Éjaculation Sans Frontiers in China
Man of April: Wei Chen, 26, China
I am intrigued by China and the Chinese people. Living in huge cities, people in such megalopolises are quiet and disciplined. Surviving in the chaos of Beijing or Shanghai requires relative indifference to crowds around you, quick short actions between long waits—in traffic, in lines, just because you should wait sometimes, you know. Such a person was my Chinese interviewee, Grandmaster Wei Chen, winner of many prestigious online tournaments and a press favorite at major offline events for his unhurried analysis of the games and a crazy humor in talking to the press.
Wei Chen had a quiet presence that contrasted sharply with the fiery reputation of many of his peers. Everyone knew about his almost monk-like discipline: he woke early, practiced tai chi in the park near his home, and followed a strict routine of study and diet. He never touched alcohol, preferred green tea over coffee, and carried a small notebook where he wrote short philosophical reflections in neat calligraphy. To the outside world, he seemed like the embodiment of balance—methodical, controlled, and deeply thoughtful.
What set him apart was his fascination with music. Friends and fans alike knew that after long tournaments, he would retreat to his full-scale piano keyboard that traveled with him wherever he went, losing himself in Chopin and Debussy. He wasn’t a virtuoso by any means, but the way he spoke to his friends about harmony and silence echoed the same precision he applied to the chessboard. Some said his endgame play resembled a nocturne—measured, layered, and patient. His love of music was no secret, and it softened his image as a stern competitor, showing a gentler, more human side…
I came to see him in early April, when the city of Beijing unfurled itself like a scroll of ink and blossom, where ancient courtyards and modern towers breathed beneath a sky washed clear by spring winds. The air carried the faint sweetness of flowering apricot and magnolia trees, softening the sharp edges of stone walls and tiled rooftops. In the morning, the Forbidden City glowed in gentle sunlight, its vermilion gates reflected in puddles left by spring rains. The streets were alive with bicycles weaving between blossoming lanes, and a sense of spring renewal lingered, as though the whole city has stepped out of winter’s shadow into a season of promise.
Wei Chen arrived at my hotel with a serene composure and quiet peace surrounding his small frame that immediately set me at ease. I knew he was 35 but he looked like a teenager, young, roundish, with a careful posture as if he were trying not to make a mistake. He wore a tailored indigo tunic over crisp black trousers, and simple leather shoes. His posture was straight but relaxed, and his dark eyes held a quiet intensity that suggested a mind always in motion.
He greeted me with a bow and ignored my extended hand.
“Bon jour, Monsieur DuPont,” he said in unexpectedly good French. “Bienvenue à Pékin, je m'appelle Wei Chen, merci de m’avoir choisi.”
“English?” I said. “I really speak English better than French, ha ha. And my magazine is in English, too!”
“I know,” he responded, nodding his head eagerly. “Your name is French but you are from Toronto, so both were quite possible… anyway, thank you for choosing me. What’s the plan?”
He waited patiently by the side of my armchair as I fumbled a bit, gathering my things. He just wasn’t sitting down and his feet moved slightly in the direction of the exit.
***
I asked for a quiet spot for our interview, so our first stop was the Temple of Heaven, where Wei moved gracefully through the sprawling courtyards. He spoke in brief snippets interspersed with long silences, of the discipline of his daily routine—tai chi at dawn, hours of study, and the philosophy he drew from centuries-old texts that every elite high school student in China was required to drill by heart.
In the park around the temple we wandered past rows of ancient cypress trees whose gnarled roots broke the stone paths as though time itself had tried to speak through them. I felt so happy for my dutiful AI transcriber; I knew it wouldn’t have trouble transcribing Wei Chen stories—of all my interviewees, his was the most well-balanced, quiet, rhythmic and understandable.
Wei Chen had grown up in Beijing, the only child of two physics teachers who believed that precision could explain almost anything. From them he learned patience, and the habit of observing before acting. His father taught him chess when he was six, more to keep him occupied than to shape a prodigy, but the boy never stopped. He played alone at night under a desk lamp, replaying famous games until dawn. By fifteen, he was a youth champion; by twenty, a grandmaster. He kept a small apartment overlooking the rooftops near the old hutongs, tended to a single bonsai, and listened to Bach every morning. During matches he hummed classical music pieces quietly—not out of nervousness, he said, but because silence made him too unaware of time passing. That annoyed the hell out of his opponents but he always stopped humming when it was their turn to think over the next move.
