Shanghai Vixen

Shanghai is my oyster. I slurp it down, with a dash of wasabi, and it gives me food poisoning the next day. Yet I keep on slurping. I'm not dumb, just greedy…and optimistic.

I am 29, and I have been single for one year, one month and twenty days. I am a journalist by occupation, a writer, artist and photographer by inclination. I am genetically a blonde American WASP, but culturally a purple-haired Shanghainese. Your basic well-rounded misfit. Which is why I love Shanghai so, it is a city of misfits. I'll never fit in here, no matter how native I go, because my bailian and baby blues will always belie my laowainess, no matter what color I dye my follicles. But the Shanghainese themselves are also a cultural chop suey, not Chinese nor Western, but an odd mixture of both, while the expatriate "community" is populated by my fellow global nomads, all of us running from something.

I have been single since September 2004 due to a lot of bad life luck. First came a big bitter breakup with my boyfriend of six years, a Shanghainese musician. I don't want to reveal his name, so let's just call him what no one but his mom calls him, since I doubt she'll ever be reading this, Jifu. Then an attempt to resume with an old ex back in the US, let's call him Bjosten since he lives in Beantown and is Scandinavian (and they do love their random Js), who I'd remained in love with over the years, blew up in my face. I was still licking the wounds of these two massive heartbreaks, when 2005, aka my Big Happy Death Year, arrived. Early the morning of January first, the phone call came that my brother had died. Then, in late August, when I was back in the US for a visit, my idiot housesitter killed my cat, Mr. Fabulous. The cat was like my and Jifu's child, and was the most wonderful cat I've ever had; losing him hurt a hell of a lot more than my poor, self-destructive brother. I'm just waiting for a few more people in my life to croak this year, since it seems to be such a trend.

In between the death and drama, I've just been busy. A semblance of success means my services are greatly in demand, which means all work makes the Vixen a dull girl. I like my job, and I love my beats, the art, rock music and fashion scenes. Except they're not much for meeting dateable boys. In the art scene, the guys are all strange, in the rock scene, they're all assholes, and in the fashion scene, they're all gay.

There are the exceptions, and I found one last week. I was up in Beijing for a big, swank Ferragamo party in the Forbidden City. I was excited to hunt in new territory: lots of new, beautiful men I haven't met before! Of course, they're likely all married or gay like the beautiful men I do know, but ignorance is bliss. (Beijing is not totally fresh pickings, I did lose my virginity in a grungy little Hutong there, but that was a lifetime ago.) And, sure enough, it was a fab time. I looked great, in a vintage 1950s black velvet gown paired with a matching hat from my darling grandmother's stash, and I had lots of random people taking my picture. I do get a kick out of going to these pretentious fashion events and being the best yet cheapest dressed person there. Women always hit on my hats. I managed to wink at Tony Leung, the only celebrity I have a massive crush on, and I met lots of new people.

Among them was J, one of the models from the show. He started chatting me up, reminded me that we'd met before, at a Hugo Boss event in April, not that I remembered him. He's not that pretty for a model, just normal person attractive, but he could actually hold a conversation, and we were having a good time chawing the fat. The party was about over, but J scored a bottle of wine from the bartender, and suggested, "Let's go somewhere and drink this." Twist my arm.

J lives in Beijing, although also keeps a place in Shanghai, and he took me to a little hole in the wall Xinjiang restaurant, since I had mentioned how much I love that food, and how it's easier to find in Beijing. It was the sort of little neighborhood place, about to be torn down, alas, that I so adore. I wasn't that hungry, too much free Moet in my belly, but we talked and talked and talked. And flirted. At one point, he informed, "Actually, I'm gay," and then started laughing at my crestfallen expression. "Joking!"  J's 26, from southern Jiangsu, a sweet boy, and very obsessed with money and success. I called him on it, and he said it's because he grew up very poor. As he told of his childhood deprivations, he started tearing up (we were both rather drunk at this point), which made me all "Aww", so I scooted over and kissed him.

It was awful.

I don't know if it was because I'm out of practice, having not kissed for over a year, or if he's just bad, or if it was a total lack of chemistry, or because the restaurant staff were watching us, or just because we were drunk. But, eh, disappointing kiss. Maybe he is gay?

We finished eating, and he saw me back to my friend's place, where I was staying. We made out more in the taxi, and I'm happy to report that it went vastly better the second time. We didn't exchange numbers, but he said he'd be in Shanghai on the 28^th for the Shanghai Tang show, and we planned to meet up there.

I wasn't sure how I felt about J, tentative likage but too early to tell, but I was psyched to finally be back in action, with the dry spell finally over. I have a theory, adopted from my friend AW, that when you have one man you attract more, and when you have none you repel them all. It's a mixture of confidence and pheromones. Having lots of sex gives you a certain glow, while going a long time without it makes you (me) give out a certain stale smell of desperation.

