Every now and then, even the ‘World’s Greatest Living Authority on Everything’ has to arrive at a come-upperance moment. One such epiphany has been occurring rather more rapidly than I am comfortable with, in the form of a book I just finished. But let me ‘mansplain’ a bit here, for all of you.

Those who are familiar with me and my predilections know that despite being a card-carrying, pasty-white son of Erin (Ireland) and Krain (German-speaking Slovenia), I quite frequently hold forth on Asian and Asian-American affairs as if I were a former unreconstructed Maoist cadre of the Deng Xioping enlightenment era.

It is therefore rare when I find myself caught flat-footed and exposed in the very midst of my flagrante-delicto assumptive expostulations. Despite seeming as if this would be embarrassing at the very least (and ego-destroying at worst), I have always found that having someone mercilessly rip the living sh*t out of my fondest assumptions is, and can often be, a most valuable lesson in acquired humility.

The latest “sh*t-ripper” has taken the form of an Asian-American woman named Kaila Yu and her 2025 Random House book (titled 'Fetishised') on a syndrome most Asian feminists disparagingly call 'Yellow Fever'. Yellow Fever characterises the fetishization of the Asian woman as a disposable sex object and that is in fact the title of her seminal (Oops! I have a positive talent for using the wrong word, more frequently than I ought in my written excursions) book.

Yellow Fever is a disparaging term dripping with disdain and aspersiveness, but functionally speaking it is characteristically dispensed with regard to what Asian feminists single out as an unhealthy fixation on Asian woman, an obsessive affliction most commonly encountered in young white men. It is also identified with objectification of Asian women as compliant, subservient and usually discardable sex objects (or ‘adult sex toys for boys’).

The commonly encountered images of Yu on-line (a former model in her earlier iteration), for anyone who is interested, show her with long, almost platinum blonde hair; quite a contrast to the characteristic Asian phenotypical trait of dark brunet (often appearing as black, rather than very dark-brown) hair all Asians are genetically endowed with. Personally speaking, and disregarding Yu’s explanation given for affecting this guise in her book, blonde hair on an Asian person is both inherently off-putting and aesthetically repulsive. It has in past also been stigmatized by some as the mark of a tacky or low-class person who wishes to appear to be something he or she is not, since it is an unnatural state that not only cannot normally exist in nature but that signals a ‘commonised’ or confused level of personal and social-class standards. Sort of like black people with bleached blonde or fluorescent pink hair. Albinism is a biological fact of genetics, certainly, but this strictly affectual exceptionality doesn’t fall into that category. It is the sort of thing that strikes me overall as the awkward (perhaps unconscious) visual stigmata of someone who is very insecure about their natural, genuine self and whatever ‘realities’ may be linked to it, externally (whether superficial or innate).

Whenever I see someone who presents this visual appearance, I am instantly reminded of the irony implicit in non-native-born Pacific Islanders who are ethnically malihini haole (Caucasian whites from other than of Hawai’ian Polynesia) but try to visually emulate the dark features of very same kanaka maoli (generally used to mark out native-born Polynesians) they otherwise run-down and regard as social ‘inferiors.’ A psychologist would be sorely tempted to ascribe this as the mark of a person with a very deep-seated identity or self-confidence problem. And as far as that goes, Ms. Yu gives ample evidence of having been such a person, an individual who is extremely uncomfortable in their own skin. But as far as that goes, I must admit I had twinges of regret throughout the earlier phase of my own life when I ruefully (if secretly) regretted being a pasty white haole submerged in a culture full of darker-skinned people whom I covertly idealized: the kanaka maoli Hawai’ians of ‘befoe’ time Pacific Polynesia.

Of course, Yu explains this in great detail in her book and one feels empathy for her in light of those unhappy circumstances of her early youth. Still, Yu reveals the fact that she was so unhappy with what she perceived herself to be that she felt she had to mold herself into what the larger (white) culture around her idealized as an archetypal white sex object (a sexy, blonde female with big tits, despite being incontrovertibly Asian).

Of signal interest is the fact that Yu (originally from Taiwan) comes from Southern California’s AsiAm cultural milieu, but even more importantly, from Southern California’s AsiAm sub-culture, with all its powerful cultural influences and youthful social mandates, both familial and peer-generated.

As any student of adolescent socio-psychological science can affirm, it takes a lot of personal stamina and courage (and no small amount of wise parenting) to resist the fads and fixations of the kids you hang and share values with.

