My swordfighting instructor has always intrigued me: tall (especially for a Japanese man),
trim and fit with exceptional sinewy muscles, and extremely graceful in motion. I had
always assumed he must be married, despite wearing no band. I figued it was a sports/
comfort thing. Then, one day, I overheard him chatting with the man who sometimes visits
our dojo to do repairs to our fencing armor. He mentioned “my wife” in passing. Knowing how bored and desparate most married men are, my
ears and mind snagged on this. That little space in my imagination cleaved to make room
for this new fantasy.
At first, I tried to dismiss it: “He might be double my age!” (I’m 26.) “He speaks only
minimal English.” (But nonetheless, manages to be pithy—almost witty during lessons.)
“It’s totally inappropriate!” (But then again, most good things are.) Weeks passed, and I
couldn’t get it out of my mind. Being the only woman in the dojo, I’m used to constant
jokes about how hot-looking everyone finds me, so it was impossible for me to guage whether
or not he was paying me extra attention. He always made a point to be too dignified to
lapse into anything less than perfect professionalism.
Being the only woman, I have no locker room of my own. I simply use the men’s room fifteen
minutes earlier than they. I have gotten used to having to arrive this early in order to
participate in a male-dominated sport. So, I had a naughty idea: I left a pair of worn hello kitty panties inside the cubby-hole where he stores his armor. So that the other
students wouldn’t spy it, I left it hidden behind his lacquered breastplate. I took the
class with my heart pounding even more than usual! I took the thwacks he levelled on my
face guard with a certain masochistic glee, knowing what I had done.
After class, I left quickly without waiting for the locker room to clear out. I showered
at home, touching myself, I have to admit, while I did so.
Then the next day, I went to the dojo in the middle of the day, when I knew there would be
no class. I knew he was ther, though, because I called first, hanging up like a schoolgirl
when he answered. When I got there, he was not in his office, but in the practice studio,
doing a solitary practice, without armor. He was beating “Ken”, the practice dummy, over
the head, shouting as he did so (as is customary in our sport). I cleared my throat. He
was obviously surprised to see me. I said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I seem to have
left something in the locker room yesterday. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I have, but if you want it back, you’ll have to put it on. Show it to me.” I
nearly fainted! But I obeyed, bolting into the locker room, and coming out in it—only.
“Come closer,” he told me. I did, and then proceeded to have the first episode of what is
now a Tuesday afternoon ritual. Wow.
Nobody knows, and in front of the other students, we act the same as before.
There was once a monk that I met who loved to eat fruit. He was on a flight to Korea and there he was munching on oranges and lemons and kiwis and finally a nice little banana. Now you must understand that "banana" is a general term that embraces a number of species. There is the Musa species, originally found in Sulawesi but then imported by the Japanese during the Second World War first to Hiroshima then to Tokyo. Then there is the Ornata, found from Pakistan to Burma -- it of course is prized for its long thick rope which grows limp and dies in the lifespan of a nightbloom. But this banana was none of these. It was an Abyssinan Ensete copulatum -- known for its stout formation and sweet aftertaste. I watched this monk eat his banana and for the life of me, I could hear the wind wispering across the skin of the fusalage. He ate slowly, using his small tongue to savor every drop of the gewy interior. He looked at me, this fruit monk, this man of many tastes....I imagined him naked in front of me. He was whispering -- the fruit is like our lives, each of us delicous and particular. It has been a long time since I thought about this beautiful monk. But there are still nights when I have reached a state of bliss so outside of my normal self that I dream of bananas. They are like stars, ferrying across the night blue sky.
The gig is finished and this girl, this mixed up girl who's been calling over and over, she comes to see me. She comes because I convince her -- the show ended before she got off work, but the band is out drinking, and it's one of the few times I'm in the city, and this girl who's been calling me everyday, she crosses Seoul to come to see me.
And when she arrives, half the band has gone on to the punk rock place, down the road, and she and I are talking, and drinking, and drinking, and talking.
"But you call me every day," I say to her, a little angry and a lot confused. "You can't pretend you don't miss me. That you don't feel something about me."
