Transcription
You were born in 18th century China,
theQing Dynasty to be exact. Your
village is nameless to most. A
scattering of mud homes and millet
fields where famine comes often and gods
stay silent. Your father is a farmer
when the land allows it. Your mother
sells herbs she picks near the graves.
There are too many mouths, not enough
balls. You don't remember the deal. You
were too young. Four, maybe five. What
you do remember? The hunger that made
your mother chew rice and spit it into
your mouth like a bird. The winter your
baby sister froze in her sleep. The way
your father looked at you. Not cruy,
just calculating. Before long, you're
sold to lessen the number of mouths to
feed. Your father says it's for your own
good. Your mother doesn't say anything.
She just looks at the floor like it
might split open and swallow her. The
man who takes you is smiling. Not
kindly. He counts the coins, hands them
to your father, and then lifts you like
luggage.
Huh?
You scream for a second,
then stop. It doesn't help. No one is
coming to help. The road is long. You're
not the only one. There are others in
the cart. Dirty, hungry, silent.
Some cry at first. They stop, too.
Some are stolen, some are sold, some are
both.
All of you are going to Beijing, to the
houses with red lanterns and barred
windows to become Tang Mingu or boy um
escorts.
You don't know the word yet, but soon it
will be the only one that matters. In
the beginning, they treat you like
something valuable. You are washed, fed,
brushed, inspected, like a dog at a
fair. One boy coughs too much. They toss
him in a ditch. You don't ask questions.
They rename you something soft and
pretty, like unwanted flower, because
flower means more than petals here. It
means you're someone's fantasy. Now you
were five, so you know how to sit still,
how to say thank you. And now you're
going to learn to obey because soon
you'll learn what your body is for. And
you'll have to learn fast, but you won't
live long enough to be sold again. Your
training begins the day Madam decides
you're ready. She is the manager of the
brothel, the big boss. Nice to all the
new kids since she gives you all sweet
buns. But that all changes when you turn
six, maybe seven. After all, no one
cared about your birthday since you
became property. They start with the
body. Hip massages daily to widen your
figure. Hair removed with string and
oil. Every inch of your skin stings for
days. They make you walk a certain way.
Hips loose, arms soft, head tilted just
so. You're corrected with slaps. You're
praised with sweets and warm water. You
prefer the slabs. They make more sense.
Every week they insert something new in
you. Ivory, polished wood, carved stone.
They call them training rods. You learn
to breathe through the pain. Eventually,
you learn to pretend to enjoy it. They
bind your feet to keep them from growing
larger. Small feet are beautiful. They
say you don't argue. Arguing makes them
angry. And the cane hurts more when
they're angry.
By 8, you're doing shows, not public
ones. Not yet. Private demonstrations
behind curtains. You bend, twist, pose,
present. They make you act like you want
it. If you don't smile, they beat your
thighs with switches.
Nope.
No bruises. Bruises lower your price.
They give you concoctions to make your
voice rise, diets to make your muscles
fade. Your boyhood recedes into a mask
painted with powder and perfume. The
customers come to watch. Men with rings,
calloused hands, and hungry eyes. They
pick favorites. You pray it's not you.
But it is. Eventually, it always is.
They rename you again. Curious needy
flower. a promotion, one that you
definitely won't like. You don't sleep
well. You start biting your lips raw to
keep from crying at night. You dream of
fire and waking up somewhere else,
anywhere else.
But every day you wake up here, still
soft, still owned, still learning how to
live with pain.
Few months pass. Congratulations. You
are due for another promotion. They said
you were ready. You weren't. You're
nine. They bring you to the private
room. The screen hides nothing. The man
is old, smiling.
Smiling too much. He smells like wine
and sandalwood and rot.
Your trainer nods once, then leaves.
You're alone.
You remember what they told you. Don't
flinch. Don't cry. Make it sweet. He
calls you little Lotus. You don't
respond.
He doesn't mind.
He tells you to kneel. You do. He
touches your face like he's picking
fruit. Then he slaps you hard. Not out
of anger, out of ritual.
He tells you to turn around. You obey.
Your knees sink into silk cushions.
After it's over, you lie curled in the
bed, shaking and leaking. You're in
pain. More pain than you were ever in
while they prepared you. Worse pain,
because this time it was real.
He leaves a coin in a compliment.
Very soft, very good.
You don't move for hours. You don't
speak for days.
The madam says, "You're a professional
now." She smiles like it's a promotion.
They feed you a sweet bun. You vomit it
up that night. They burn incense to
cover the smell, but it clings to you.
The blood, the musk, the shame. It soaks
into your skin.
You're different now. Everyone sees it.
You carry yourself lower. Your eyes
don't blink as much. Some of the younger
boys ask if it hurts. You tell them no.
