Five Spice Street

Let’s return once more to X and Q: they felt in their innermost beings that biting, tripping, and slapping each other was the actualization of joy-and this makes some sense, but it is far from the whole story. If these two vulgar, insignificant people could grasp the profundity in the clouds, then who are we elites? Weren’t our years of research all for nothing? I said they made a little sense, because these people are very good at piracy. They aren’t qualified to participate, but they try to get secret information from every meeting in the dark room. When they have the opportunity, they use it. In this way, they actually unconsciously achieve a little bit. But since our elites haven’t yet grasped the recipe for joy in sex, and are still exploring tenaciously, these two nobodies had nothing to plagiarize. Could it be that scuffling, biting, tripping, and pulling out five hundred strands of hair is the whole recipe for joy? Doesn’t this belittle us? Is the scientific research that we do day and night so simple? These two shouldn’t be too self-confident: The day will come when we will publicly announce the results of our research. Sooner or later, it will come. Dear ones, let’s just wait! Of course, before the results of the scientific research come out, we must keep them confidential. I shouldn’t reveal too much at this point. Yet, I can divulge a little of the results of my personal experiments. I’m not unscrupulous, and I dare not boast that I have already grasped the whole secret of this joy in sex. I agree with X and Q that biting and tripping are constituent elements. They are essential first steps. As first steps, they aren’t anything wonderful. We can almost posit that everyone can do these things, although in various ways. My little sister-when attempting to get hold of joy-bites her beloved’s scalp. She could gnaw out a hollow in the scalp if she didn’t do it right. A decent person shouldn’t have anything to hide. I will confess to everyone how I almost reached the brink of sexual joy (that highest level). And also how I suffered defeat.

One day, I sat at the window, staring at the clouds, immersed for a long time in a poetic vision. At that moment, I felt very close to that kind of joy, as if I could almost touch it with my hand. A voice said to me, why not go for a walk-go for a walk, there’s profundity in it. I jumped to my feet and looked for my wife-my antagonist in sex. Just then she was cutting a hole in the seat of my trousers. She wanted my ass to show when I went out walking. I roared at her, ‘‘Go for a walk! Go for a walk!’’ Then we did go for a walk, as sprightly as immortals. We were both incredibly turned on. When we lay on the bank of the river, it seemed we were about to reach a stage such as we had never experienced before. We were laughing and doing all kinds of things in a careless way.

If it weren’t for those damn ants, we would have walked ahead of all the elites and become the most notable scholars, with the most solid achievements and the most profound theoretical foundation. The first place the ants attacked was our private parts: this was a calamity we couldn’t have expected. It was over for us. We’d prepared for five hours, walked about ten miles, and were just a halfstep from success when suddenly-ants!! Just because of these damn ants, my wife didn’t want to be with me. She scolded me wildly, saying that my walk was ‘‘plagiarized’’ from Madam X, and also that the little I had learned was ‘‘only skin-deep,’’ that I was ‘‘truly disgusting’’ and would ‘‘never be successful.’’ If she hadn’t been in the park and caught up with me by mistake-this guy with no prospects-she would long ago have ‘‘reached the highest level.’’ With her arms thrust out, she declared: ‘‘Joy in sex is my own affair. Why do I need a good-for-nothing like you? Hey! Walk! You fraud! Ass! You’ve walked my legs off, and what scenery have you discovered? Don’t involve me in this again, or you’ll be very sorry. I mean it.’’