Chinese Women, Asian Women, Online Dating & Things Chinese and Asian
Imi was born and raised in Europe, Hungary. After finishing his school years, he moved to Canada to search for a better life. He lived in Toronto for 13 years and currently resides in Vancouver. He is a romantic at heart with a strong desire to always do the right thing. He would like to give hope to the Chinese and Asian ladies with his story and send a message that love eventually finds everybody.
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While The Orchids Sleep, The Butterfly Emerges From Its Chrysalis (Part 3)    

By Imi
3081 Views | 13 Comments | 5/25/2017 1:17:04 AM

After she had been pulled off the bed, the woman lay supine and in horror on the hardwood floor. Her husband, very unsteady on his feet, stood over her body, feeling smug after his demonstration of spineless dominance. His clothes and breath reeked of smoke and alcohol, and a dense haze of delirium clouded his eyes. He slurred something that the woman couldn't fully understand. Having no idea how to respond, she kept quiet. She didn't dare to even breathe or blink. Like a fish out of water, she just lay there, submissive, on the floor, clearly still in shock from what had just transpired. The old bruise on her back began to ache again, pounding a steady rhythm with her racing heart. She wished—if butterfly she could be no more—to be a fish, hiding from the world deep down in an abyss of eternal darkness. She wanted to be anything but a woman who got less respect from her husband than a homeless, hapless beggar.


Getting no response from his wife, growling now, her husband said something again. It could have been the same thing that he'd said in the first place or a completely different thing, but there was no way the woman could make a difference. Her husband's voice was still slurred, but this time, the word food fell out of his mouth, clear and bright, and landed on the woman's somewhat troubled mind with a bang like a pebble hitting the floor. Then, he turned around and staggered his way into the kitchen, bumping into furniture along the way.


It was only when her husband had disappeared that the woman dared to move. She curled up in a fetal position and stared at the floor as if looking for the pebble just to make sure she understood the word correctly. Lying there for a few seconds, gathering the strength to get up, she thought about her aunt, the aunt who had introduced this man, now her husband, to her. Did my aunt know this person at all? Did she know he was addicted to gambling and alcohol? She doubted it. She didn't mean to blame her aunt or anyone else in her family for pressing her to marry this man. After all, she could have said no to them and faced their incessant, ofttimes nettlesome nagging a bit longer. But still, was this all she deserved? Was this a life to live for? Working all day, and being subjected to someone's erratic mood swings three to four nights a week?


The woman slowly got to her feet, rearranged her pajama, and went after her husband to the kitchen. When she entered, her husband was perching on a chair at the dining table with his head bobbing slowly over an empty plate and his hands inertly hanging on his sides like a marionette's. The air in the kitchen had already been permeated with the foul smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol that oozed out of him. The woman, all of a sudden, felt sick. Her stomach stirred at the stink and started up into her throat. She abhorred that smell, always had. It reminded her of her drunken father. They all smell the same, she thought, the noisome vapors from the smoldering souls of drunks.


Holding her breath, the woman quickly passed her sitting husband, went to the stove, and began to warm up dinner. Shortly, with the food smell now vying for dominance in the kitchen, her stomach calmed down a little, along with her nerves. From the stove, she glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 1:12 a.m. Her husband had come home early that night. Usually, when the man didn't come home at midnight, he stayed out until 2 a.m., gambling and drinking with his friends. The woman could never understand how her husband could get up at six in the morning and go to work after drinking away half the night, showing no signs—not even the slightest—of the previous night's alcohol abuse.


Suddenly, the alcohol-heavy air in the kitchen shifted, and she sensed movement behind her. Stirring the food in the pot, she didn't look back to find out what her husband was up to. It was only when she heard the legs of the chair he was sitting on screech on the floor that she tried to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, but it was already too late.


The woman's knuckles were white as she gripped the kitchen spoon in her hand. Small chunks of food dived from it, falling back into the already steaming pot below. She watched as they fell, one by one like raindrops from a leaf, and counted them. She tried everything to put her mind at ease and thought of being somewhere far away from her kitchen, but to no avail. She was trapped trembling between the stove and her husband, afraid to turn around and face him. She felt as if her dream had overlapped with reality, and she was forced to watch the live broadcast of the twisted world she lived in.


