I like living in the Bay area. The winters are warm, the summers aren't too hot, and there are lots of things to do. But those are just bonuses; the real reason I like it is they're used to interracial couples. After a while, getting stares on the street gets wearing.

Not that people are usually hostile - most places we've visited, people are curious, but friendly. Still, it's a real relief to be just another couple rather than Exibit "A". Especially when you are just another couple.

Over the years, you get to know all the stereotypes. It seems every possible combination has its own set, some more insulting than others. Perhaps we shouldn't complain; white male/asian female is one of the most common pairings, and seems to have the fewest critics. But people sometimes ask the stupidest questions.

I could tell Nita was angry when she walked in the door. She had been bouncy, almost bubbly, when she left - after all, she was going down to the travel agent's to pick up plane tickets for her first trip back to Hong Kong in three years. But she came back in looking ready to bite.

"Neets? What's wrong?"

"Oh... that woman at the travel agent's." She rolled her eyes meaningfully. "I suppose she means well. But I felt like spitting in her eye."

"But what did she do?"

"Started asking questions about my trip, and how long I've been here, and our marriage, and why aren't you coming along this time... and then she told me not to worry, that once I had my green card I could divorce you if I wanted."

I started laughing. Stereotype number 1 - the green card marriage.

"All right, what did you tell her?"

Her mouth twitched. "That I wasn't sure - that after all the things you'd forced me to do, that no decent man would want me. I had to talk her out of calling the police." Despite her anger, she was giggling.

I gave her a jaundiced look. "Wonderful. So I'm cast as a sexist pig taking advantage of your poverty and innocence?"

She tried to look demure. "She'd heard all about it on one of the talk shows - you know, the poor mail-order brides from third- world countries, willing to put up with anything for a chance to live in the US. It would have so disappointed her to hear that I'm a US citizen. And haven't always really wanted a nice, subservient, woman to be your combination cook, maid, and sex slave?"

I snorted. "Subservient? You? Now the 'sex slave' part sounds kind of interesting - when are you planning to start?" From long experience, I ducked before she could throw a pillow at me.

It was a very long month. Fortunately, the same project that kept me from going with her took up enough of my time I didn't have time to brood. Even with her letters, the house felt lonely. Her return date seemed impossibly distant.

I was at the airport an hour early. I know better; if nothing else, on international flights you have to figure another half hour or more after arrival for customs. So I took along a book to read and went anyway. I think I read the same chapter at least twice before giving up.

When the gate finally opened, I almost didn't recognize her. Nita usually dresses either stylishly or California-casual; I wasn't prepared for the poorly-cut, cheaply made, out-of-date, dress she was wearing. Rather than her usual pony tail, or her occasional mild perm, she had her hair in schoolgirl bangs - it looked as if someone had stuck a bowl on her head and cut across the front.

"Nita?" At least her smile was the same - her usual quirky grin. But when I got closer, she held out her hand to me rather than running in for a kiss.

"Dave? I so glad be here. Could you help me with bags?" Her accent was thick enough to cut with a knife - and even when we'd first met her everyday grammar was better than mine.

Fortunately, I've had long experience with Nita's sense of humor. By the time we reached the car I had recovered enough to decide to play along with whatever she had in mind. In her last letter, she had warned me she had a surprise ready when she got home; after all this preparation, it seemed a shame to spoil it.

"Oh, Dave! You car so nice!" The picture clarified a little - she was playing as if she were a stranger. As if she had never been in this country before. I had a hard time keeping my face straight when it hit me - she was playing mail-order bride. And that meant I had my own role to play.

"We go you house now?"

I nodded. "Yes. We go my house now."

We didn't talk much during the drive home. She never dropped her accent or the role she was playing. Game or not, though, she was jet lagged out and spent most of the trip asleep. I didn't press her; she needed the rest. I spent the time working out my own role. If she was the helpless mail-order-bride, that meant that I was the swinish, domineering, sexist male. This might be fun - as long as we both knew I was playing. I mentally adjusted my boorishness higher.

I brought her bags into the house before waking her. Even half- asleep, she picked up her role without a bobble.

"Oh, Dave! You house so big! Can you show me?" By the time our impromptu tour was finished, she was convincingly wide-eyed. It seemed like a good time for me to take the lead.

"How long is your visa for?"

"They say we have six months to get marry. We better do it soon."

"I was just waiting for you to arrive so that I could make the arrangements. We'll talk once you've had some rest - you still look very tired."

She nodded. "That good idea. Where I sleep?"

"I sleep in here? This you room! Where you sleep?"

"With you, of course."

"But we not married!" She looked shocked.

If I'd had a mustache, I'd have twirled the end. "We will be. If you make me happy enough. I'm sure you can; you're a lovely girl."

Her chin quivered. "I... I try. What you want me do?"

Slowly, reluctantly, the dress came off. I was impressed with Nita's thoroughness - beneath it, she was wearing cheap cotton underwear, the sort a poor country girl could afford. I concealed my amused admiration under a lustful leer; after a month without her, the expression felt all too natural.

As her bra came off, she twisted away from me, and kept her back turned as the panties joined it on the floor. I had to swallow, hard, before asking her to turn around.

It took a direct order to make her lower her hands to her sides. She refused to look directly at me. Her face was flaming. Slowly, appraisingly, I walked around her. She did her best to remain still, though she couldn't restrain a jump when I reached from behind to briefly cup a small, firm, breast. After a reflective squeeze, I released it, to similarly evaluate a nicely-rounded buttock. When I completed my circuit I could see her lower lip was trembling.

"Have you been with a man before?"

"I... No. I good girl. Virgin."

"I'm sure you are a good girl. Let's see how long it takes you to learn to be a bad girl." I definitely needed to work on my dialogue.

She kept her eyes carefully averted as I undressed. She must have been stealing peeks, though; when I put my arms around her, she returned my embrace immediately. Her fearful trembling, face hidden against my chest, was a masterpiece: frightened girl trading her body for a better life. It would have been far more convincing if I hadn't felt a pair of erect nipples poking into my belly. Despite herself, she giggled when I lightly tweeked one.