, and also to enjoy her pert figure as she danced about among the woks and cleavers and platters. "This is not his money to do that with. The government puts up the money, so they decide how it's used." 

"Hey, you not gonna do a thing. All you do is talk, talk, talk. Even you teaching job. Talk, talk, talk. And they pay you nothing. Just lotsa books and spend allatime inna library. Me, I'm a practical woman. You wanna know what we Chinese believe? We believe in money. I cook good foo. People like my foo. It taste goo, so they happy give me money." 

Now there was a scientific theory. Like most Chinese I had ever met, Ping had an attitude about money. (I guess I must have one, too.) But she was definitely a great cook, although it was an acquired skill. When we married she couldn't even boil water without burning the pot. She taught herself to cook - starting, believe it or not, with bread, right after we came to the States. Then she met a lady from Palermo living next door and discovered Italian pasta. Her Chinese culinary skills began with packets of ramen, her childhood favorite - once she had mastered the art of boiling water for spaghetti. Reverse technology transfer proceeded rapidly. Chinese noodles appeared in various forms on the table, followed closely by Chinese ravioli - jiao-zi. Then came spring rolls, soups, and finally, after the dimsum, came the main dishes. 

She quickly developed her own style, mostly vegetarian, using lots of tofu, and a little bit of chicken and shrimp, but not much red meat. Soon the word got out, and students, colleagues, friends, and neighbors were looking for excuses to be invited over for dinner or snacks. Somebody was always ready to have a birthday party, and Ping would happily volunteer to do the fixings. Before long she was catering regularly - and getting paid for it. Then she heard about a student-run trade fair that was happening Saturday mornings in the Student Union building. So she picked up some card tables at a garage sale and was in business.

From then on every Friday evening we watched TV and prepped vegetables - she, and my teenage son, Dan, and I. Saturday morning we got up early and from 8 to 11:30 our kitchen was a madhouse as we mass produced 300 egg rolls, a vat of noodles, and large pans of fried vegetables, loaded it all into the trunk of the car, and set out for the Trade Fair. Our kitchen was a shambles, but what with catering and the Trade Fair, she was already practically out-earning me. Soon she bought herself (and the family) a big blue Buick, a piano, a bunch of new furniture, and she felt like an independent American business woman.

The platter by the stove now held the steaming, glistening bak choy with little pieces of chicken and fat round cashews, and a few bright green snow peas scattered among the pale green and white blades of cabbage. I edged over and with my thumb and forefinger picked up a juicy white piece and dropped it into my mouth. Then I reached down again to snitch a few hot cashews. 

"Hey. Wa chew doin'? All you do is eat, eat, eat and talk, talk, talk. You're too fat, Derek."

"OK, OK," I gave in, shut up, and carried the platter to the kitchen table, set out bamboo chopsticks, and a plastic spatula for the rice that was waiting in the steamer. A big bowl of seaweed and tofu soup came out of the wok next, and we were ready to eat.

At this point in our life Dan, our son, had started college. Our daughter Joy was already married, living in New York, and had two daughters of her own. After some false starts his freshman year, Dan found himself majoring in engineering. I knew he was good in math, so I tried to tutor him in high school to put him ahead in college. But that bent his nose out of shape, and except for the Saturday morning egg roll marathon, we no longer saw much of each other. Now school-work, and his buddies, and his girl friend took more and more time. So we saw less and less of him, and Ping hired high school students to help with the catering business. But he was a good kid. He handled his life pretty well and stayed out of trouble bigger than parking tickets. 

Ping and I ate our simple fare alone and in silence that evening. I decided to keep my mouth quiet and use it only to taste her great food. The silence heightened my awareness of her shimmering black hair and soft tallowy skin. Sensing my increased attention, she exhaled deeply, relaxed her shoulders, and looked at me with a glowing smile. We had been together almost thirty years now, and it was a pleasure to look at her and still feel the same physical attraction and pride as when we first started going together. In fact, our relationship was better than ever, for we knew that we had already handled successfully most of those things that challenge couples: raising children, moving through careers, buying a house and a car - all those good things that make the good life good.

Ping was already into menopause, but our sex life was better than ever. There was no need to worry about pregnancy or crying babies. Grandchildren are angels - they're so much easier to handle than children. In the silence as we ate I reflected that most people don't seem to appreciate the wonderful vistas of life that open up after fifty. And Ping's body had a quality of timelessness about it. Except for a few wrinkles around the eyes and a gray hair or two, she had the look of a twenty-five year old, with the wisdom and grace of experience. 

When we finished the cabbage, we each ladled soup into our rice bowls and slowly slurped it down, looking each other in the eyes and savoring with our tongues the slightly salty, mucilaginous seaweed, and the soft white tofu cubes. To me it was a tiny reminder that man's orderly building blocks of protein are but arbitrarily sliced blobs in an ocean of primal chaos.

 But I let go of such thoughts, and it all felt good. I was full and satisfied, relaxed but alert. The warm glow of Ping's cooking was in my belly and coursing through my arteries. Her aura was open and filled the room so that colors everywhere seemed brighter than usual. Her eyes sparkled with humorous pride in the certainty of her power over my various natural reflexes. And who was I to disagree? It all felt good.