Chen spoke with tenderness about his mother who taught him to play the piano. He wasn’t a great piano player of course, he told me modestly but evenings at his piano always helped him think over his games. For years he associated a separate music piece with each of his most important games, and by humming the melodies he could mentally return to that state of mind and revisit his planning in real time. As we walked, he told me that he liked the park because it stayed almost unchanged since his childhood, one of the few places where he could think without distraction. He said he rarely stayed anywhere long—tournaments kept him moving—but Beijing always pulled him back, like gravity. He didn’t seem lonely, only self-contained, as if his real conversations happened across the board. Even then, I sensed that the quiet between his words was part of the story, too.
For lunch he led me to a small, hidden teahouse tucked into a side alley of Beijing, where the aroma of jasmine tea filled the air. As we sipped tea and savored Doornail meat pies and Rolling Donkey desserts that looked like donut holes, Wei told me about his mentors, long evenings they spent with him analyzing strategies, and the quiet joys of rice paper calligraphy that sustained him outside tournaments. As he talked, his face softened and I snapped more and more pictures of his face, first concentrated, then animated with a hint of a hidden smile, then serious again, almost sad even…
Later, when the rain began to drizzle softly against the tiled roof, he recounted one of his first professional games with our Canadian grandmaster. Although the game had happened almost two decades ago, Wei remembered every move as if it were yesterday. Though he lost narrowly, he told me it was the most alive he had ever felt—it was a battle fought not only on the board but in the heart. As he spoke, his hands traced invisible moves across the table between us, and I could almost hear the clink of the chess pieces he described, each one carrying a weight greater than itself.
Then, with a surprising gentleness, he recalled the time he had taken a long train journey across China, carrying nothing but a battered chess set and a worn notebook. On that journey, he said, he learned to see strategy everywhere—in the shifting landscapes, in the rhythm of train wheels, even in the way strangers entered and left each compartment. He smiled faintly at the memory of an old man who challenged him mid-ride and then, after losing, gave him a folded paper crane with the recorded moves as a token. He said he still keeps it, tucked into a journal at home, as a reminder that every encounter leaves behind a shape in one’s life, delicate but enduring.
In the evening he took me to the Summer Palace, where we wandered along the lakes and bridges as the sun began to set. Wei spoke softly of the patience required for both chess and life, of lessons learned from solitude and observation, and of small pleasures that often went unnoticed by others. I felt the depth of his personality unfold—he was at once the disciplined strategist, the quiet philosopher, and the man who could find beauty and meaning in the smallest details. However, the surprise he gave me at dinner made me—me, who has seen it all—cry out “Wow!”
For dinner we had an edible chess set: the board was made of pressed rice – white and brown with drops of soy sauce on the brown fields. The pieces were also made of different delicious foods: pawns were made of tofu and chicken; rooks were stacked carrot and daikon cylinders bound with thin cucumber strips; knights were curved shrimp and mushroom caps, each with a little carved detail to suggest a horse’s head; bishops came as slim asparagus tips and lotus root slices—elegant and upright; queens were scallops wrapped in seaweed for one color, and seared eggplant medallions for the other; and the kings—mini beef medallions and firm tofu towers brushed with miso glaze. With our chopsticks we played an impromptu game, and Wei graciously lost to me in 10 moves, suggesting the strongest moves I could take as if they were my own. Honestly, I don’t remember anything about how the chess pieces tasted, just the joy of laughing over moves, and his gentle corrections of my playing style made me shiver from head to toe in anticipation of what I felt was coming. Wei was suddenly cheerful and light, his eyes shone, and his hand touched mine with unexpected tenderness.
On the way back to the hotel, Wei was quiet, lost in his own thoughts, and I didn’t break the silence. I used the time I had wisely: I slipped my phone from my bag and began downloading the interviews and photos into my AI assistant app, the first pieces of the final layout falling into place. The device hummed softly as if taking over my memory, preserving the words and faces I didn’t want to lose. Wei noticed but didn’t ask a single question.
A short, unexpected shower caught us halfway there, and before I could react, Wei had already crossed to a stall selling umbrellas, where dozens of them leaned like flowers waiting for rain. He chose a delicate one, pale green with a faint pattern of plum blossoms, and opened it above my head with a small, practiced gesture. We continued under its fragile shelter, our silence no longer heavy but companionable, the kind of pause that says more than conversation could.
