“‘In Cantonese, they call us ducks,’ says the rent-boy, in between lines of coke. I try to imagine him, this tall, wiry Asian kid with tread marks on his arms, as a fluffy yellow duckling. I start to giggle.
'Shut up. It makes sense, you know ? Girl prostitutes are chickens. Cheap, common meat. Dudes are ducks. The good stuff. Savoury. The kind of stuff you only get on birthdays and weddings.’
'I'd like to fuck a duck.'
'Not a chance, daddy-o. Tonight, the duck fucks you.'
He leaps up and drags me over to the bathroom, pushing me down into the tub. As he undoes his jeans, sweaty one-dollar bills fall out, the same dead leafy green as dried dope.
I pull off my shirt and shut my eyes as his big cock starts pissing on me. I breathe deep as the warm fluid began to pool across my chest, warming me, holding me like the arms of some liquid god.
I stay there like that for the next five, ten minutes, soaking in the heat, the fragrance, the wet. Then the air feels chilly again on my most skin and I open my eyes.
He’s still there, dick out, grinning at me. ‘Heh heh,’ he says, shaking his head at the mess of urine and money all over my flesh.
'Whaddaya know. Duck soup.'”
—from Twenty-Four Flavours: SALTED VEGETABLES AND DUCK SOUP