At the core of any study of this sort (informal or otherwise) is an assessment of parents and their requisite personal and cultural normative precepts. In her case, Yu had a ‘traditional’ Lo Gong father and a ‘Tiger Mother’, so her fierce need to absorb the faddish predilections and ‘counter-cultural’ fixations of her peer friends is clearer and more understandable. After all, rebelliousness is a universal de rigueur transitional phase implicit in adolescence.

Further (since she so openly discusses her personal physical characteristics), being an Asian woman with smallish, modest breasts exerts a huge amount of pressure to conform to the larger cultural norm (the bosomy blonde celebrity of movie matinees): the market-created-and-driven norm of post-war America, massively brainwashed into adolescents and adult males alike by Hollywood is that of the big-breasted blonde. In Yu’s youthful circles, this took form in the hugely popular TV show Bay Watch (I agree with Yu that the show was really barely acceptable 'soft porn'), in which every episode unfailingly featured Pamela Anderson running down the beach to rescue someone, her huge breasts bouncing sensuously in a two-sizes-too-small red Nylon swimsuit.

This American breast fixation is a curious thing, actually, with some experts speculating that post-war white American males suffered from a deep-seated, latent desire to breast-feed (something Dr. Spock probably didn’t encourage as much as he should have in his 1953 block-buster book on child raising).

Whatever the cause (and Freudians might be stringently critical of that surmise), personally speaking, I’ve never been saddled with that OC fixation myself. The women I find I have been attracted to (aside from being Asian in extraction) have always been modestly equipped in that context. In fact, when I was a teenager we even had a saying that “...if you can’t get all of it in your mouth, it’s wasted!” And yeah, we were crude little bastards, of course, just like almost all little boys who are only about a year past puberty!

Naturally, each of us is somewhat differently programmed when it comes to being preferential to a certain body-type. My ‘hotties’ have always been slender, but with compliant bodily contours in aesthetic proportion to their overall figure; possessed of small but naturally attractive breasts, flat stomachs and shapely (but not exaggeratedly so) calves. A nice “thigh-gap” always gains a woman extra-points (no pun intended but it’s slyly appropriate, one, isn’t it?) in my book, also.

But that said, I’ve always demanded and appreciated intelligence and class in the women I’ve been naturally attracted to, above all else. Call it an artist’s aesthetic bias, if that helps, but the overall composition as a whole (mind & body) has always been most preferable to the individual parts themselves, by my criteria. I suppose it’s fundamentally an aspect of having a good sense of style and natural design. As a budding youthful artist, I was modestly gifted with those traits.

I will admit. However, that I wasn’t the ‘average’ kid in my peer group by any means. Like Yu, again by her admission, I was an adolescent hybrid: half nerdy and half ‘wanna be’ cool-hand Luke. Since I haled from a higher social class than most of my little school friends, that’s probably excusable and perhaps even to be expected. I had certain “expectations” that weren’t solely dependent on and transcending a girl's having a great rack.

In her book, Yu goes into some detail about breast implants, a purely cosmetic enhancement discovered by a great many SoCal teenagers (and AsiAm females) quite early-on. She self-describes herself having a ‘flat chest’ and having AsiAm peers who had addressed similar ‘deficiencies’ with implants. Therefore, she underwent mammoplasty, ending up with a “nice C-cup” profile: the kind that skinny jeans and tight black tank-tops show off to perfection (so she states).

But back to my ‘epiphany,’ mentioned in the opening paragraphs of this piece in just a minute, shortly. First, I am reminded as I graze here in the grassy north-40 acres of my recollections, that back in the 80s, when I was active in sports-car racing (SCCA/San Francisco Region) and also working with the track ‘crash-crew’ (at Laguna Seca and Sears Point Raceways), we had a brunette RN (who drove a classily-dishabilled ’65 Porsche 356 ‘C’ Coupe) who regularly sported a T-shirt that was emblazoned with the phrase “Proud Charter Member of the IBTTC.” Superimposed over the image of a 356C Porsche Coupe, the abbeviation provoked many second looks.

She was Caucasian, pretty and a bit flat-chested herself. But instead of moping about over her lack of Pam Anderson class equipment, her T-shirt said it all. IBTT stood for “Itty-Bitty-Tiny-Titty Club”. Now that was a commendable display of confidence on her part...but perhaps confidence of an exceptional nature not commonly found among young women who think they all need to bring some “Pam” to the table as bargaining material for their trysts.