From behind, her husband wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her hips close to his. The woman's stomach churned again as he began panting on her neck, and an involuntary shiver went through her, shaking her insides and making her saliva go sour in her mouth. She closed her eyes to look for solace in the darkness behind her eyelids and numb the growing queasiness in her stomach.


While she tried to keep from being entirely disgusted, her husband, noticing none of her loathing, was all tongue on her neck and ears. The sensation filled her with absolute and complete revulsion, making her envision a camel repeatedly spitting all over her face than a man's soft kisses on her skin. She shivered again; she couldn't help it. Her husband, thinking it was a sign of her being in the mood, got hungrier and tore open her pajama top. Buttons flew all over the kitchen, some of them landing in the pot with the dinner in it. As her husband grabbed her breasts and squeezed them without a shred of gentleness as if they were rubber ducks from his childhood, the woman sensed something of a very tiny proportion inside her that began to pull down the fence around her conscience. It was something, a kind of feeling, that she knew she had felt before, but at the moment, it was oppressed by all that nausea and queasiness that she felt in her stomach. She tried hard to block out her execration and just concentrate on this feeling. It felt as if it had begun to grow like a lump of dough under a kitchen towel, gaining volume by the seconds, filling out the void inside her. As its mass increased, the feeling entirely blocked out her sense of abhorrence now. And strange as it may sound, time seemed to slow down by the same measure as the feeling grew. Seconds started to feel like minutes. Minutes were like hours. Time was suddenly advancing in boggy, decomposed reality. When the woman finally realized what this growing feeling inside her was, time had stopped going forward altogether.


The woman stood, rapt, impregnated with fresh, new emotions at this tear in the fabric of space and time, thinking of the orchids and what it could have felt like falling in love and her mother's three adopted words and how wasteful her own life had become. All her life, she had been compelled by others, and she felt robbed of her childhood and her own feelings and words.


Before she realized it, time had resumed its regular pace, and reality had dropped into her consciousness, making ripples in the stagnation of her mind: the smell of alcohol, her husband's drunken panting from behind, the sordid feeling of having him inside her, right there in the kitchen, the smell of burning food in the pot and a growing sense of repugnance at her craven self. All of these snaps of actuality came to her like muddy boots kicking the door to her soul. She was frightened inside, and she needed to muster all her courage to spin around and push her husband away from her, stopping him from defiling her in a world where she knew she didn't belong. It wasn't her world. It wasn't her life. Here, everything was theirs, her husband's and her mother's. She was nothing but a slave to keep their selfish faces clean from prying eyes.


Her husband wobbled two steps back; his shirt was stained from the food on the spoon. He took a fleeting glimpse of the smudge, then raised his eyes back at his wife. They both stood still for a good moment, facing each other, the man surprised, the woman with hatred and, at the same time, a fair amount of fear in her eyes. For the smell of food and all that commotion, the tabby cat sauntered into the kitchen from the living room, meowed, and sat down the floor between the two standing figure, repeatedly licking its mouth. Getting no attention, it meowed once more but was yet again ignored.


The woman didn't feel her legs. Her fingers, clutching the kitchen spoon as a weapon so as to be able to defend herself against her husband if it came to that, were numb, too, on the handle. Her whole body was paralyzed by fear. In spite of all that, the feeling of standing up for herself for the first time in her life felt like a warm, summer shower washing away the dust from the long road of neglect and mistreatment.


When the cat meowed for the third time, the woman glanced down at the floor, which turned out to be a mistake on her part. The last thing she knew before everything dimmed into a senseless darkness was that she was lying on the floor, watching the cat running, terrified and scared, out of the kitchen.


Copyright owned jointly by Author and CyberCupid Co., Ltd. Breach of copyright will be prosecuted.
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#2017-05-25 01:16:49 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

I have to say Imi, part of me wants this to end because of the intense emotions you are bringing out in me, most specfically anger and my helpless wish to protect this woman from what she is going through. But another part of me doesn't want it to end at all because it is truly a captivating read.

