Into Torture Porn


Photo taken in Little Yellow Mountain, Guangdong – 2015.10.

Sorry, I have been away for so long. Having finished the first draft of In Between, the Goddamned Book, my second English novel, was a triumph in March, a personal history.

Less Than Mystery, the Fucking Book hangs my life between something and nothing. But this Goddamned Book has confidently lifted me up to a state of fearlessness. I feel taller than I am. I feel time is a revolver pointing at my back. I can’t stop the torrents of overwhelming thoughts of writing my third English novel while editing the second. Because I feel the need and must record what has been happening over the year and what is happening now. Because I may die if I don’t.

The horror of being nothing and nothingness is of dismemberment, of decay. Yet the faith of the ultimate lifestyle is art and the world is getting better never fades but only grows stronger as I write more.

And the extremes of this horror and this faith have dramatically pushed me into torture porn.

It is a feeling, an overcome feeling. The first torture porn I’ve “conquered” is Hostel, a splatter film, which, personally, means to splatter your soul with blood. Using the word “conquer” is not an exaggeration. For it took me nine years to finish the movie. It was disturbing and frustrating that I had to turn away every time when facing a bloody scene, like I couldn’t even look at my own blood when having a blood test. Why? What exactly was I afraid of?

It was a fear of dying with the intense redness of blood, which slowly consumed me till 2016. In the end, I found that the only way to overcome this fear was a philosophy. People make great profits out of torture porn like Hostel, because it is commercially successful. The blood is unreal, the act of killing is in fact a “mockumentary”, and the death fake. Go and feel pools of blood. Feel the fat thickness of gore. Feel the devil’s insanity. Feel yourself. You may suffer from trauma, but it is temporary. You are real and alive. Your feelings are strong. But you are the master of yourself, not a slave.

Therefore, torture porn has become the hands of a surgeon and a temptation.

And excuse me, I have to retreat again now.


The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery


The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – My first English novel is done.

Finally, here is a copy of the Fucking Book, Less Than Mystery.

It is almost as thick as the length of this lighter; total 6 parts, 484 pages, 129,237 words. It has taken three versions of  the manuscripts. The very first one, which was finished within one week, was crap. The whole book took me about two years to complete – one year of writing, one year changing and editing. More precisely, if not counting the parts on suffering from writer’s block, traveling and worrying about other things, it would be half a year of writing and half a year of changing and editing. It is sometimes like a lighthouse sometimes a nightmare. 

Why is it the Fucking Book? Because  sometimes it weighs as heavy as my heart can carry sometimes as thin as the air that my lungs need to breath in and more importantly, because it holds my life between something and nothing. 

To be honest, I thought  I would celebrate it, but now it is more like a victory that brings no joy.  Why? Because it is not the final victory. Just not yet.

It may not be great but absolutely unique. Initially, it is  quite a fanciful illusion – with a structure like Pulp Fiction, a language like William Faulkner’s, a sort of anger like Henry Miller’s and a rightful dream for women’s liberation in China like Simone de Beauvoir’s in The Second Sex. What is it now? – My angers, my wonders, my observations and my beliefs wrapped in mysteries. In a word, it has my character.
The next book is In Between.

At the moment, there is the same question – “To be or not to be”.

But –
I must write, or I die. If I write, I must survive too.

A Little Complicated

That shadow is relatively of my father's, as white as a ghost.

That shadow is relatively of my father, as white as a ghost.

My father suddenly called me early morning on Friday. The last time he called me was more than a year ago as I just realised. As before, there were only bad things happening.

“Lotus (my Chinese name), last week, Sheng, (who was one of our relatives younger than my father), fell from a bus and died because the driver let the door open while driving.”

(Sheng’s father and my grandfather were cousins who lived under the same roof for a couple of years before my parents built our new dirt house in the village.)

There was a brief silence, cast by darkness, sadness and uneasiness.

“Everyone has returned to Shouning and now are gathering  around the traffic police station for justice. I wish I could go, but I can’t. How about you go for me and for our family?”

My mind was shocked and blind. I didn’t know what to say at that moment.

Then his low voice continued on the other side of the phone.

“Look, his wife died of cancer the year before. His parents passed away one after another last year. All these funerals, none of us went. Now he also has died without a word, but with three children. How can I face them and all with my conscience if I don’t go? How can I call them if one day the same thing ever happens to us?”