As for me (and getting back to this piece’s subject), Mr. Enlightened Student of All Things Asian, I must admit that although poor Kaila went through a sort of self-imposed hell, coping with the life-altering effects of what she calls Yellow Fever, her candid revelations of the underbelly sub-culture of SoCal AsiAms was in many ways rather an expose of things I had myself only mused about and speculated upon at a distance. Seldom had I ever read a book whose whole thrust (again, poor word choice?) was devoted to something like white obsession with AsiAm females, although I am sure there are other such works that may be easily sought out with minimal effort.

Since I was situated in Berkeley, rather far from SoCal (about 450 or so miles north of Hollywood, as the Porsche flies), and only comfortably familiar with San Francisco Bay Area Asian cultural nuances of the 80s, her shared insights into the altogether totally different SoCal scene comprised quite a jolt to my preconceived understandings of how cultures mix and acculturate to each other. [Yu tells us early-on in her book that she is originally Taiwanese Chinese, a nation I’ve lived and worked in as an expat, coincidentally.]

It has been brought out again and again by learned students of other cultures and ‘group-think’ societal functionalities that most people are supremely confident that they have reached a firm apogee of intelligence and discernment when it comes to being able to fully and completely understand most things. It has also been brought out by these same “experts” that we Homo saps are in actual reality completely incapable of adequately discerning how frequently we aren’t quite as bright and astute as we fancy ourselves to be! That is to say, ‘idiots’ invariably regard themselves as near-geniuses and find any challenge to their actually diminished sense of discernment to be both incomprehensible and unacceptable.

And so I myself was in regard to my vaunted confidence in knowing certain aspects of AsiAm culture (as it exists in SoCal, at least), thereby preening myself a bit presumptuously. Kaila Yu, to her credit, managed to nail this honky-dude’s (me) preconceived notions to the rude cross of practical reality, when it comes to concepts like Yellow Fever, and managed to force me to retrieve and uncomfortably review a lot of own pet assumptions about obsessive white fascination with Asian women. AND whether or not I am in fact somewhat guilty of that affliction myself.

In fact, she even dashed one of my favorite ‘mansplaining’ rationalisations to smithereens when she observed that the frequently expressed white belief that (white) men are attracted to traditional Asian Confucian societal norms, due to the fact that such statements reinforce and support classical aspects of white masculine chauvinism (such as a pro-forma expressed regard for AsiAm women as mothers, child-rearers and homemakers). Moreover, she explains it in ways that hadn’t really dawned upon me heretofore.

By her criteria, and regardless of my own acquired behavioral interpretations of my most basic motivations for being drawn to Asian culture (and to Asian women), I am still a hopeless chauvinist (well, perhaps not quite ‘hopeless’ but definitely fudging the facts of my convictions to myself a bit more than most AsiAms might think acceptable).

One aspect of ‘Yellow Fever’ that Yu goes into in no small detail is pop-culture violence directed towards Asian females (particularly focused on ‘violent’ sex acts and physical abuse), but she puts a ‘white’ spin on this unsettling undercurrent. Such sublimated physical violence is grossly emphasized and reinforced by lyrics (if you can justify smutty trash-talk prose with that appellation) of most rap and hip-hop numbers. While the greater historical precedent for Yellow Fever is levied mostly upon white males due to past history, as of the 90s things had changed considerably.

Arguing aginst that fact there are very few tenable counter-arguments I can think of, off-hand. Furthermore, extreme black bias against Asians has been a regular component of ethnic interactions until the most recent period, in which Marcusian Critical Theory ideological spin has reshuffled the ethnic deck of cards. Now that blacks are no longer discouraged from cozying up to AsiAm women, these interactions are often disparately admixed with latent vestiges of the earlier ethno-gender biases (QED: as in rap and hip-hop ‘music’).

However, Yu grew up in the 90s, in a youth culture specific to Asian-Americans (in her SoCal milieu) and her AsiAm peer group was heavily influenced by popular black hip-hop and rap music. Interestingly, the preexisting youthful Asian preoccupation with Asian wannabe ‘gangsters’, young male Asians who emulated and admired cultural Asian traditions of violent tongs and gangs (and in Japan, the Yakuza) perfectly blended with angry, misogynistic black rap and hip-hop music in which women were aspersively characterised as ‘bitches’, to be treated like compliant, brainless living sex-toys for the pleasurable amusement and gratification of men.