I cleared the table and rinsed the dishes. She came over to the sink and dampened a small towel to wipe the counter tops and table. As she did so, I felt her firm and healthy body brush against mine with a subtle sense of purposefulness.

It was time to amplify that faint impulse. The papers would wait till morning. As Ping wiped the kitchen table, I quietly moved up behind her and put my arms around her waist. She continued to wipe the table as if I wasn't there, and the movements of her arms and shoulders brought her into contact with my arms and chest. She rubbed hard with the towel to remove a piece of food stuck to the table top, and her buttocks lightly bumped into my groin. She was wearing jeans, and so was I. My hands dropped lower and clasped her hips to hold her still, pressed against my thighs. She stopped wiping. Then she twisted her head back with a mischievous smile and kissed me full on the lips. A moment later her body relaxed back out of the twist, and her head leaned back against my left shoulder. I let my hands slowly roam upwards until they cupped her breasts. Beneath her light pullover my fingers discovered that she had no bra on. I marvelled that at fifty her breasts were still as firm as when I first touched them so many years ago. The breasts were not large, but her nipples were ample. I like it that way. As I caressed them, the nipples stood erect and seemed to push through the fabric into my hand. I imagined brown raspberries.

I let my hands drop and moved up under the sweater, slowly gliding over the skin of her belly until I cupped her breasts again, this time from the inside. Suddenly she squirmed and turned to face me. She put her arms around my neck and kissed me again, this time with her tongue probing between my lips and then my teeth until we were tongue to tongue.

For a few moments we played the tooth game, rubbing and grinding our upper and lower teeth against each other in various combinations until we dissolved into laughter. She reached down with her right hand and stroked my expanding crotch. Then she grabbed my right hand with her left and led me upstairs to the bedroom. In a few moments we had doffed our street clothes. Ping lit a candle and a stick of sandalwood incense and pressed the play button on the CD stereo. The tingling swells of Herb Ernst's Dreamflight flooded the room. Ever since I gave her that CD for an anniversary present, it had been one of her favorite evening "make love" background pieces.

I lay on the bed and she rolled me over face down. Slowly she began to work on my body. First she released the tension in my shoulders and neck. At first I could barely tolerate her powerful thumb penetration. My awareness would scatter and fears would come up. Then it passed, and I relaxed even more. She moved down my spine, touching certain release points like little buttons that triggered jolts of electricity through my whole body. When she reached a spot just above my tailbone, she tapped it with her fingertips for a few moments and then bent over and lightly breathed into it. Slowly her head moved up my spine with her warm breath pouring into the nerve channel and coursing through my entire body. When she reached my neck, I felt a beam of light pulsing in through my occipital. Then her fingers made gentle adjustments in the neck bones.

My awareness was no longer focussed in the body, but was floating in an expanded space of light and joy.

With kneading fingers of great strength for a woman of her small size she worked outward pressing the stress from my arms and legs, until she reached the soles of my feet. There the firmness of the pressure increased, penetrating the balls of my toes and then the kidney meridian spring of life in the center of my sole. I gasped in a strange mixture of pain and pleasure as bolts of light shafted through my whole being.

She turned me over onto my back and smoothed the skin on my face, wiping away wrinkles. Working her way down my chest and belly, she arrived at my groin. There she began to press on the pubic bone, first deep, and then with slow circular motions. Gradually she moved with gentle pressure around the base of my staff of life, which by now was standing very erect. Softly she cupped her fingers about my sack, stroking and squeezing its soft treasures. Moving upward, she rubbed the shaft for a while. Then her head moved down and her moist lips engulfed my throbbing joint, slowly probing its head about in her mouth. Lazily she pulled it out and began licking, first the head, and then downward on the lower side, with special attention to the frenulum.

At this point I had passed from gasping and moaning to flailing about, and she could no longer keep her tongue steady on me. So I pulled her head up and kissed her, drawing her body astride my thighs. Propping my shoulders up a bit on a pillow, I gripped her buttocks and pulled her down onto my red hot rod. She eased onto it, enjoying the internal heat and sensation of deep penetration. After a pause she began rocking up and down, her juicy quim sliding easily over the pillar of Hercules. I alternated holding her thighs as she arched back and cupping her breasts as she leaned forward.

She took me nearly to climax, and then stopped moving. I sat up, embracing her in my arms, and she wrapped her legs about my waist in classical yab-yum style. We ran tantric kriyas in tandem and then tapered off into silent meditation, floating gently in an ocean of resonant energy. When our tide of ecstatic silence finally ebbed, she rolled off to my side, lying on her back, motionless, receptive. Lazily I also rolled over and slid down her body licking her breasts, and belly, downward until my lips reached her crotch. I spread her legs and moved my tongue around the lips of her vagina. Then I pressed down gently with my thumbs on each side of her clitoris until it stood out, pink and erect. I licked it, kissed it, and caressed it until she was squirming and moaning. Then my tongue moved down through the gateway deep into her garden of love, lapping the copious juices that she exuded.