At the hotel entrance, Wei lingered. He had that composed, unreadable expression I had grown fascinated by during his interviews I had watched getting ready—so calm, yet with something stirring underneath. His farewell felt hesitant, as if he wanted to say more but held himself back. I leaned in with a soft smile.
“If you have time,” I said, “I can show you a layout of the article about you—it’s all up there in my room, just a few finishing touches… It’s amazing what technology can do.”
I held his gaze, letting the invitation hang between us. Wei’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, and the tension in his posture eased. He inclined his head, almost formally, but his eyes betrayed him, warming with anticipation. Together we walked through the lobby, our footsteps echoing, and stepped into the elevator.
Inside my room, the city stretched out in glittering lights beyond the window. I poured two glasses of the tea produced by the hissing dragon of the teamaking machine in the kitchenette. The fragrant steam curled upward as Wei accepted his cup, our fingers brushing again, more deliberately this time.
Wei LOVED the article, I could tell. The layout this time was in square letters reminiscent of Chinese characters, in asphalt gray, eggshell white and streaks of silver and gold – sun and rain in one. The columns of text ran along the dark page in neat white columns, and next to it was Wei’s closeup – bottomless dark eyes over a set of chess pieces, and then—rain, sky, gardens, teacups, swirls of cigarette smoke, pictures, pictures, pictures—as rich as the mosaic of Wei’s life.
I sat with the laptop on the edge of the small desk, scrolling slowly as Wei leaned over my shoulder. He was so close I could hear the steady rhythm of his breath, feel the warmth radiating from him. Every time I clicked to the next section, his hand brushed the back of the chair, almost grazing my shoulder, and the faint scent of tobacco and bergamot tea mixed in the air between us. His eyes moved quickly, darting across the words, then pausing on the photographs, and I could sense the weight of his approval before he even said a word.
At one point I turned to ask what he thought of a particular passage, and our foreheads knocked together with a soft thud. I burst out laughing, embarrassed, but he laughed too—an easy, low sound that melted away my fluster. We stayed there, too close, both leaning forward again toward the glowing screen, but not for the article anymore. The cursor blinked, waiting, but I wasn’t looking at the words. I saw the way his dark eyes softened when they met mine, how the edges of his mouth hinted at something more, and then I realized—he wasn’t reading anymore. He was leaning in… and strangely strong and controlling kisses poured down ten times stronger than the spring rain…
***
“Do you want it?” he said seriously, just a bit of breath after the severe kissing of my face, and my neck, and my earlobes, and when I said “Of course!” and wanted to rip off his clothes, he took my hand away. We undressed in silence, separately, only stealing glances at each other, and I was naked and rock hard way before him because… he was folding and laying out his clothes, his small round butt turned toward me – one piece after another, as in a good clothing store.
With the indigo tunic now laid out carefully on the chair, he looked even smaller, more vulnerable, and when I couldn’t see his face he seemed almost a boy attending some kind of a medical checkup – hairless, short, a bit awkward, his round smart head trimmed closely, his movements perhaps a little mechanical and careful but betraying the heat boiling inside.
As in slow motion, he turned and moved toward me when he turned around, suddenly so boyish, so vulnerable, hairless if not for the wild bush of hair between his legs from with a pink button of the tiny cut glans. As he approached, his cock slowly, ever so slowly glided out, becoming thicker and harder every millisecond of this loooooong several steps he had to take to close the distance. I stood there with sweet longing pain in my balls waiting for him to finally touch me skin to skin, and the room suddenly felt so big. I couldn’t tell myself how it felt; Wei wasn’t the usual type of men I liked in my bed, but who would turn away a dick that got hard as you watched it, gliding toward me, bobbing as if giving small bows…
“You move me,” he said seriously when the distance between us was so small that the tip of his hard dick touched my heavy dick head. “You really do move me.” And he gave me a small push with his erection somewhere in the middle of my navel. “Do I move you?”
This demand of approval startled me, but it took me just a second to say “Can’t you see? Yes, you are beautiful, Wei, and you do move me.” And I touched his dick. It was short, rock hard and wet with precum, and he poked my hand energetically several times, hissing between his teeth.