Sadly, while SoCal AsiAms thought rap and hip-hop were anti-culturally ‘cool’, this sort of black racist demeaning of all women (but particularly AsiAm women), exerted a horrendously adverse influence on youthful SoCal AsiAms, desperate to rebel and revolt against conventional Confucian morals, behavioral standards and values. Yu never even mentions this significant consideration in her 240-page haste to exclusively excoriate white males for sexual exploitation of AsiAm women.

Reading all this in her book, I wouldn’t hesitate to toss a yellow flag (no word-play intended) onto the field and declare a foul! Clearly, in her book-long diatribal denunciation of white males as the sole perpetrators of AsiAm female predation, Yu deserves more than a 10-yard penalty! Pop-culture blacks have long regarded small-statured, petite and ‘compliant’ AsiAm females to be fair-game objects of foreceful black lust, now that Marcusian standards regard ‘people of color’ as being ‘protected’ and uniformly innocent victims of white racism.

It is a convenient canard to hide behind, misleading as it is, as a popular rapper sings violently misogynistic songs about ‘yellow c*nt’ while decked out in a trashy display of tacky ‘bling’ that prominently lays bare their banal awarenesses. I don’t really need to add that given the buffed-up, muscular bulk of most pop-culture black youths (a fad that jail-time popularized, since there’s little to do in the ‘Big House’ except cultivate bulging biceps and deltoids all day long), small-statured, diminutive AsiAm females are particular susceptible to sexual violence.

Take a look at any contemporary black action film of ‘B’ standing. Key elements of such films are slinky, hyper-sexualised AsiAm females in the Lucy Lieu mode (such as in Kill Bill) that are backdrop foils for the impetuous black, steroid-fed action hero. Believable as comic-book heroines, perhaps, but about as far from any conceivable reality as we are from the moon.

OK, having just navigated through a potentially hazardous partisan minefield more or less intact (thus far), I find myself sitting here, running through the list of my past liaisons with AsiAm women I have been attracted to, just to ‘fact-check’ the veracity of my opinions and smug assumptions. I find, in all fairness, that Yu’s assertions definitely both challenge many of my prized opinions and cast a new light on some murky areas of misunderstanding I have experienced in a few of those relationships (as well as validate a few of them, coincidentally).

I even acquired, courtesy of Kaila Yu (me, the vaunted consummate student of language, words and phraseology!) two new terms that were (I am ashamed to admit) entirely new to me: “Hypergamy” and “Hypogamy.” Put those two seemingly innocuous words in your semantic hash-pipe and take a few long, drawn-out tokes. The effluent aroma presents a disconcertingly confusing olfactory presence, at best!

“Hypergamy” is the process of marrying up into a higher social class or status, while “Hypogamy” is its obverse aspect...marrying down into a lower one. By Blessed Saint Brigit’s skimpy pole-dance knickers, I swear I was totally gob-smacked to stumble over these two marital descriptors in Yu’s book, but it constitutes a perfect explanation of why a much-admired former paramour of mine left me for a Berkeley Boalt Hall law student (of polish extraction), back in 1983.

Although I’ve covered this particular peak relationship several times in the past, in different writing venues, I never could quite put enough pieces of the puzzle together to convincingly explain to myself exactly WHY my then-heart throb so callously betrayed my trust when she took off for a tryst with the aforementioned law student one Spring day (to Big Sur and Carmel, of all romantic venues!), in our ’65 Volksie camper (and later married the jerk).

“Hypergamy” filled in the missing clues, finally allowing me to understand this 43-year-old enigma that I have wasted so much time and so many decades trying to figure out! I was, at that time, a technologist at my hospital in Oakland, operating a cardiovascular lab and cardiac catheterization suite, not all that long discharged from active duty with the US Air Force’s ADC (Air Defense Command...F-106 fighter interceptors) and SAC (Strategic Air Command...General Curtis LeMay’s big, bad nuke bomber armada).

My baccalaureate trail to date had been a convoluted one, mainly due to not being wealthy enough to afford to attend UC Berkeley full-time and also suffering from undiagnosed (at that time) ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). She (my GF), on the other hand, was a typically striving, conscientious Chinese physician (MD) who had come to America illegally as a “paper daughter”, but who by virtue of having an inner spiritual core of pure Titanium alloy, had put herself through not just her formidable pre-med undergraduate studies but also medical school and internship, entirely on her own.