But to keep it relevant to dating Chinese women or dating Asian women, one thing you write speaks loudly to the situation these women face and that we often discuss here on the blogs.  

"Lying there for a few seconds, gathering the strength to get up, she thought about her aunt, the aunt who had introduced this man, now her husband, to her. Did my aunt know this person at all? Did she know he was addicted to gambling and alcohol? She doubted it. She didn't mean to blame her aunt or anyone else in her family for pressing her to marry this man. After all, she could have said no to them and faced their incessant, ofttimes nettlesome nagging a bit longer."

This pressure to marry, to have children, to extend the family and in doing so to make one's parents, relatives and even friends happy, is something that is, of course, pervasive in China and in much of SE Asia as well. And as I said, we discuss it frequently and in some depth here, but we do so in the context of what Western men should consider as something to beware of, because too often the women are motivated to rush into marriage as a result of this pressure. And as a result their stated 'love' of the man, their expressed desire to live their life with him in marital bliss, may be less than heartfelt. And that is fair warning.

If a Western male is unaware of this pressure felt by many of the Chinese or Asian women, he is likely going to blindly enter into a marriage only to find out that the bond he thought existed between himself and his bride either is not really there, or is much more fragile than he had believed. That does not bode well for a long lasting marriage, which is what he was counting on.

However, this is the first time I can recall anyone pointing out that the very same pressure could also propel the poor women who are suffering from it, and rushing to marry in order to end and appease it, to make choices of husbands that will tie them in bondage to someone who is abusive, violent by nature, and totally uncaring as to her longterm feelings and well being. Yet it seems almost impossible to conclude otherwise. Common sense demands us to acknowledge that such must frequently be the case.

I wonder if others among us on CLM and ALM have considered this, and if there have been any studies done to determine how often it happens that bad marriages for the women result from the pressure and expectations foisted upon them by family and friends to get married fast. 

You've raised an excellent point for our consideration, while writing and delivering to us a truly great piece fo fiction. Cheers. (clap)

#2017-05-25 12:55:12 by melcyan @melcyan

 The sense of smell is more closely linked with memory than any of our other senses. It is amazing that pure alcohol is almost odorless yet alcoholics smell so bad. Unfortunately Imi, you have created too many bad memories today.

#2017-05-28 22:06:58 by good88person @good88person

请给他 Mr. John Abbot

@Imi5922  @JohnAbbot
says ........
High volumes of alcohol consumption have serious negative effects
on Russia's social fabric and in its political, economic and public health ramifications.
Alcoholism has been a problem throughout the Russia's history
because drinking is a pervasive, socially acceptable behaviour in Russian society.
- - - - - - - -
The former Soviet Bloc ( Russia , Hungary , etc )  have
a VERY BAD reputation for  DRUNKEN  RUSSIAN  MEN
+ Russian MEN HITTING WOMEN ........
please see 2,9000,000 videos at
Your story about an alcoholic man ... is so lifelike and vivid.
Are you writing about your father or uncle or yourself or an IMAGINARY Chinese man ?
Why are you writing  NASTY  SUBVERSIVE  STORIES  about   IMAGINARY  Chinese men ?
Do you have anything better to do ?
@JohnAbbot ...你为什么要出版Imi5922
Imi5922 写了关于想象中国男人的讨厌的颠覆性故事
@JohnAbbot ... Why are you publishing Imi5922
... and ...
Imi5922  writing  NASTY  SUBVERSIVE  STORIES  about  IMAGINARY Chinese men
to  DELIBERATELY  SLUR Chinese men.
Can I write a story about .......
an  IMAGINARY Hungarian  who is a drug addict and alcoholic , who rapes and  beats women ?
@JohnAbbot ...你认为吗
... 要么 ...
@JohnAbbot ... Do you think that ...
is turning your website into a DARK DEPRESSING HELL
... or ...
a happy pink "hello kitty" world ?
@JohnAbbot ...你认为吗
Imi 5922讨厌的颠覆性故事,中国男人
@JohnAbbot ... Do you think that ...
will encourage the CHINESE authority to renew your CHINESE business licence ?

