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have scars in the shape of maple leaves on each of my armpits.
     My Chinese boyfriends, being polite and considerate, pretended not to see them. The scars indicated that I had had an operation to get rid of the odor in my armpits--the fox smell. It was a shame, a girl with the fox smell.
     My American boyfriends were fascinated by them. Oriental scars on the armpits. One liked to inspect them before and after sex, licking them, squeezing out the dirt that hid between the creases. One asked endless questions. What happened? Why, when, and where? One day, in a Moroccan restaurant where we had taken his friend Nick to celebrate his sixtieth birthday, my friend asked me to lift my arms to show Nick the scars. "They are amazing, really amazing," he told Nick in a proud tone, as if he had won a six-number lottery.
     I pulled a long face and said, "Why don't you show Nick your asshole."

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