This interloper who ran off with her (spiritually and physically), literally snatching her out from under me (we lived together), was the son of Polish emigrees who was a law student at Boalt Hall at UCB. His future potentials, compared to mine, if placed on a balance scale, would have ranked his assets considerably above my own. He would soon pass the then-stringent California Bar Exam, add ‘Esquire’ to his title, and make a hefty income in family law. Quite capable of maintaining a wife & family (he was also a future prestigious professional of high socio-economic standing, given the social and economic status of lawyers in America) he was the hypothetical 'perfect catch.' His wife-to-be (my much-loved GF) was already a doctor of medicine, almost exactly his age as well and soon to finish her residency in Family Medicine.

Together, they comprised a perfect economic and class match at all levels and with far more collective potential than I had; by all conventional reckonings, her economic and social status at every level out-shone my own. It was, in a word, a simple case of “Hypergamy” in action and I was blissfully unaware that in this natural process of pairing marital partners (that women are likely well aware of, but most men are not), each brings their assets to the table for arbitration in what is a rather accepted and unremarkable situation.

Possibly for him, but definitely for a status-conscious Chinese woman. It was, after all, every Chinese family’s dream come true : having their daughter (or in this case ‘paper daughter’) marry well! He was also good looking, had an upper-middle-class (Polish) family, and future potentials that outstripped my more pedestrian potentials (even though I also came from an upper-middle class family).

And so, my head-on collision with these two simple descriptive words (that any word-slinger should be well-acquainted with) finally, after 43 long years of trying to figure why I lost her, brought my frustrating puzzlement to an end. Of added gravitas was the fact that my GF’s friends in her residency program (her colleagues) were very likely privy accessories to her “finding” this law student and encouraging her to commit to him rather than to ‘garden-variety me.'

Part of this set of circumstances is also likely attributable to the fact that I wasn’t a smooth fit with the hospital’s residents and attending staff, since they were all doctors and I was merely a medical technologist (“High-grade Chimpanzee” was my Chief Cardiologist’s ‘behind-the-back’ term for me). Further, several of her female closest friends in the resident program were Jewish and I’m sure they all thought I was some sort of latent “German nationalist” misanthrope. Even a former classmate and Japanese-American roomie of hers didn't seem to have too high opinion of me, my motorcycle and my nerdy fascinations with Bay Area Bohemian culture (think 'Beat' poetry, Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, etc.). 

Compounding this assumption is the fact that the Chief of Medicine, as well as the Chief of Pulmonary Medicine AND the Chief of Cardiology (all three my 'big' bosses) were also Jewish (there were a great number of Jewish MDs in the East SF Bay Area medical scene, many going to the same synagogue and belonging to the same congregation), and probably regarded me similarly because I make no bones about taking considerable pride in my maternal German roots. They probably added some persuasive influence to the suggestion that I was unsuitable for my GF’s future well-being, since they all considered themselves her ‘protective’ mentors (she was an outstanding, dedicated and hard-working doctor...all qualities that never fail to impress medical attending physicians in a residency program at any teaching hospital), who wanted the best breaks for her. I also strongly suspect that most Bay Area Jewish people back then still regarded people who attended Octoberfests and belonged to German clubs as being closet 'Nazis.'

Nevertheless, considering all of these factors, I am now convinced that it was still as much a simple case of hypergamy versus hypogamy and not any particular singular failing on my part, since I was wholly committed to her and would have willingly walked to hell and back, barefooted, for her (sometimes getting blistered feet is not an adequate demonstration of sincere love, apparently).

So, a confluence of classic good, bad and ugly. We were destined by the Gods to meet and thereafter separate, given this comparison of respective net worth assets, but the experience left wounds on my heart (a notoriously sentimental romantic like me) that persist to this day. I’ve never been able to get beyond this personal tragedy and still can’t help but bear the burden of it as an example of gross personal failure on my part to completely capture her heart.

OK, sorry to bore all of you to an unnecessary degree with the uncomfortably insinuative (and somewhat speculative) details of this highly personal matter, but as I said earlier, I’ve never been fully able to expiate the bitterness and disappointment it left me with. Life is short and you only get so many chances to grab the Gold Ring on the Merry-Go-Round of life before the ride ends! In my case, the Calliope broke down half-way through the first tune had played through.