#2017-05-28 22:13:58 by good88person @good88person

请给他 Mr. John Abbot


@JohnAbbot    @melcyan wrote ........ alcoholics smell so bad. Unfortunately Imi, you have created too many bad memories today. 酗酒者气味如此糟糕。 不幸的是,Imi,你今天创造了太多的坏记忆。
@JohnAbbot ...你认为吗
... 要么 ...
@JohnAbbot ... Do you think that ...
is turning your website into a DARK DEPRESSING HELL
... or ...
a happy pink "hello kitty" world ?

#2017-05-29 13:58:29 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot


I regret that you seem angry and offended by Imi's blog, but I am confused about where you are coming from. Why do you repeatedly accuse Imi of writing about an "imaginary Chinese man" or "slurring imaginary Chinese men"?

I can't find anything, anywhere in this blog series that tells us what country the story takes place in, nor what country the drunken husband in the story is from. This story could take place in any country, anywhere in the world.

It could be in Russia, it could be in Hungary, it could be in Canada, the US, Australia, your home country of the UK, and it could be in China. 

Having said that, I lived in China for over a decade, and I witnessed on several occasions drunken Chinese men who were abusive to their wives in very public places, so it is impossible not to believe those same men are also abusive, probably to a much greater degree, when they are in private places. I did not witness such occasions anymore in China than I have witnessed in Canada or the USA during my times living in those countries, but a sufficiant number of times to be able to testify that it happens in China, just like it happens anywhere. So I can understand why you may have simply assumed it was set in China, because I can assure you it certainly could happen in China just as it could happen anywhere.

But it by no means is necessarily set in China, and I think it is more likely based on Imi's distant memories of times in Hungary, but that is just a feeling I have, not anything I can point at in the blogs as conclusive evidence of where the story is located.

What is happening in your mind to cause you to be offended on behalf of Chinese men? Is there something in your distant memories that causes you to leap angrily to the conclusion that Imi is writing about Chinese men? Are you offended by his writing, or are you offended by your own distant past experiences?  

This is a question you need to ask yourself, and that no one but you can answer. But you are normally someone who seems open minded to the thoughts of others here on the blogs and forum, and your comments are usually calm, positive, thoughtful and helpful attempts to shine light on the subject at hand. Why, in this instant, do you seem so angry?

This is a blog, a work of fiction and a work of art. It is like a painting, but one that is created throught the use of words. Some people, such as yourself, may find the subject of the artwork not to your liking, and you are entitled to express your feelings about the artwork. And if you find it offensive, you have every right to turn away, and stop staring at it.

As to your question to me, I do not believe this blog "is turning your website into a DARK DEPRESSING HELL ... or ... a happy pink "hello kitty" world?"." Nor would I ever wish for our website to be either a "dark depressing hell", nor a "hello kitty world". We are trying to have a dating community that is real, filled with real people who can have a place in the blogs to express their real thoughts, feelings and concerns. We hope that can help them be more likely to succeed in finding a real life partner who is the best match for them.

To me this blog by Imi helps the members who read it remember to exercise caution in meeting potential matches here (or anywhere), and to not rush into any long term relationship without much care and thought. I don't believe it is intended by Imi to offend any country, race or culture, and I believe you have misread and misunderstood it, in order for you to believe it is an attack on Chinese men in anyway. It is an attack on drunken, violent, abusive men regardless of race, culture or creed.  Nobody should be offended by that.

#2017-05-29 18:31:35 by Barry1 @Barry1



is turning your website into a DARK DEPRESSING HELL"


I recommend that you focus upon Imi's high quality writing, rather than becoming blinded by the brooding subject matter itself.

It's a work of fiction, with highly expressive depictions and lovely turns of phrase.

Calling it a "nasty subversive story" is like referring to the Mona Lisa as an ugly tramp without a smile on her face.  Da Vinci would be rolling in his grave at this!  

Look beyond the superficial skin, my friend...... at the beauty, the depth and the mystery that lie beneath Imi's words, teasing you, tantalising you with raw talent and voluptuous literary vibrancy. (clap)

#2017-05-29 23:22:23 by Imi5922 @Imi5922


"Are you writing about your father or uncle or yourself or an IMAGINARY Chinese man?"