You lie because soon it will be their
turn. And you don't see why you should
cause them fear now. After all, what
could they do about it? What could any
of you do about it?
Over the next few years, you become a
favorite. Not because you're the
prettiest, not because you smile, but
because you don't. They say you have
discipline.
What they mean is you've stopped
fighting. Your body knows the routine,
the oils, the positions, the ways to
twist and arch and flutter like it's
your idea.
You've become profitable.
The older boys hate you. The younger
ones stare like you're a statue.
Beautiful, untouchable,
terrifying.
They put you on display. Clients pay
extra just to watch you prepare.
Painting your lips, brushing your hair,
sliding into gauze that hides nothing.
You don't talk much. You don't need to.
Men beg for your attention. Some just
want to look. Some want more. Some want
to break you again.
You learn to fake tears. They love that.
You learn to fake laughter. They love
that more.
One client brings you a mirror. Look, he
says, you're perfect.
You stare at the glass. You don't
recognize the thing staring back.
You're 13 now. You're earning more than
anyone in the house. You never touch the
coins. The madam says you're investing
in your future. You think she means a
nicer grave. They start prepping you for
promotion.
Castration. The final cut. Only the best
get it. The madam purse. You'll never
age, never bleed, never be replaced.
You nod.
But inside something folds in half and
doesn't unfold again. You've stopped
asking questions like, "What am I? What
will I become?"
You already know the answer. A product,
a pedal, a perfect thing.
They wake you at dawn. Not with shouts.
This isn't punishment. This is
promotion.
A bath first. Always a bath. Rose water,
crushed pearl, oils thick enough to
drown in. You are not a boy. You are
velvet plum. You must smell like flour
before they slice you. No one tells you
what will happen. But you know the ones
who come back, the castrated are never
the same. Their voices float like smoke.
Their laughter never lands right. They
blink too slowly or never at all.
You're led into the room barefoot. The
floor is warm, as if it's been soaked in
other people's fear.
There are no windows, just a bench, a
bowl, a blade.
The man doesn't smile. He doesn't need
to. You're told to drink a syrupy wine.
It tastes like copper in sleep.
Your limbs soften, your jaw locks.
You can still feel everything.
He hums while he works and slices with
precision.
You can't even scream.
Afterward, they bury you in hot sand up
to your neck to stop the bleeding, to
stop the movement, to stop the thoughts.
You hallucinate for 3 days.
Your name is called.
softly like a prayer or a curse.
You rise.
You don't walk the same. You don't think
the same. You don't feel the same.
The madam claps when you return. You'll
last twice as long now. She beams.
You bow. Because what else can you do?
You've been upgraded. refined
completely.
No longer a boy, not yet a man.
Something new, something marketable,
something dead.
Four years pass, you turn 17. There's no
cake, no celebration.
Nope.
Just a quieter hallway and colder looks.
Your price is dropped. Your skin is
loosened. Your beauty, once the
brothel's pride, is now an overhead
expense.
They stop dressing you in silk. Perfume
gets rationed. Clients don't ask for you
anymore.
Nope.
They ask for someone younger. You still
smile when they enter. Still dance to
their whip. But the sparkle in your
movements is just muscle memory. The
rest of you is gone.
One night the madam doesn't call for you
at all. Then another and another.
You're summoned, but not for a client.
She doesn't look at you when she speaks.
You've had a good run.
That's it. No severance, no farewell.
They give you one robe, one coin, no
shoes. They unlock the back door and
gesture toward the alley.
Don't come back.
You hesitate, not because you want to
stay, but because you don't know what
exists beyond this place. You've never
touched a tool, never cooked a meal,
never been outside after sunset alone.
You step into the cold. Your robe is
thin. Your legs are shaky.
No one notices you on the street.
You're just another shadow limping past
the fire light.
A week later, you're begging near the
gates. You see one of your old clients.
He laughs, tosses a copper, misses on
purpose.
You pick it up anyway.
You sleep in doorways, drink melted ice.
Your body begins to rot from the inside
out. The pain is back, but now it
doesn't buy anyone pleasure.
You're not Velvet Plum anymore.
You're just another cough in the wind.
Another used object thrown away.
They find your body days later, curled
under a staircase behind a bath house,
half covered in snow.
No one claims it. Your skin is gray,
your fingers black with frost, your eyes
half open, still looking for someone to
recognize you.
But no one does. You're carded away in a
pile with a drunk and a thief, buried in
a trench behind the city wall. No
marker, no prayer,
not even a number.
The brothel doesn't mention you again.
Your name is handed to the next boy.
Velvet plug, they whisper to him as if
it was a role in a play. As if you never
existed.
You were never counted in the census,
never written in the temple roles. You
left behind no family, no children, no
legacy,
only the faintest dent in the mattress
you slept on.