Bewildering White Girls (Part I) –Barton Pham

What we have here is a hot story written by and from the viewpoint of a sexy Asian male writer I’ve become a fan of.

I’ve read some of his other stuff that turned me on… so I asked if he would write a story for my AMWF blog sometime.

I’m soooooooo happy that he liked the idea.


“I can’t believe she’s messaging me, ” I said.
“Who?” Asked Benny.
“This girl from my class. She’s so irritating.” I said.
“Irritating how?” asked Benny.

“Nevermind…” I said.

I looked at my laptop screen at her picture next to the message. I couldn’t tell if Della had been leading me on for a whole semester, sometimes seeming interested yet other times virtually ignoring me, going on conversational rants, and taking off. Bewildering white girls.

I decided to write back.

her: Up to anything, Lincoln?”
me: nope.
her: Feel like chatting?
me: sure. whats up?
her: No, in person, I mean.
me: sure.
her: cafe parnassus, 10 min., bye!

…Della has left the chat.

I didn’t actually feel like going out but I wasn’t really up to much anyway. Besides, to spite myself, I somehow couldn’t get her off my mind. Was it that perpetually hidden smile? The cutting intellect that sometimes peeked out from her otherwise quiet modesty?
I put on a pair jeans, grabbed my wallet and keys, popped a mint into my mouth, and I walked out the door, making my way to Cafe Parnassus. It was only a few blocks, and I got there before I finished the mint even.

Della was waiting outside, standing three feet from the cafe door. I made eye contact, smiled politely, and gave a small wave. As I approached, we exchanged pleasantries. Della wasn’t short in stature, but anyone who met her would later swear that she was more petite than she was. Maybe it was her small frame.

“So…” I said, hoping to prompt her to reveal why all of a sudden we were meeting out of class.
“Hi Lincoln,” she said, somewhat shyly.
I remained silent.
Right,” said Della, “okay… so, uh…”
She cleared her throat and started over,
“I mean, like… what do you think of me?” she asked.
Without more contextual clues, I didn’t know how to answer, so I stuck with something safe,
“You’re interesting… why?”
“All semester, every time I try to talk to you, you look like you want to leave. You, like, look annoyed,” she said.
“Honestly… yeah sometimes,” I said, struggling to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. Maybe the first couple conversations at the beginning of the semester. I had seen an E.O. Wilson book and treatise on Wittgenstein in her bag. Della was pretty. She had dirty blonde shoulder-length hair and wore a shirt that fit snugly. I struck up a conversation that day and as often as I could without seeming obsessive.

“Why?” she asked, innocently.

“Because you’re sort of a show off. I think you’re smart, but sometimes when you’re going off on a rant, I can’t get a word in edgewise.” I said.
“Oh, well, shit,” Della said, absentmindedly. “I do that… uh, I do that when I get nervous. Motormouth.”
Della laughed hesitantly and looked up at me.
“Nervous? Around me? How come?” I asked, hoping for one specific answer.
Della opened her mouth for a second, “I… I…”
She talked to herself briefly, “Okay, Della, you can do this.”
She went on. “I’m into you. I think about you all the time, and every Tuesday after class, I go home and spend the afternoon in the tub,” she said.
“I make you feel dirty?” I said, hoping a little humor might settle her down.
“Mm hmm,” she said, biting her bottom lip and looking me in the eye.
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier? There’s like two and a half weeks left.” I said, referencing the fact that I was going to visit with my family over summer break.
“Because Lincoln, you’re Asian,” she said.
I was confused.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.
“Can we go for a walk?” she asked me. I noticed the cafe getting busier too.
“Sure,” I said.
As we walked through campus and into the downtown arts district, she explained her attraction toward Asian men, that her family looked down on her dating nonwhite guys, and that she feared being thought of as an Asia-phile, a fetishist, an objectifier.
“So that’s why we talked about everything under the sun first?” I asked.
“The problem,” she said cautiously, watching me for a response to what she was about to say, “is that I think I might just be one. I spend all night looking at Asian guys online, and when I… well, everytime I fantasize, it’s about Asian men.”
“That’s okay,” I said, “I’m into white girls who can’t get enough of me.”
Della brightened. “Yeah?”
“Since we’re being honest… yeah, it’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Yeah?” she asked, rhetorically.
I looked over at her, and she turned red.
“So you’re that into guys like me?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Hey listen, I’m just going to be straightfoward here. Were you going to ask me out sometime over coffee over at Parnassus?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“So, what would you say, if I told you that Benny’s out for the night, and I wanted to lick your pussy?” I asked, figuring I wasn’t going to get any stronger signals than all of this.
She looked downward, and said, “I’d say yes.”
Della hid her smile.
“Well, Benny is out, and I’m guessing you’re already getting wet, aren’t you?”
“Ohmygod, Lincoln…” Della said, her smile revealing everything.
“Okay then, let’s go,” I said.
Della nodded and slipped her hand into mine as we made our way back to my apartment.

–Continues to Part II