"Why are you writing  NASTY  SUBVERSIVE  STORIES  about   IMAGINARY  Chinese men?"


With all due respect, you asked me a question and, waiting for no answer, concluded that I wrote a story about an IMAGINARY Chinese man.


Why do you ask a question if you've already reached a conclusion based on sheer probability or your own experience what my answer would be?


To me, you seem to be angry without reason. But let's not talk about how we look at, assume or presume other's behavior and actions, and let's talk about facts instead.


This story is 80% fiction. You can't really gather from the storyline where it occurs. I used no names for that purpose. I don't need to read Wikipedia articles or watch Youtube videos about abusive men as you suggested I should. I lived with one, my father. I did things that I'm not proud of as a child, but I had to do them for the sake of my mother's, sister's and my own welfare.


If I wanted to slur on Chinese men, I could have done it a year ago when I was at a crowded airport in China and saw a REAL, not IMAGINARY, Chinese man yelling at and hitting his wife in front of everybody. To my surprise, no one intervened. When I stood up to go over and stop him, my wife pulled me back down to my seat. And probably, she did the right thing. I could have ended up in jail. The most disturbing thing to me was when the security guards came who just separated the couple and sent them on their way as if nothing had happened. Should I generalize and say every Chinese man as abusive as that man was? Of course not. This could have happened in every country's airport. However, it's up to each country's government how much, how far letting abusive men thrive in their own sickening world. In Canada, if you hit a child or a woman, you go to jail. If you kick a dog, either your own or someone else's, you go to jail or/and get fined. In Hungary, it's different, hence the story.


In earnest, I have to say that I know where you're coming from. You're Chinese. You're proud of your heritage even though you live in the UK. I'm the same. I live in Canada, but I'll always stay a simple guy from a small village in Hungary. However, you took a story of fiction that was merely based on my own personal experiences as a child too personal. I guess what I'm trying to say is that the story is an invention of my imagination, but with the hint of a dark reality from my past. However, you could be yellow, black, white, rich, poor, politically correct or a straightforward, good guy who speaks his mind in any country, if you raise your hand at a woman in my presence, I will hit you twice as hard back as you hit the woman.


The bottom line is, I have common sense and can make a difference between right and wrong, fiction and non-fiction. Can you?

#2017-05-30 07:57:55 by paulfox1 @paulfox1


Why the hatred? You accuse Imi of writing 'Nasty Subversive Stories', yet you willingly watch TV, Hollywood movies, even the TV News.

What would you say to me if I told you I could find 'Nasty Subversive Stories' in The Wizard of Oz, or Snow White? What would you say if I told you I could find at least a dozen examples of 'paedophilia' in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?

What would you say if I told you that one of the most 'Satanic songs' ever written was Led Zeppelin's 'Stairway To Heaven'?

The title of one of my recent blogs was 'Perception or Deception'. You have 'free-will', right? Well, my friend, you can choose whichever 'Yellow Brick Road' you want to 'follow', but attacking someone just because they have a different opinion or belief system to you is probably one of the most significant reasons as to why we live in such a f*cked-up world.....


#2017-05-30 20:51:11 by melcyan @melcyan



"What would you say if I told you that one of the most 'Satanic songs' ever written was Led Zeppelin's 'Stairway To Heaven'?" I hope CLM readers would have the ability to research this on the internet and answer emphatically - Rubbish!

Paul, you have been deceived! Maybe you should take up another hobby. Maybe you should try studying science instead of studying conspiracy theories.


#2017-05-31 13:26:05 by paulfox1 @paulfox1


Thanks for the advice Melcyan. However, it's clear that you haven't got a clue what you're talking about.

'Stairway to Heaven' has ALWAYS been a 'Satanic' song. If you knew anything about at all you would know that Jimmy Page, (the co-writer of the song), was deeply into the 'Occult' and even bought Boleskine House in Scotland, (the house that was previously owned by Aleister Crowley, the most infamous occultist in recent history).

No 'conspiracy theory' at all, mate - just fact!

Keep taking the sleeping pills (rofl)

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