Now he closed the distance between us, and our stomachs collided, his dick going just right between my thighs under my balls, the humble length of his shaft rubbing against my sensitive skin, but not yet going in. He embraced me and held me close, just held me, and looked in my eyes – seriously, quietly, long enough to start thinking if anything else was coming. Then came his kisses, one after another, again strangely powerful and strong; his strict eyes bored into me—there was no love in them, just curiosity and horny flame, but his touch and grind knocked the senses out of me… I saw sparks, then lights, then almost complete darkness, pulsing, pulsing with energy.
The scenes of my day flashed between my eyes as I listened to his heartbeat and felt his quickened breath as his lips searched for yet unkissed places on my face, my hair, my neck, my shoulder blades, everywhere he could reach without letting me go.
His dick between my thighs seemed to swell more and more, like a finger balloon bursting with air, and I thought it must have grown pretty fucking impressive from its initial tiny form. His coarse pubic hair tickled me in just the right place to send short shivers up my spine…
He moved me, moved me, step by step, glided me rather, toward the bed until my left leg felt its cool surface. It was where he stopped again, and found my eyes one more time. Serious. Not a trace of passion or fire. “Shall I go on?”
“Yes, oh yes, Wei, please, that’s what I want!” Silence. Silence. Silence. And then came another strong kiss on the neck where my nerve endings itched and tickled in endless waves of pleasure, and shoves, shoves, shoves of his now huge and fat dick between my thighs.
His kisses were as warm as the steam from the tea, and the wet traces he left behind with his passionate mouth drew the Chinese characters that spelled “Love” and “Abandon” on my skin – my new lover, short, roundish, with a big head—searching and finding the places I’ve never been kissed on.
His hands teased me and made me see stars – both hands, together, and then a hot tongue, a hot spit and more, more, more of teasing touches, licks and bites, up and down, deep and on the surface, with slurps, moans and deep breaths, more and more, endless, hot, pulsing, making me draw in air before letting out long moans.
And then he was inside me, and his tummy squished my own hardon; god, he was so huge, it seemed like he was the hardest, the largest of all the men I’ve had before him, and I was scared to look and see. And like he folded his clothes, he folded his hardness inside me – one part to the right, one to the left, that ridge tickling and hurting that spot, and that tip and unevenness grazing another, soft, soft, soft, glides and then a hard thrust! Hard again! Push! Push through with the swollen head, another push, and then a long gli-i-i-i-i-ide… The tickle of the rough pubic hair, the soft pressure of the balls, and again… oh god, again and again, the same sequence, harder and hotter each time.
The smallest of all, he was also the heaviest somehow, like a ton of soft sacks on top of my poor squished body, but I was getting used to him, and it was for me, too, an exercise of patience. His thrusts were, as time passed, more and more even and mechanical, like a ticking clock now, sliding in and out in an impeccable rhythm, hitting me at the same depth, sliding sweetly back, and then in again, with long sighs accompanying every thrust.
And now my world was gradually changing—I was at once an engine of a car cutting through the night on the highway, and a big watering can dripping water onto an already drenched flower bed, and a bird beating its wings in time with the air flows around it, and a plane whose engine was buzzing evenly, each cycle pushing and pushing and pushing me through the sky. I was all that as Wei was pounding me, and I couldn’t make myself open my eyes.
When I opened my eyes now as the pleasure became unbearable and I needed to see his face amidst the rhythmic slaps and the mounting painful pleasure, his face with serious eyes was before me, and he was watching me, quiet and almost as calm as during the day… there were just glimpses of passion every couple of seconds or so, as if a serious person was pricked by a needle just skin deep, a short expression of pain, then relaxation, exhale and another thrust…
I have never been fucked by a fuck machine I’ve heard of before, but this time it was a real man, a master of chess, that serious guy who showed no affection, just showcased the hard labor getting him to the height of his version of pleasure. It was relentless, endless, three different types of pushes, one after another in series of hot threes. On stroke one his huge hot dick punched the same dead-center spot inside me. A white spark burst behind my eyes, but the rhythm didn’t pause; it simply repeated, metronomic, relentless. My prostate caught under that blunt crown’s steady pulses that felt more like factory gears than flesh. I felt precum streaming off my bared cockhead, with each mechanical thrust squeezing another long drip out of me while the room blurred into TV-like silver static.
