MARK: Well, in practice, that’s how it’s always—
TERRI: I like power.
MARK: So do I.
TERRI: You’ll never win.
MARK: There’s a first time for everything.
TERRI: You’re the exception that proves the rule.
MARK: So prove it. C’mon! And—oh—try not to break down again in the middle of the fantasy.
TERRI: Fuck you!
MARK: It sort of—you know—breaks the mood?
TERRI: I’m sorry! I had a very bad morning. I’ve been working long hours—
MARK: Don’t! Don’t start talking about your life on my time!
TERRI: OK, you don’t need to keep—
MARK: Sometimes, I really wonder why I have to be the one reminding you of the house rules at this late date.
TERRI: I didn’t mean to, all right? These aren’t the easiest relationships in the world, you know!
MARK: A man comes in, he plops down good money . . .
TERRI: I’m not in the mood to hear about your financial problems.
MARK: Nor I your personal ones! This is a fantasy palace, so goddamn it, start fantasizing!
TERRI: I have a good mind to take off my mask and show you who I really am.
MARK: You do that, and you know I’ll never come here again.
TERRI: Ooooh—scary! What—do you imagine I might actually have some real feelings for you?
MARK: I don’t imagine anything but what I pay you to make me imagine! Now, pick up that whip, start barking orders, and let’s get back to investigating the burning social issues of our day!
TERRI
(Practically in tears)
: You little maggot! You said you loved me . . . Mark Wong!
MARK: Maybe. Why aren’t I sexy enough for you?
TERRI: I told you—a girl likes a little excitement.
MARK: Maybe I’m—someone completely different from who you imagine. Someone . . . with a touch of evil. Who doesn’t study for exams.
TERRI: Oh—like you get “A”s regardless? ’Cause you’re such a brain?
MARK: I have a terrible average in school. D-minus.
TERRI: I thought all you people were genetically programmed to score in the high nineties. What are you—a mutant?
MARK: I hang out with a very dangerous element. We smoke in spite of the surgeon general’s warning. I own a cheap little motorcycle that I keep tuned in perfect condition. Why don’t I take you up to the lake at midnight and show you some tricks with a switchblade?
(He plays with the handle of her whip)
Don’t you find this all . . . a lot more interesting?
TERRI: I . . . I’m not sure.
MARK: I’m used to getting what I want.
TERRI: I mean . . . I wasn’t planning on getting involved with someone this greasy.
MARK: I’m not greasy. I’m dangerous! And right now, I’ve got my eye set on you.
TERRI: You sound like some old movie from the ’50s.
MARK: I’m classic. What’s so bad about—?
TERRI: Oh, wait! I almost forgot! You’re Chinese, aren’t you?
MARK: Well, my name
is
Mark Wong, but—
TERRI: Oh, well . . . I’m certainly not going to go out with a member of the Chinese Mafia!
MARK: The Chinese—what? Wait!
TERRI: Of course! Those pathetic imitations of B-movie delinquents, that cheap Hong Kong swagger.
MARK: Did I say anything about the Chinese Mafia?
TERRI: You don’t have to—you’re Chinese, aren’t you? What are you going to do now? Rape me? With your friends? ’Cause I’ve seen movies, and you Chinatown pipsqueaks never seem to be able to get a white woman of her own free will. And even when you take her by force, it still requires more than one of you to get the job done. Personally, I think it’s all just an excuse to feel up your buddies.
MARK: Wait! Stop! Cut! I said I was vaguely bad—
TERRI: Yeah, corrupting the moral fiber of this nation with evil foreign influences—
MARK: Vaguely bad does not make me a hitman for the tong!
TERRI: Then what are you? A Vietcong? Mmmm—big improvement. I’m really gonna wanna sleep with you now!
MARK: No—that’s even more evil!
TERRI: Imprison our hometown boys neck-high in leech-filled waters—
MARK: No, no! Less evil! Less—
TERRI: Will you make up your goddamn mind? Indecision in a sadomasochist is a sign of poor mental health.
MARK: I’m not a Chinese gangster, not a Vietcong . . .
TERRI: Then you’re a nerd. Like I said—
MARK: No! I’m . . .
TERRI: . . . we’re waiting . . .
MARK: I’m . . . I’m neither!
TERRI: You know, buddy, I can’t create a fantasy session solely out of negative images.
MARK: Isn’t there something in between? Just delinquent enough to be sexy without also being responsible for the deaths of a few hundred thousand U.S. servicemen?
(Terri paces about, dragging her whip behind her.)
TERRI: Look, this is a nice American fantasy parlor. We deal in basic, mainstream images. You want something kinky, maybe you should try one of those specialty houses catering to wealthy European degenerates.
MARK: How about Bruce Lee? Would you find me sexy if I was Bruce Lee?
TERRI: You mean, like, “Hiiii-ya! I wuv you.”
(Pause)
Any other ideas? Or do you admit no woman could love you, Mark Wong?
(Mark gets down on all fours.)
MARK: I’m defeated. I’m humiliated. I’m whipped to the bone.
TERRI: Well, don’t complain you didn’t get your money’s worth. Perhaps now I’ll mount you—little pony—you’d like that wouldn’t you?
MARK: Wait! You haven’t humiliated me completely.
TERRI: I’ll be happy to finish the job—just open that zipper.
