This is a story about a girl named Astrid, and a boy named Filbert Kim.
Astrid was a foster child who grew up getting gang raped like most kids play tag. She lost her virginity at age four to her foster brother, who was chopping wood, and when she asked to help, called her a stupid baby. Then he raped her and dumped her in a kiddie pool. It didn’t get any better for twenty years until she booked a couple commercials and a TV pilot and came out to LA. The pilot didn’t work out– they never do, but she stayed. She ended up being a hooker for a while for some Russian guys off craigslist, sucking old Indian perverts’ musky rotten spice-smelling dicks. And that’s how she became the type of person who was of interest to Filbert Kim.
Filbert Kim was a lawyer. He had gotten into Harvard but blew his admission by writing a snarky letter to the student council or something, so he went to the University of California instead. He was Korean, as you can tell by his last name. Which means go ahead and google Filbert Kim; you’ll never find him. There are fifteen Filbert Kims in his Berkeley graduating class alone. He got good grades as an undergraduate. He did well in law school. He got a job as an associate at one of those firms that are in a skyscraper in LA and made an awful lot of money. He got married, to another Korean, which is how you know he couldn’t have been happy. They had a dog. It was a small white dog suitable for elderly women and gays, so it had a grandiose name to the tune of “Brutus” or “El Conquistador.” The wife’s mother moved in with them and he paid for both their cars, their gas, their insurance, the whole mortgage. This is how you know he was not happy. He did everything his parents told him to do in life and look where it got him. The mother in law was a shrew. She followed them everywhere. Thank God they didn’t have kids.
Filbert Kim and Mrs. Filbert Kim got divorced. She took all his furniture. Filbert Kim continued to receive bills in the mail for Mrs. Filbert Kim’s, and Mrs. Filbert Kim’s mother’s, whom I can only assume to also be named “Kim,” car, gas and auto insurance. He would continue to receive them for a year. He had to buy new furniture but had no aesthetic sense; no interests, no hobbies, so, the condo in an unfashionable but safe suburb of Los Angeles resembled the nicest of the three hotels in a small Midwestern city. If there was one hotel in town where the porn pay per view menu had a custom title screen with the hotel’s name, this would be that hotel. Pine stained dark like mahogany. Floral comforters like medieval tapestries from a world where the only colors that occurred were beige, olive drab, and salmon. There was a pool that no one was ever in because the whole condo complex was just miserable divorced Korean men whose Korean wives and mothers in law had left them and taken their money. The complex mailbox just said “Kim Kim Kim Kim Kim.”
I don’t know why Filbert Kim got divorced, but it might have been because what Filbert Kim truly loved to do on this Earth was leave his wife at the TV, buy a bunch of cocaine, head out to Rosemead or some other shithole, purchase a night with a Chinese prostitute who had been smuggled over in the rusty hull of some freighter, and attempt to perform unprotected sex acts on her mouth, vagina and anus. This was how he liked to spend his rather generous salary. In addition, he also liked to talk about it, in emails from his corporate address, to a group of hundreds of people, mostly friends of friends from a different college than the one he had attended, and most of whom he had never met. This was part of it. The same way child porn exists largely because a very select group of guys not only need to fuck kids to get off, but also to have a record of doing so, Filbert Kim needed to spin yarns about Daisy and Brittney Choi and whoeverthefuck; he needed to post reviews of the various hookers and how far they would go. Whether they would suck his dick without a condom, take it in the pussy without a condom, take it in the ass without a condom. Whether they would whine to the madam about rough play or just take his meager tip and shut the fuck up. He needed to tell a couple hundred people with children and jobs this. And they listened. Astrid was part of this group.
Astrid would fuck anybody. Anybody except this one guy, this virgin, who was thirty five, and desperately wanted to fuck her to get the stink off him. Him she wouldn’t fuck, it would have done the world some good. But anybody else. She fucked a hobo in a wheelchair because he asked. She fucked a Sudanese “Lost Boy” who had had his hand cut off by Islamic militants. She fucked fat men, dwarfish men, abrasive and charmless men; she fucked landscapers and guys just out of prison but also men who worked in the White House. Professors, television stars. Married men. Guys who messaged her off OKCupid “hey.” No man said no, because, no man ever says no to “wanna fuck?” Not even your grandfather. She fucked your grandfather.
She liked to get choked. She liked to get punched. She had a guy she met off craigslist whom she would text and later he would break into her house wearing a ski mask and rape her. They did not have a safeword. Astrid was the type of person where if she’d had a safeword it would be like the password for a hotmail account you hadn’t used in five years… fuck, what was it? Probably something like “password” and by the time that whole process went through her head she would have become OK with having her ass fisted. A man asked her to lie in a cold bathtub until her skin was room temperature and then lie absolutely still and blue while he fucked her. He put milk in her pussy. He made her hold a doll and cry like an infant being raped. She liked it. It’s hard to find something new.
Filbert read one of Astrid’s emails to this large email group, that alluded to her having been a prostitute, and a light bulb appeared over his head. He liked white women. Or he hated them as people; he was racist, but he liked white whores. White whores are expensive however. He only knew of the kind that get reviewed on web sites where people review prostitutes, always with some name like Svetlana even though they’re from Kentucky. Always in tasteful lingerie with well lit professional photography on their web sites. A good white hooker cost a thousand bucks or more. You’d think Asian fetishes would drive Asians’ prices up but Asian human beings are cheap to buy and ship, so there’s a glut. But here was a good white whore. Someone who had to pick up her kid at school, who spoke English in complete sentences. Astrid looked a lot more wholesome than the type of person who has taken a load in the Home Depot parking lot while being choked out with a bandana. She looked like she should be on the side of a 1930’s fruit crate beaming over an armload of pomegranates. Stylized sun rays lance through the words “McCadden Farms: California Sunshine on Your Plate.”
Finally, he thought. This… could be the one.
TO BE CONTINUED