From Rice and Ramen to Ring Lights

This Is How I Found Out About My Asian Mom's OnlyFans.

Before all this, I just thought my mom was... different. Not in a bad way. Not even in a weird way. Just different from the other moms.

Most of them wore yoga pants and hoodies, carried giant purses filled with Goldfish crackers and receipts. My mom? She looked like she belonged on a magazine cover--not a PTA meeting. She was thirty-six but didn't look a day over twenty-eight. Japanese-Korean, with that kind of perfect bone structure and porcelain skin you only ever see in K-dramas. Except she wasn't trying to look cute or innocent--she looked sexy. Mini skirts sometimes even accidentally showing her gstring underneath.

Her hair was bleached blonde, straight and shiny, with dark roots she always had touched up every few weeks. It made her stand out even more, like she wanted people to notice--and trust me, they did. When we'd walk through the grocery store, men turned their heads. Both men and women. Some didn't even try to be subtle.

She worked out like it was religion. Every morning after I left for school, I'd hear the whirr of the Peloton or the thud of jump squats in the living room. She didn't just have abs--she had that carved-out line between her hips and stomach that looked like it belonged on a fitness model. Her waist was small, but her chest... wasn't. I never thought much of it before, but now I wonder if she'd bought fake tits.

She wore these tight cropped hoodies and high-waisted leggings that hugged everything. Not baggy stuff. Not mom jeans. The last year or so she'd pick me up from school wearing sunglasses the size of saucers, her lips glossed, her nails always done, and a V-neck top that barely followed the dress code--if moms even had one.

At the time, I just thought she liked looking good. Maybe she had someone new in her life she wasn't telling me about. Good for her I thought she hadn't remarried after my American trucker dad left us. But now, when I look back at those outfits, the perfect makeup even when she was "just at home," the way she always smelled like vanilla and something expensive--it all fits together in a way I didn't want to admit. She didn't dress like that for nothing. But then one day after a test I found out what was going on.

I didn't expect to get punched for doing better on a test. But that's exactly what happened.

It was after third period, out by the bike racks where the security camera doesn't reach. I was holding my math quiz in my hand, still kind of stunned I got a 98--higher than anyone else in class, including Andrew. Yeah, that Andrew. Captain of the football team, blonde, tall, muscular, square jaw, always with a girl on his arm and protein shake in hand. He's the kind of guy who walks down the hall and people step aside like Moses parting the Red Sea. He was the very opposite of me, a nerdy short fat hapa Asian boy who had terrible luck in the gene lottery.

I didn't even look at him. I wasn't trying to show off. But he saw. He saw the score. And he smiled in that way that made my stomach flip.

"Hey, gook nerd," he said, "you think you're better than me now? Your mom is still just a whore."

Before I could say anything, he slammed his fist into my shoulder. Not enough to break bone, but enough to make me stumble and feel the hot sting behind my eyes. The classmates around us laughed.

I didn't cry. I didn't yell. I just stood there, clutching my paper. And for a second, I almost blurted something out. But I bit my tongue. Because something had clicked in my head--something I hadn't wanted to think about for a while. When did we stop struggling for money? I remember Mom used to skip dinner sometimes. Always "not hungry." I remember the eviction notice she tore off the door when I was ten. How she used to walk me to school wearing the same worn-out hoodie and baggy jeans, hair in a bun, dark circles under her eyes.

Now we live in a nicer apartment. She drives a leased Lexus. There's always sushi in the fridge. But she still doesn't have a "job." Not a normal one. She stays up late, I mean really late. I go to bed around 11 or 12, and I still hear her walking around, pacing. Clicking noises. Sometimes laughing.

And--God--those voices. Male voices. Always white guys. Always around 1 or 2 a. m., just as I'm drifting off. Muffled, like through a pillow. Then the front door opening and closing. Once I peeked through the crack and saw a tall man with tattoos and a thick arms around my moms waist saying, "Same time next week?" and she just smiled and touched his arm.

I never asked her. I never dared. But today, after Andrew walked off, laughing with his idiot friends, I sat on the curb behind the dumpster and thought about it. Really thought about it.

OnlyFans? Whoring? Maybe both? I used to want to ask her how she affords everything now. But what if I already know? What if I've always known?

Back home at my cheap PC I scrolled through onlyfans the Asians section, surprised to see how many of my ethnicity were selling photos of their bodies to American men. Everyone was more or less dressed like racist stereotypical Asian sluts and I didn't really recognize anything that could be my mom. But then it hit me: one of the profile photos low-res and blurry, showing a woman in lacy black lingerie posing on a messy bed, biting her lip with way too much confidence.

I blinked. Scrolled past. Then I froze. I knew that bedroom. That little mole under her collarbone. It was my mom. I sat there, hand off the mouse, just... frozen. My chest got tight, and not in a dramatic movie way. More like in a what the hell is happening to my life kind of way.

She was wearing thigh-high stockings, blonde hair curled around her shoulders like she'd just stepped out of some R-rated fashion shoot. Her body was crazy--slim waist, long legs, toned arms, and a bust that, well... looked expensive. That wasn't genetics. That was investment.

Now I was wondering what else she'd been pulling off. I didn't click the link right away. I just sat there, heart thudding, palms sweating. Like if I clicked it, something would change forever. But I think I already knew. Still I decided I wanted to be sure and that I would stay up tonight.

Diary -- 1:52 a. m.

She had worn this short black robe the whole evening, her hair all done, lips glossy, like she always did every night, like she was waiting for something. Someone.

I pretended to go to bed, left my door open a crack. I waited. Eyes wide open. Then I heard it--the soft chime of the doorbell. Voices. Three. Not just one. Deep. Confident. American.

I crept out into the hallway, careful not to make the floorboards creak. I crouched by the wall near her bedroom, where the door was half-open. And what I saw... I'll never unsee.

Two white men. Both huge. Like ex-football-player huge. Muscular, tan, one with a backwards cap, the other bald with a beard. And then--there was her. Not my mom. Another woman.

She was tiny. Thai maybe. Short, flawless skin, dark glossy long hair in double ponytails. Barely wearing anything. Just this bright pink bikini and heels that made her wobble when she moved. She looked like she belonged on a billboard in Vegas.

The two men had cameras. Real ones. Lighting too. They weren't just visiting--they were shooting something.

My mom walked into frame wearing this minidress I didn't even know she owned. Something sheer, something beige, something that clung to her like it had been made for her body. The other woman giggled and posed with her, wrapping her arms around my mom's waist, kissing her face. The guys kept snapping photos, sometimes stopping to adjust the lights or whisper something that made both women laugh as they undressed, letting the men take naked photos of their Asian bodies.

I knew I should look away. But I didn't. Not right away. Some part of me--some shameful, stupid, buried part--was frozen by it. Not turned on. Not exactly. More like... overwhelmed. My brain couldn't decide what to do with all of it. I just sat there in the dark, watching, sweating, heart pounding like I was running from something. Like I wanted to disappear.

I started to pinch my tiny rice dick with just my two fingers like I usually did. The two white men now had taken off their clothes as well packing two massive 20 cm cocks more than thrice the size of my less than 6 cm penis, smaller than my pinkie.

And somewhere in that moment, I think a part of me broke. I didn't feel curious anymore. I didn't feel anything but hollow. That was the last time I let myself react like that. The last time I... you know. Because once you see something like that, you can't go back.