MARK: I still never said that I loved you, remember?
TERRI: I think that’s an incredibly technical objection this late in the game.
MARK: All’s fair in love and bondage! I did you a favor—I ignored your mistake—well, now I’m taking back the loan.
TERRI: You are really asking for it, buddy . . .
MARK: After all, I’m not a masochist—no matter how this looks. Sure, I let you beat me, treat me as less than a man—
TERRI: When you’re lucky . . .
MARK: But I do not say, “I love you”! Not without a fight! To say “I love you” is the ultimate humiliation. A woman like you looks on a declaration of love as an invitation to loot and pillage.
TERRI: I always pry those words from your lips sooner or later and you know it.
MARK: Not today—you won’t today!
TERRI: Oh, look—he’s putting up his widdle fight. Sometimes I’ve asked myself, “Why is it so easy to get Mark to say he loves me? Could it be . . . because deep inside—he actually does?”
MARK: Love you? That’s—slanderous!
TERRI: Just trying to make sense of your behavior.
MARK: Well, stop it! I refuse to be made sense of—by you or anyone else! Maybe . . . maybe you
wish
I was really in love with you, could that be it?
TERRI: Oh, eat me!
MARK: ’Cause the idea certainly never entered
my
head.
TERRI: Oh—even when you scream out your love for me?
MARK: That’s what we call—a fantasy . . . Mistress.
TERRI: Yeah—
your
fantasy.
MARK: The point is, you haven’t beaten me down. Not yet. You may even be surprised sometime to see that I’ve humiliated you. I’ll reject
you
for loving me. And maybe, then, I’ll mount
you
—pony.
TERRI
(Bursts out laughing)
: You can’t dominate me. I’m a trained professional.
MARK: So? I’ve been your client more than a year now. Maybe I’ve picked up a trick or two.
TERRI: I’m at this six hours a day, six days a week. Your time is probably squandered in some less rewarding profession.
MARK: Maybe I’ve been practicing in my spare time.
TERRI: With your employees at some pathetic office? Tsst! They’re paid to humiliate themselves before you. But me, I’m paid to humiliate you. And I still believe in the American work ethic.
(She cracks her whip)
So—enough talking everything to death! I may love power, but I haven’t yet stooped to practicing psychiatry, thank you. OK, you’re a—a white man and me—I’m a black woman!
MARK: African-American.
TERRI: Excuse me—are you telling me what I should call myself? Is this another of our rights you’re dying to take away?
MARK: Not me. The Reverend Jesse Jackson—he thinks “African-American” is the proper—
TERRI: Who?
MARK: Jesse—I’m sorry, is this a joke?
TERRI: You’re not laughing, so I guess it’s not. Tell me—the way you talk . . . could you be . . . a liberal?
MARK: Uh, yes, if you speak in categories, but—
TERRI: Um. Well, then that explains it.
MARK: Explains what?
TERRI: Why I notice you eyeing me up every time I wander towards the bar.
MARK: Let me be frank. I . . . saw you standing here, and thought to myself, That looks like a very intelligent woman.
(Terri laughs.)
Sorry. Did I—say something?
TERRI: What do they do? Issue you boys a handbook?
MARK: What?
TERRI: You know, for all you white liberals who do your hunting a little off the beaten track?
MARK: Now, look here—
TERRI: ’Cause you’ve all got the same line. You always start talking about our “minds,” then give us this
look
like we’re supposed to be grateful—“Aren’t you surprised?” “Ain’t I sensitive?” “Wouldn’t you like to oil up your body and dance naked to James Brown?”
MARK: I can’t believe . . . you’re accusing
me
of—
TERRI: Then again, what else should I have expected at a PLO fundraiser? So many white liberals, a girl can’t leave the room without one or two sticking to her backside.
MARK: Listen—all I said was I find you attractive. If you can’t deal with that, then maybe . . . maybe
you’re
the one who’s prejudiced.
TERRI: White people—whenever they don’t get what they want, they always start screaming “reverse racism.”
MARK: Would you be so . . . derisive if I was a black man?
TERRI: You mean, an African-American?
MARK: Your African-American brothers aren’t afraid to date white women, are they? No, in fact, I hear they treat them better than they do their own sisters, doesn’t that bother you even a bit?
TERRI: And what makes you such an expert on black men? Read a book by some other whitey?
MARK: Hey—I saw
Jungle Fever
.
TERRI: For your urban anthropology class?
MARK: Don’t get off the subject. Of you and me. And the dilemma I know you’re facing. Your own men, they take you for granted, don’t they? I think you should be a little more open-minded, unless you wanna end up like the forty percent of black women over thirty who’re never even gonna get married in their lifetimes.
TERRI: Who the fuck do you think you are? Trying to intimidate me into holding your pasty white hand? Trying to drive a wedge through our community?
MARK: No, I’m just saying, look at the plain, basic—
TERRI: You say you’re attracted to my intelligence? I saw you checking out a lot more than my eyes.
MARK: Well, you do seem . . . sensuous.
TERRI: Ah. Sensuous. I can respect a man who tells the truth.
MARK: That’s a . . . very tight outfit you’ve got on.
TERRI: Slinky, perhaps?
MARK: And when you talk to me, your lips . . .
TERRI: They’re full and round—without the aid of collagen.
MARK: And—the way you walked across the room . . .