Stroke two was under an identical angle, at the identical depth, but in my head it felt like a wave rolling backward—pleasure sucked inward instead of exploding outward. My balls drew tight, corded against the base, and every impact forced a dull, sweet ache up my spine. More and more of my precum trickled in thin, continuous threads, smearing across my stomach as the machine kept its count. I couldn’t tell if I was already cumming or starting the climb toward something still sweeter; the boundary dissolved under the unbreaking tempo, and I moaned outloud under this ta-da-dam, ta-da-dam rhythm… ah, Wei, aaah, more, more…
Stroke three punched deeper, rearranging nerve endings into a single, bright circuit. This stroke cracked like a whip—inner muscles fluttering helplessly around the driving shaft, each thrust pinning the sensation in place before it could fade. My vision tunneled; sound narrowed to the wet slap of skin and the low, constant hiss of my own breath. Now I was, indeed, cumming, but in this long, painful sequence of pulses I had never known a short fat dick could produce in almost total silence. The semen beaded, then sprayed in weak, final spurts, but the piston didn’t care—it just kept filling the silence with its perfect, loveless rhythm, pushing me through the tail of pleasure and into the blank, shimmering space beyond.
In the middle of those regular ta-da-dam pushes his own release came suddenly – he didn’t stop or slow down, the same pounding, the same sequence, the same look of serious eyes – but then just a flicker of emotion, like when someone gets interrupted by some annoying call—he looked down at his dick entering and moving out like an engine and without missing a single cycle showered me with hot spurts from the inside, one per thrust, deep, hot, thick, and only when the flow got exhausted he finally sighed and said, I remember like today: “Ni gou le… ni gou le…”
It meant, I learned later from a laughing colleague who spoke Mandarin, “You are enough… you are enough,” like “I am satisfied, you’ve done well…” and wasn’t it a sweet way to finish a mechanical fuck. He crashed on top of me and kissed my neck, and it made me unravel again with a tantric kind of whole body orgasm I had never felt before him – with all the trembling and moaning, and hugging him closer—me feeling him getting colder and colder with every second, like a cooling kettle or iron, or mechanical engine, whatever…
***
“I have to get out before 10,” he announced, still panting on top of me, his dick still inside me. It was then business as usual: he pulled out with a slurp, took a tissue I offered him from the pack on the night table, wiped his GIGANTIC semi-erect dick with now fully open cockhead clean, and jumped off the bed.
It was hot watching him getting dressed, again putting on the air of that quiet and patient little Chinese guy who you wouldn’t single out in the crowd. I was amazed at how long his dick stayed a semi—still a thick log when he stuffed it in his shorts, still impossible to zip up unless he sucked in the air and bent a little forward. As I watched him transform, my insides still felt first the chaotic adjustment, then the relentless pounding with no stops or breaks until the very edge, and then the flow of his cum—ah, so hot and burning—right in the middle of me shaking and counting the stars.
“Thank you,” he said to the naked me with my limp dick covering the pulsing asshole still exposed as I lay in bed. “This was go-o-o-o-od. When does the interview come out?”
“In April,” I said, still not fully in the functioning zone. “I’ll call you to sign off on it.”
“Pleasure,” he said, bowed again and turned the knob of the door.
***
When I see him on TV, giving interviews in those well-ironed slightly shimmering trousers, and NOTHING can be seen up front no matter how you look, and he sounds so polite, so nice, so distant, analyzing quietly and brilliantly the moves in a certain game, I remember him asking if I wanted it and stuffing me with his dick for a quiet—yes—impersonal—yes—short—yes—but still a fuck filled with waves of cumming so intense your insides felt numb overloaded with pleasure, and I could hardly register for the first time ever the beginning and the ending of my cumshot, followed by the rippling whole body orgasm (another new for me)—and then a flow of his Chinese boys with the same mechanical pushes in the background. Whoever he fucks now must be either frustrated, totally in love, nowhere to go, or married to him—or all of the above…
The 2 million reads of the article about him in the April edition gave him enough money to produce his own record of piano pieces. The money went toward more COVID research, and I was proud of Wei for using all that money for such a good purpose. Every Christmas he sends me a beautiful card on rice paper with a naïve yet beautiful short poem in English, and when you do it for year after year it means he remembers me like I remember him, o loveless machine that could make an orgasm endless.
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