“No. What would I do if I go?” said I bluntly, imagining the worst picture of me being there, with the white pale death, many familiar yet strange faces and me having nothing in my life to stuff in those warm mouths but a mere dream and some luxury travels.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just follow the people. If they march on the street, you go with them. If they gather at the police station, you follow them. If they eat, you eat too. If they sleep, you sleep too. And don’t worry about food and bed. Just go, okay, for heaven’s sake?”

“No, I won’t go.” I said firmly.

“Why? Only you are not working…” He raised his voice which sounded angry. And his last words turned almost mockingly hurtful. Thus our old topic was, once again, fatally  thrown in, no matter what.

My throat was blocked, my face turned pale and my blood stopped running. Why do I have to go through this over and over again? My brain has lost the ability to defend me and the power to convince him once again. Yet, I know, all useless, whatever I say.

“You are the only one staying at home and doing nothing; the only one going traveling so often and making no money; the only one getting old but making no effort to do anything. Shame on you! What do you expect from your fucking book? It has been two years, and you are still doing the same thing. Even the beggars are doing better…”

…I deliberately took my phone away from my ear.

“If not, you come here to replace my work (as a night watchman). You know how to guard the gate for the factories here. Just for three nights.”

He must be so mad at me that he had gone far out of his mind. Everyone knows it’s not safe for a little woman like me to work there.

“Why not ask Ping? Have you talked to him yet?” Ping is my only brother. He’s still on his summer vacation from teaching.

“He’s still tired from traveling. He’s been busy receiving his school friends in our new apartment since he returned. These days his phone rings all the time. What have you done? Nothing! Nothing! “

“I’ve got something to do…” I bet he didn’t know I have been traveling for a month and just came back days ago. Or he would point it out more angrily.

“You’ve got nothing but shit to clean. We all know that. Now listen carefully. The sooner you give up dreaming, the better. You aren’t going to make a fortune out of that fucking book. Your mind is blind, corrupted, rusty and rotten. You are useless, the worst of the worst.”

My last words were drowned in my tears, my sorrow. The phone was hung up long before I realised it. I just held the screen still, kneeling on my bed, numb and powerless.

The day was a ruin. I called everyone in my family. In the end, I transferred six hundred rmb to my brother to see what he could do – whether he could find anyone available or work himself in my father’s job.

The next day was a total disaster, because my dad fell in the toilet. My brother said these days he’s been suffering from the pain and he couldn’t even stand up after squatting. It was something terribly wrong with his knees. My mother once mentioned it to us. But my father insisted there was nothing wrong.

However, my brother made the appointment and yesterday my father finally agreed to see the doctor downtown. After seeing the scans with a report, the doctor said, “If necessary, a major surgery ought to be done – the sooner the better. The cost will be around 70,000 to 80,000. Think about it.”

“No, but what kind of surgery?” My dad said promptly.

“It will be surgery to replace your whole knee. Your left one is much worse than the other. Luckily your body is not big and you are not fat…”

“Yes, but does it have to be such a surgery? Eight years ago, I went to see the doctor in my hometown alone and he said it cost more than ten thousand. Without thinking, I refused. Because ten thousand was impossible. Now you are saying eight times more, it’s more impossible. I’m soon sixty. I’m afraid even if the surgery is successful, my bones are not strong enough to recover fully. Besides, I have important work to do; I have a family to take care of; I have many debts to pay… Couldn’t you just give some medicine or anything without that surgery, please?”  

So at last, he left with a bag full of medicine. Out of the hospital was the scorching sun above our heads. My father was wearing a pair of brown sandals. He looked around the surroundings with his eyes forming into a straight line, murmuring, “The buildings are taller; the traffic busier; more cars, less legs. People walking more quickly, though. … The downtown is even hotter, a shitty place with no wind at all.”  

I watched his figure becoming shorter and shorter, lighter and lighter. Until his back disappearing into the crowds and the mist of heat.

Since when did he begin to see things in a way sharp and sarcastic?

After all, before coming to Shenzhen in 2007, all his life was out in the open fields, as a true honest farmer, only looking up at the sky for a glimpse of the weather or looking down at his feet for the way ahead of the land.

A Big Mess, A Small Achievement


If you listen to yourself, you will stand tall before the wind. If you don’t, your will won’t bend for bread but the PEN.

The Pen.

A Purple Diary, A Golden Pen

Thinking back, the past three weeks were somewhat dramatic.