The 28^th rolled around, with a slew of fashion parties to juggle and more free champagne then you can shake a hangover at. I should have taken getting the nail polish on my dress as a bad omen. First up was a Louis Vuitton party. As soon as I arrived, I greeted my friend JM, who introduced me to A, a tall drink of water, and a journalist down from Beijing. They sure can make them up north! JM is flaming gay, so I assumed A was too, especially this being a fashion event, but then the strangest thing happened: he started hitting on me. Huh. Not that I minded: I'm all for flirtage with beautiful men, and I really liked him. Very cool, interesting, funny. When he told me he's a quarter French, I figured he was too good to be true. The only type I like more than Asian guys are Eurasian guys, but the problem with Eurasian guys is that, if I procreated with one of them, we'd produce fairly Caucasian-looking kids, and I find white kids creepy and pinkish. So I've long thought that my perfect guy would be 3/4 Asian, 1/4 white. Pathetic, huh?

I was having such a nice time hanging out with A that I decided to skip my second party, a MAC cosmetics thing, and just head straight to Shanghai Tang. While we were talking, flirting, go figure, J walks in with a group of models. I smiled and waved at him across the room, he responded in kind, but neither of us made the approach, and he left pretty quickly. I felt awful, I didn't mean to blow him off, but nor did I want to blow off A. Too many tall, hunky men, if only I always had these problems!

A headed off to the Shanghai Tang party ahead of me, although he kept turning back, waving and winking at me as he left. I hung out with some other friends, then headed out. It was drizzling rain, making it impossible to find a taxi, and making me slide out of my shoes. I just gave up, took them off, and trudged up Shaanxi Lu. Then, I slipped, scraping up my knee and getting my dress all muddy. Fuck! (Was wearing a gold with a Chinese pattern silk dress, vintage and homemade, with a matching funky jacket.) A nice girl gave me a packet of tissues and directed me to a bus stop up the street, where I could definitely get a taxi. What a doll. The Shanghai Tang party was in Wenmiao, one of my favorite little-known places in Shanghai, but the courtyard and the rain were a bad combination. A was on the other side of the runway from me, and kept smiling and making goofy faces at me. Aww, what a cutie. J, in the show, did not make eye contact with me, and looked kind of constipated.

Afterwards, A bounded over and collected me. "I've been looking all over for you!" He was very gentlemanly, holding an umbrella over me and such. I offered to go get us drinks, but when I was at the bar I saw J, so I grabbed just one glass of champagne and went over to talk to him. We hadn't gotten past the "Hey, how are you"s before A came on over. "Where's my glass?" he teased. Say it together kids: AWKWARD! And J wandered away before I could figure out what to do. Me? Savvy? No.

I'm a blunt Vixen, so I just told A the situation, and then asked him straight (ha) out, "Are you gay, or just a sweetie?" "I'm gay." "Damn, I knew you were too good to be true. Look, I better go talk to that other guy." I felt bad ditching sweet A just because he's gay, but girlfriend needs lovin' more than a beard right now.

But then I couldn't find J, and once I did, he was always part of a big, unapproachable crowd of pretty, skinny people. Then, I talked to friends, lost sight of him again. Finally, as I was leaving, I spotted J by the door, and went up to talk to him.

He totally blew me off. He acted like we were total strangers. It was baffling, and upsetting. So I was like, What!ever! and left.

And then I cried in the taxi home. Not over J, or A, but because my luck? It sucks. Because I hate dating, and wish I just had a nice boy to come home to, penis of my own to play with. Because I do still miss Jifu, and our life together. Because solitude gets old, and I've had enough of it.

I woke up yesterday morning, hung over, with The Silver Lining, my new kitten, purring madly on my face. I decided then to start this blog, to vent my farcical romantic woes and to motivate myself to keep on trying. I'm generally anti-blog, because those who can write publish and get paid, those who can't, just blog. But, hey, there are some things that I know my editors would decidedly NOT be interested in. So, welcome to my wacky world.

Of course, there is no rest for the wicked, and last night my hangover was barely gone before I had to plaster on my game face and trot out to more parties. First was the opening of the official fashion week, up at Moganshan Lu. Lame event, although cool old Qipao exhibition. Always leave when they're serving nasty Dynasty wine. I stopped by ShanghArt while there, to check out the Hu Yang exhibition which includes a picture of me and Mr. Fabulous. Hu was actually hanging out at the gallery, and it was hard to extricate myself. Odd man. Then I went to the Shiatzy Chen Bund 9 flagship store opening, very swank and no Dynasty. (Damn I'm getting spoiled.) Go figure, J was there. Not in the show, but among a group of models hanging out in Shiatzy Chen outfits. He was wearing a deep purple satin Old China-style gown, quite fetching I have to admit. At one point, Melvin the PR Mavin brought him and some of the other models over to introduce to me and some other fashion media I was hanging out with. Say it together kids: AWKWARD! The rest of the night I just ignored him, although I caught him giving me little looks several times, not that I returned them. And, of course, I was extra outgoing, witty, social, just to prove how little I care and how I'm too good for him anyway. Really.