What the Duck?
Who says China is a patriarchal society? Well, it truly is, but the existence of "ducks," or male gigolos, is evidence that there's a small faction of women clamoring for their portion of the companionship by. Having heard about a "duck bar" in Shanghai, where female patrons went and paid for an evening's worth of company from some finely sculpted porcelain Adonis, my friends Keith and Mao and I decided to see for ourselves what these "duck bars," were really like. Furthermore, Keith, being one of the most sexually desirable men in all of Shanghai, was interested in filling out the application.
"Women stare at me all the time. I say it's time to start making them pay for it," he said. Of course, I'm making him seem like a self-absorbed lout, but he's really not. He just wants a 60 year old Shanghai-nese sexually frustrated grandmother with a monstrous beehive to be his sugar-momma. Or sugar-grandmama. But then again, who doesn't?
After making a few calls to our female friends, who curiously enough all pointed me to the same duck bar, we decided to head over and have a look-see for ourselves. When we stood in front of the bar, which was located on the 5th floor of some mall, we were unsure if this was the right place. Where were all the old ladies waiting in line to get in?
Then we saw a skinny orange-colored Chinese boy walk out in the tightest of leather pants and a shirt that could only mean "rip me apart, my Chinese queen!" Atop his mop sat designer sunglasses, and a cigarette sat between his pouty lips. He brushed passed us on the way to the bathroom, and all three of our gazes matched his every step.
"OK, this is definitely it."
We paid the cover and walked in. I think that a part of all three of us were hoping that the rumors we heard about duck bars were true, and that they would indeed be overflowing with young lonely mistresses of older rich men who were looking for thrills when their sugar-daddies were away on business or back with their wives. And of course, the old Chinese ladies that Keith coveted so. Instead, all we came across were tables and tables full of young men, all similarly decked out in the same fashion as the stud in the hallway: tight pants, tight shirts, and faces that belonged in gay porn magazines. Four of them sat at each table, most of them casually smoking cigarettes, the others just looking really bored. Appropriately, the music on the dance floor was Justin Timberlake, the prettiest of all the pretty boys. But worst of all, there were no women to be found at all, save for one, a toad-like creature in sunglasses who turned out to be the pimp. Needless to say, it was quite a surreal experience to be in the middle of this massive role-reversal. I kept expecting all the guys to start cuddling with the pimpstress, one on each side, with another giving her a back massage and another cleaning her glock.
I called the waiter over and casually asked him why there were so many men tonight.
"I don't know. It's odd, isn't it?"
"Is this a duck bar?" I inquired.
"No!" he responded, defiantly. "These are all customers."
I looked around again. Nary a woman, all men. There were about 60 of them just sitting and doing nothing.
"Tell me the truth. My friend wants to be a duck. Can you tell us who we can talk to?"
"Sir, I'm serious. These are all customers. I don't know why there's such an unsual amount of men tonight, but these are definitely not ducks."
Right. And I'm voting for George W. Bush.
I heard weeping next to me. I turned to Keith, who had his head buried in his arms. I asked him what was wrong.
"They're all so beautiful!" he sobbed. "How can I compete with such beauty?! These are the most beautiful men I've ever seen."
"This Jack and coke is really watered down," interjected Mao.
As I tried to comfort Keith, telling him that his hair just needed to be a tad spikier, the pimpstress received a call on her phone, then promptly stood up and did the Clapper.
CLAP CLAP!
15 of the boys sitting around us stood up, got into a single-file line, and followed the pimpstress down to a room in the back. 2 minutes later, 14 of them walked back. They had lost a teammate.
There's something to be said about this kind of objectification. Our sex are often criticized for engaging in thoughts and activities that render women nothing more than mere objects (beauty pageants, strip clubs, Anna Kournikova), all in the name of sexual equality. But wouldn't it be more equal if we just had more duck bars in this world? Then we could objectify away and not worry about the imbalance.
If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, flaps its wings like a duck...then hopefully one day it will be my friend Keith. Jia You!
"Women stare at me all the time. I say it's time to start making them pay for it," he said. Of course, I'm making him seem like a self-absorbed lout, but he's really not. He just wants a 60 year old Shanghai-nese sexually frustrated grandmother with a monstrous beehive to be his sugar-momma. Or sugar-grandmama. But then again, who doesn't?
After making a few calls to our female friends, who curiously enough all pointed me to the same duck bar, we decided to head over and have a look-see for ourselves. When we stood in front of the bar, which was located on the 5th floor of some mall, we were unsure if this was the right place. Where were all the old ladies waiting in line to get in?
Then we saw a skinny orange-colored Chinese boy walk out in the tightest of leather pants and a shirt that could only mean "rip me apart, my Chinese queen!" Atop his mop sat designer sunglasses, and a cigarette sat between his pouty lips. He brushed passed us on the way to the bathroom, and all three of our gazes matched his every step.
"OK, this is definitely it."
We paid the cover and walked in. I think that a part of all three of us were hoping that the rumors we heard about duck bars were true, and that they would indeed be overflowing with young lonely mistresses of older rich men who were looking for thrills when their sugar-daddies were away on business or back with their wives. And of course, the old Chinese ladies that Keith coveted so. Instead, all we came across were tables and tables full of young men, all similarly decked out in the same fashion as the stud in the hallway: tight pants, tight shirts, and faces that belonged in gay porn magazines. Four of them sat at each table, most of them casually smoking cigarettes, the others just looking really bored. Appropriately, the music on the dance floor was Justin Timberlake, the prettiest of all the pretty boys. But worst of all, there were no women to be found at all, save for one, a toad-like creature in sunglasses who turned out to be the pimp. Needless to say, it was quite a surreal experience to be in the middle of this massive role-reversal. I kept expecting all the guys to start cuddling with the pimpstress, one on each side, with another giving her a back massage and another cleaning her glock.
I called the waiter over and casually asked him why there were so many men tonight.
"I don't know. It's odd, isn't it?"
"Is this a duck bar?" I inquired.
"No!" he responded, defiantly. "These are all customers."
I looked around again. Nary a woman, all men. There were about 60 of them just sitting and doing nothing.
"Tell me the truth. My friend wants to be a duck. Can you tell us who we can talk to?"
"Sir, I'm serious. These are all customers. I don't know why there's such an unsual amount of men tonight, but these are definitely not ducks."
Right. And I'm voting for George W. Bush.
I heard weeping next to me. I turned to Keith, who had his head buried in his arms. I asked him what was wrong.
"They're all so beautiful!" he sobbed. "How can I compete with such beauty?! These are the most beautiful men I've ever seen."
"This Jack and coke is really watered down," interjected Mao.
As I tried to comfort Keith, telling him that his hair just needed to be a tad spikier, the pimpstress received a call on her phone, then promptly stood up and did the Clapper.
CLAP CLAP!
15 of the boys sitting around us stood up, got into a single-file line, and followed the pimpstress down to a room in the back. 2 minutes later, 14 of them walked back. They had lost a teammate.
There's something to be said about this kind of objectification. Our sex are often criticized for engaging in thoughts and activities that render women nothing more than mere objects (beauty pageants, strip clubs, Anna Kournikova), all in the name of sexual equality. But wouldn't it be more equal if we just had more duck bars in this world? Then we could objectify away and not worry about the imbalance.
If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, flaps its wings like a duck...then hopefully one day it will be my friend Keith. Jia You!
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