Two weeks ago, apart from drawing, I have been rewriting, based on the old writing, on and off, not so good and seemed almost stuck there.

The week before last, everything seemed a big mess but fun. –

On Monday, I met a good friend (E) and another old friend (D) joined us. I shared a wonderful dream with D first. In the dream, D was a super hero who killed the bad guys. We then talked about all sorts of things, many naughty topics and I shared another dirty dream. We laughed, toasted, blushed and shared more life. That night, something sleeping long and deep inside me suddenly awoke. As a result, I masturbated like crazy.

On Tuesday, I listened to myself as I listened to Yesterday Once More. Except eating and sleeping, I did walking, wondering, thinking, drawing, missing some friends and masturbating.

On Wednesday, I listened to myself as I listened to Big Big World. I forgot eating until the evening. I lost some sleep in the night but I overslept in the morning. I went out facing the wind, walking further and further, wondering about more things, missing fewer friends, thinking harder, and masturbating more.

On Thursday, I listened to myself as I listened to the leaves falling. I had lost the sense of time completely. I felt as if time stayed  still and I was the only subject moving beyond time. Again, without feeling hungry almost all day, I did drawings, walking with the leaves dancing on my feet and before my eyes, missing only one friend, wondering only one thing, thinking even harder, masturbating like the body was not mine, seeing and fearing a deep hole swallowing my soul. 

On Friday, I couldn’t listen to myself, partly my body seemed to be worn out and partly my mind was burning like hell. Instead, I went out only for food and came back home straight afterwards. Then I watched a movie, The Foxcatcher. I was into the heavy images with my heart hanging in the dark, so intense. The end of the movie was shocking. Meanwhile, Black Swan was awoken naturally. I then wanted to get drunk by the evening, which I did, but not as drunk as I had expected. Though I did get more drunk when arriving at home by myself. It was like a torture being half drunk half awake. With no choice, I played with my toy Rabbit till I fell asleep.

On Saturday, by the late morning, I woke up with the toy still in my hand and hungover. The whole day, I was like a zombie or a fly without a head. Yet there was a decision being made after dinner. That I must stop this and write on.

On Sunday, consciously I was back to usual writing habit after a light breakfast. It seemed as if I was enlightened. My mind was unusually clear. I divided the old writings into several different chapters. Then I made them all blank. Soon, my imagination seemed to grow wings and I seemed to fly freely.

So for the last week,  I wrote nonstop about 3000 to 4500 words each day and finished rewriting the whole bit by the midnight on Saturday. Now the last edit will be reading the whole fucking book, I felt relieved. But it was never enough as the work will never done till the happy ending.

Rain Girl

White and Blue

White and Blue

The girl in the rain, once was a sort of boy who only hung out with boys. A number of times, she would do all different things in the rain, alone or with someone. The midnight before graduating from high school, she couldn’t control herself but led a bunch of boys running in the rain on the road. It was all dark. But she wasn’t afraid of the darkness. she was suddenly afraid of growing up and leaving an old place.

In the darkness, along with the boys, she laughed, cried and screamed; she lifted her face up, welcomed the rain pouring down; she kissed and tasted the rain; she sensed the freedom of the rain; she felt behind such freedom was sadness. The rain comes and goes, just like people coming and going. She really enjoyed how the rain washed something away from her heart and added something else to her mind. It was exactly the same feeling as how people gave her memories and she was afraid to lose them.

When leaving a place, she was always the last one to leave. She sent off everyone. She then quietly left alone. She even pictured her future without people coming and going. But she knew it was her sheer illusion.

Later she became a woman. The feeling never changed. One late night, thinking of leaving another place, with an impulsion she couldn’t help walking in the rain, alone. It was a dark street. The rain made her wet all over.  Even her brain was soaked. This time, she didn’t laugh or scream. But she did cry in silence. She tasted the rain more deeply. She opened her mouth, let the rain fill in naturally. She then would swallow a mouthful of rain, as though the rain was not rain but beer. She drank one mouthful and another. Until there was a motorcycle coming towards her. The driver waved, whistled and asked if she wanted a ride. She shook her head continuously without looking at him. Apparently, he was disappointed. As a result, he suddenly sped up, drove a circle around her with one hand touching her tits roughly. For the moment, he was a ghostly dark shadow and she was so horribly terrified that she couldn’t see anything. The only sound she could hear was the engine from the motorcycle. The only thing she could smell was the cigarette from his nostril. The only thing she could feel was the dirty hand that she was not fast enough to push away. Once she could see something, he already disappeared in the darkness with only the sound left. She wished she could cut off that hand and have it feed the pig.