Then, in another phase of my life (and on a different page of my reminiscences entirely), there was a lovely Korean-Canadian nurse I met while working medical defense projects in Saudi Arabia, back in the 80s and 90s. Her personal history was almost as complex as Yu’s was, given that her father was a devout Korean-Catholic and her mother was a passionate former Marxist. Her brother, poor chap, was so thoroughly confused and his life so adversely affected by the family’s Jekyll-Hyde socio-political chaos, that after beginning a highly promising and (soon very successful) career as an Orthodontist/Oral Surgeon, he suddenly and rather spontaneously abandoned dentistry altogether and entered a Catholic seminary, training to become a Roman Catholic priest.

One can only imagine the pseudo-neurotic forces that plagued his older sister (my RN friend), who was herself a seething emotional maelstrom of conflicting attitudes and beliefs. Aside from being a most attractive woman and a highly skilled critical-care/cardiovascular nursing background, she was also an unholy mix of half-exotic Dragon Lady (think here: the Korean female officer in the SONY pictures, 2014 film, ‘The Interview’, Sook-Yin Park, played by comely Dianna Bang) and half scared little kid, desperate to be allowed to love someone freely and unreservedly, who like most sheep in a herd led by a wolf in sheep’s clothing, has sustained permanent emotional trauma. My CCU/ICU RN friend was therefore a nightmarish blend of exotic sensuality and ‘Tiger-Mom’ indoctrination that kept me always in an irresolvable state of bewilderment. She was, however, capable of stirring my deepest longs for physical intimacy, and is another unforgettable individual who affected me profoundly before we parted.

There have been many more, of course. There was an attractive and intelligent Chinese-American RN, back in Oakland, whom I met at my hospital in 1969. We seemed very compatible at all levels of relevant regard, but tragically she had been married once previously to a passionate Italian-American jerk who left her with two children; one of them (the youngest) had suffered inordinately from the effects of the divorce (he never quite overcame the emotional damage he had suffered from their break-up, although a very talented and artistically-gifted child), but the other (older child) grew up normally, graduated from college without complications, and is today a successful professional. Although we were intimate for a number of years, time and circumstance intervened. We remain today, more than 50s years later, as very close and loving friends (she ultimately remarried a white chap and I take it she has a happy life today).

There have been a number of other such peak moments, of course, and my interactions with them have always originated with the best intentions. They just never worked out in a permanent relationship, unfortunately, before my chronological window of opportunity closed. Yet, after all these years of attraction to AsiAm (and Asian) women, I am still absolutely convinced that those lucky (white) fellows who did manage to meet and establish a long, happy and meaningful relationship with an AsiAm woman were wisely discerning in their belief that a Caucasian/Asian marriage is not just VERY workable, but potentially productive of some extremely competent, talented and intelligent offspring.

After all, basic genetic science backs up this conviction to the hilt. It just appears that I was never sufficiently lucky in my own attempts to achieve this sort of highly desirable state while I was still young and full of passionate determination to do so.

As for Kaila Yu, I am grateful to her for sharing the insights in her book she did about the unique circumstances of relationships and abuses experienced by AsiAm women in America, despite still feeling that she should have never have let herself be dragged into her peer-contemporaries’ ethnic and gender hang-ups! Backbone and character are among those life attributes that go farthest in this ever-uncertain life we all must lead, after all! It is a lesson that works best when realized early on the journey of life, rather than near its end (as in my case).

Kaila was a victim of her own social peer group-thought, back in the SoCal of the 90s, no doubt of it. With a bit more self-belief, support, conviction and moral courage, she might never have set out upon the slippery slope of desiring to be an alluring model that tripped her up in that crucial early phase of her own life. Today she looks back on all that with no small amount of bitterness and regret.

I also feel she is unnecessarily harsh on ‘all white males’, due to the awful circumstances she suffered during her early ‘Asian Model’ life-phase. Not all white males are exploitative, rapacious, emotionally cruel and chauvinistic, after all, and the final determination is invariably a matter of the luck of the draw. Despite being an apparently unmeasurable and unquantifiable factor in human life, there's no question in my mind that such a thing as ‘luck’ does indeed exist. Some individuals are luckier than others. Some are not! By any reckoning, “Lady Luck” is a Dragon Lady and capricious in distributing her charms!

When I started Kaila Yu’s book Fetishised I was convinced there was nothing new I could learn about the attraction Western (honky) men) have for AsiAm (or Asian) women, but how wrong I was! I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend Yu’s book to any of my male friends (except for the unhappy fact that too many of my contemporaries don’t read books, LoL). 

Best wishes for a healthy, happy and prosperous New Lunar 'Year of the Horse!'