By now we were both thoroughly fired up again. I mounted her bending her knees and raising her thighs up draped over my elbows so that I could clasp the fleshy curves of her hips as I thrust into her. Again I peaked, soaring in a space of bliss for several minutes, and then slowed the pace once more.

After a brief respite, I slid into a scissors-like pose and angled into her, astride her left leg, rubbing my swollen glans against her sensitive G-spot. Her legs wrapped around my left leg and her hands grasped my buttocks. She squeezed her thighs tight, throbbing as I moved in and out and side to side, alternating periodically until she was moaning and puffing in her climax.

She let out a wailing scream, and my love muscle drowned in the flood of her cum, and her whole body relaxed under me. We both lay there, soaking in the bliss of her kingdom come. When I had softened inside her, I rolled over on my back next to her and we both drifted off into a deep and delicious sleep.

Toward 5:30 in the morning I found myself drifting again into dreams of arousal, and my muscle flexed up extremely stiff with the Yang Qi of dawn. I looked over and Ping was still lying next to me. I shifted onto my left side and cuddled close. In her semi-sleep she felt my hardness and heat brushing against her thigh and my hand tenderly stroking her cunny fur. Before long she also stirred onto her side, and we spooned. My divining rod had a mind of its own and unerringly sought out the moisture that was already dripping from between her legs. Soon I was thoroughly embedded in her, and she snuggled at the feel of my swollen member pulsing inside her. We continued to cuddle this way for about an hour, with slight movements now and then just sufficient to maintain arousal. Fused together into one complete creature, we floated in a vast sea of ecstasy, expanding to ever widening spheres of restful alertness.

Finally, my body was so filled with energy that I began moving more vigorously. Without withdrawing, I raised myself up on my knees and pulled her with me onto all fours. I was so gorged with blood that I swelled up tightly inside her. Ping began to slowly pulse with her hips from side to side, rhythmically grasping me with her vaginal muscles in time with her pulsations. Soon I was so excited that I clasped her round buttocks and began thrusting into her like a dog in heat. My piston vibrated in her womb. She sighed and her aura expanded till she was in a state of total surrender - a softer, more fulfilled and open sensation than her last night's orgasm, when I moved softly and she had a sharp peak. It was a perfect complement, and I found myself rising out of myself, and, contrary to my usual practice, my brain completely disintegrated, exploding into realms of light beyond any control or cares. That moment my entire reality erupted into a volcano blowing multi-colored magma of eternal joy outward and upward and inward to the core of my soul.

* * * * * * *

We relaxed for a half-hour or so and then went to bathe together and do some morning asanas and meditation. After breakfast, still basking in the glowing shreds of silent unity, I finished up the last of the papers, and, as I stepped out the door, Ping finally spoke.

"Don't forget to pick up Dan at the Physics Department at four," she said. "She taking an exam today, and want to come eat dinner with us tonight."

"I'll remember," I replied, and began my six block walk to campus.

The budding maple trees along the way were spewing their green catkins onto the rain-blackened macadam of the street, so that I seemed to walk on a surrealistic duckweed-covered pond. I thought to myself, what a wonderful life we share together. In spite of our ups and downs we have raised two healthy children, led a moderately successful life, and enjoy great sex. Frankly, nothing clears a head cluttered with dusty academic thoughts than to fuck your brains out with a beautiful woman.

Although I am six feet tall and she is short even among Orientals, our bodies just fit together perfectly, and we never tired of lovemaking. Our size ratio was perfect for yab-yum. From the time we first met I was exploring aspects of Chinese, Tibetan, and Indian tantra, and together we practiced the techniques, enhancing our ability to enjoy extended periods of orgasm without any significant ejaculation until and unless we chose to. This enabled us to make love for two or three hours at a time on an almost daily basis without tiring. In fact, it energized us and kept us in excellent health.

I knew that this was a useful skill, and willingly shared my knowledge of the kriya breathing techniques, mudras and bandhas that enabled one to manage the powerful energy of love. I suppose that sexual play amounted to one of my favorite hobbies, along with linguistics, archaeology, poetry, art, music, meditation, and as Ping knew so well - talking and eating.

And there was also Nature. I loved Nature, not just Nature as in the "Outdoors," but Nature as in whatever came along. I guess that's why I enjoyed the Taoists so much. And the Zen masters. They had a big picture that tolerated anything as the flow of the Tao.

But now I was faced with a challenge: How does fanatical international terrorism, devoted to the blowing up of innocent people, fit in with the tolerant, effortless flow of the Tao? And while I'm at it: How come the People of the Tao - these crazy Chinese - have such a fixation on feeding their stomachs and making money and distributing deadly mines?

As I walked, I worked out my plan of action for the day. After returning the papers with my comments, I'd let the students work on revisions, and then assign a TA to proctor the final exam, which I had already written up. That freed me to focus on Noah's project. To get the project under way, I decided to spend some time exploring my own experiences, historical records, and contemporary research, browsing and brainstorming a bit. At the same time I would contact some people that I felt would have useful views. And of course I would follow my own intuitions. Then I'd pick up Dan, and we'd have dinner at home with Ping.

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