Since that night, she stopped walking in the rain in the darkness by herself. But tonight, she had the same feeling. She walked alone in the dim light, missing the rain. Passing through the crowds, she felt as though she was the only one moving. Stealing a glance at the others whose eyes were as emotionless as a dead fish, she wished she could take a cold shower in the rain.

This blog is to remember a great Penguin in a particular way. 

The Maze Thinker

Trying to find a way through the maze in colors...

Trying to find a way through the maze in colors…

For about ten years, working as a watcher in a factory, my father has been collecting everything that worths of every single penny. On Tomb Sweeping Day(Apr 5th,2015), he was using a fruit knife to separate the wires from the skin to the copper. Just because the price is slightly different. Staring at the colorful lines, my thoughts became thicker and thicker…

And gradually, even something is making me lose the will to eat and something is eating me little by little; I don’t know if “something” is called the sudden depression.

Certainly, there are many things going on and on. Yet nothing is really cheerful unless the fucking book gets published. However, time and patience are essential, I know. Just the moment makes me feel that I am living in a black hole, bottomless.

Thinking of each word I’ve heard from each visit to my family, each word is like a cold black mountain. – Getting a job and finding a husband, now become a topic that is absolute. Even my mother who never utters a word in my ears, now repeats, Find a husband, just find a husband, a good husband…

Seemingly, all the things happening distract my attention from doing what I want, not only writing. As if all the things happening have something to do with the absolute topic, the definite allergy, for which now almost every morning I wake up with tears. Why not just leave me alone? Sometimes, in my dream I even can hear myself screaming like The Scream.

Munch - The Scream

Munch – The Scream (Source: Google)

Sorry, I should share some happy photos from the trip. But more than 9000 pics make me no choice that I have to sort out first and it takes longer than usual…

My First UK Customer

Photo taken in Yunnan.

When the heaven’s cock got a real hard erection, the world is simply black and white.


After I decided to write my dream, I quit this full-time job in 2013. Honestly I’m not any material to make any money. The more I work on money, the more I despise it. It’s a stroke of luck that I finally left a shitty place for this job as a sales girl. Surely this job made me know more people like our Portuguese Manager and some Chinese hard-working  girls. Yet it saddened me in many ways, like I trusted the company and believed what I was told in the interview. One day the accountant made a big mistake on my monthly salary, and I found that the company had paid my basic salary as rmb2800, which was supposed to be rmb3000, for half a year. I studied and started everything from ZERO, alone. Through the whole time I had to search in despair and make cold phone calls worldwide with hope for a customer without having any account of my own in Alibaba or Globalsource. So on that day in March 2013, one of the old sales girls, Lisa, let me use her account on Alibaba and this fun dark humor happened, purely and shockingly.

Heather Cai (17:01:30):
hello Do you have any inquiry of USB & Memory cards? power banks?
Marilou Baylis (17:02:11):
Heather Cai (17:03:17):
Sorry to disturb such impolite WHATEVER
Marilou Baylis (17:03:33):
piss off
Heather Cai (17:03:45):
FUCK OFF –back to you
Marilou Baylis (17:04:10):
Heather Cai (17:04:49):
I can suck WHATEVER kinda cock, not your type.
BTW: What’s the color of your mysterious COCK ?
Marilou Baylis (17:05:44):
Heather Cai (17:06:44):
Marilou Baylis (17:07:46):
can i meet you ?
Heather Cai (17:09:33):
fuck off white cock I am YELLOW as you already FUCKED OFF
Marilou Baylis (17:09:59):
have you picture ?
can i cum in your pussy ?
Heather Cai (17:11:13):
Go fuck off yourself
Marilou Baylis (17:11:35):
i would like to fuck you ?
Heather Cai (17:11:59):
If so, i prefer to fuck myself with my middle finger
Marilou Baylis (17:12:27):
you make me hot hot hot
Heather Cai (17:13:11):
Then F*CK yourself in front of a mirror on ur face
Marilou Baylis (17:13:45):
send me a picture please of you ?
i would like you to be my girl friend ?
Heather Cai (17:14:19):
Marilou Baylis (17:15:03):
you make me very sad 😦
Heather Cai (17:15:41):
Make yourself YELLOW, Then i will fuck u badly
my bfs are queueing in The Great Wall
Marilou Baylis (17:16:56):
you must be good in bed ?
Heather Cai (17:17:12):
Marilou Baylis (17:17:36):
ok that fine with me baby
send me picture of you ? i think you very pretty and sexy 🙂
Heather Cai (17:18:44):
Marilou Baylis (17:19:56):
how old are you ?
Heather Cai (17:20:09):
Marilou Baylis (17:21:39):
are you getting hot ?
Heather Cai (17:22:08):
Marilou Baylis (17:24:46):
miss you
Marilou Baylis (17:26:17):
bye lisa
Heather Cai (17:26:52):
I am not Lisa
Marilou Baylis (17:27:22):
whats your real name ?
Heather Cai (17:27:34):
Can u make ur eyes wide open on HEATHER CAI
Marilou Baylis (17:28:01):
dont no
Marilou Baylis (17:29:41):
is that your name heather cai ?
Heather Cai (17:29:50):
Marilou Baylis (17:30:31):
thats good
my name is shane
Heather Cai (17:30:58):
Shane or shame shame?
Marilou Baylis (17:31:12):
Heather Cai (17:31:39):
Oh, yeah. I just forgot a movie also SHANE not Shame
while i liked it to be Shame
Marilou Baylis (17:32:05):
thats the one the cowboy film
Heather Cai (17:32:14):
Marilou Baylis (17:33:13):
have you picture of you ? could you send me ?
Heather Cai (17:34:00):
Come to meet me in Futian district, Shenzhen city, China
I will give u a real pic of ME-Heather Cai
Marilou Baylis (17:34:32):
its a long way
Heather Cai (17:34:51):
and a long way to NOWHERE
So forget it
Marilou Baylis (17:35:22):
please send pic ?
Heather Cai (17:35:59):
Paint your BIG COCK in YELLOW, i may think about it
Marilou Baylis (17:36:45):
Marilou Baylis (17:38:26):
bye heather cai
Heather Cai (17:41:48):
bye white cock
Marilou Baylis (17:42:47):
To me, sadly this is more cultural than sexual. A German friend who brought me a really nice bottle of German Icy wine and different boxes of chocolates from Germany and with whom I had “luxury” food and drinks and talked a big deal in real and online. Yet, during our last dinner in March 2013, first his face turned purple and his eyes deadly white, then after dinner he at once deleted me from his Wechat, a while later he deleted me from his Skype, after I showed him that, which I thought he would understand me better.

Me, Myself and I

Photo shot in 2011

Me, often be seen deep inside or at a “footless place”, and ocasionally seen outside by only some people I am comfortable with.

Audrey Hepburn(Source:online)

The first impression…oh, the eyes and the bold look…

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Once upon a time, Juses rejected my friend request.   Because he thought I am one of those people  who use fake pics as their profile pictures.

There was a long story. He “bombed” me and called me “The Worst Blogger Ever”. However, I was too bored to ignore such a “fight”. Basically, a blog that I wrote in 2012 can explain something.

To Remember Juses Wept

It began with my “worst blogs” and ended up with his “nice shoes”.

There were some scary imaginings from his aggressive responses to those “worst blogs”.

Just could see his killing eyes from his every single sharp word in the very beginning.

Not easy to find something exciting like that in real life before SZS.

No Chinese man would do it to a girl with a rare pic on site.

It’s like the best music composed of heavy tones only.

Hard beat!

Beat up !

Damned f*ckin beat!

Then never expected to meet him up by chance with a friendly handshake , two nice smiles and a joking “Nice shoes!”

After that , crazy silence and disappearance….

Jesus Wept gone…for ever?

And another “mysterious ” guy PM about my related “nice shoes and nice face” from a common comment.

By chance,when we met again and sat beside each other, I hardly recognized his face.

God Damn it! It’s him with the strongest perfume I ever smelled.

PM to confirm he is the one with mystery but not the same style as before.

Asked what made him so “different ”and why no longer that “aggressive ”.

No answers. –Fine.

True Grrit(Great)!

No more letters to “Juses”.

No longer dumped shit to fill up the site.

More peaceful feelings for eyes.

Some even can heal a black heart.

Please don’t guess it’s “yellow ” or “wet”.

Just try to remember to remember…

PS: Why “Juses”? There is another story too. Thank you for reading! 🙂