"Sure," she says, smoothing her hair back. "I feel something." She stresses something weirdly, the second syllable. Why it should feel natural to me, I don't know, but it does. "I feel we are friends."
And in this district, I know that even holding her hand could make a fight break out, the weigukin with a local girl. But I don't care about that -- I'm too drunk and I know I can do more than that.
I kiss her, and there's a moment of shock. A dire moment where she isn't kissing back, but isn't puling away. She's processing. Processing through the haze of beer, through the desire, through the fear and embarassment. And then her tongue slips into my mouth, and there we are in a seedy, terrible little bar in a cheesy part of Seoul, and I can feel eyes on us.
She can, too. She tells me we should go. She grabs my hand, and we walk out -- because the band paid for everything on their way out and left us with a pitcher to spare.
When she hails a taxi, we plunge into it, and the driver doesn't say anything. He could have, some drivers do. Some drivers call girls awful names, yankongju and yangsaekshi, things that mean she's a foreigners' slut. But I'm on top of her, and we're kissing, and the driver just drives. Across town is far enough a big enough fare to put up with anything.
When we're out of the cab, only she knows where we are. She leads me down beneath an underpass, one of those buried walkways that pedestrians are relegated to, since street traffic has priority. Down in the flourescent lights and the hum of the underpass, I press her against the wall and put my mouth to hers again, and we keep kissing until she shivers. "Let's go," I say, but she doesn't want to go where she wants to take me. We're in her neighborhood, but we're not going to her room.
"How about over there?" I ask, pointing across the street at a cheap hotel. There are only Ritzes and cheapies in this country, nothing in-between, but like most girls, she's not comfortable with the idea. "I'll never go to a place like that."
"Then let's go to your place," I say, and she shakes her head. "I don't want to do that with anyone who isn't my boyfriend."
"But you want me to be your boyfriend, right? I mean, since you want to do that?"
She shakes her head. "Of course I want to do that, I want to do that with you, but I don't want to do that with someone who isn't..."
"What? Why did you bring me here?"I spent all my money on the cab. I have no idea where I am.
"I'm sorry," she says, and takes my hand, and drags me down some stairs into a karaoke room. We kiss some more, touch one another, but I can't figure out how to get the lights out. She breaks a promise, she breaks something else inside me, and at the end of an hour, it's over and precisely nothing at all has happened that I can see in a good light.
She says, "I'm sorry. I can't have a foreign man as a boyfriend. You're too... different. Hairy. Stronger. Different."
I wince. "So you can't date a foreigner, but you're okay sticking your hand down his pants, huh?"
Tears collect in her eyes, but I don't tell her I'm sorry. Because it's true. After months of her calling daily, checking up on me, catching herself think of me at random times and for no reason, she still can't get over that one barrier.
"I'm sorry," she says, and I am looking at the pavement, saying, "Just go away," and then when I look up, finally, I am alone on this street, left to my self, shivering in the cold wind and wondering where I can find a bank machine to get some more cash for a cheap room across the street.
My swordfighting instructor has always intrigued me: tall (especially for a Japanese man),
trim and fit with exceptional sinewy muscles, and extremely graceful in motion. I had
always assumed he must be married, despite wearing no band. I figued it was a sports/
comfort thing. Then, one day, I overheard him chatting with the man who sometimes visits
our dojo to do repairs to our fencing armor. He mentioned “my wife” in passing. Knowing how bored and desparate most married men are, my
ears and mind snagged on this. That little space in my imagination cleaved to make room
for this new fantasy.
At first, I tried to dismiss it: “He might be double my age!” (I’m 26.) “He speaks only
minimal English.” (But nonetheless, manages to be pithy—almost witty during lessons.)
“It’s totally inappropriate!” (But then again, most good things are.) Weeks passed, and I
couldn’t get it out of my mind. Being the only woman in the dojo, I’m used to constant
jokes about how hot-looking everyone finds me, so it was impossible for me to guage whether
or not he was paying me extra attention. He always made a point to be too dignified to
lapse into anything less than perfect professionalism.
Being the only woman, I have no locker room of my own. I simply use the men’s room fifteen
minutes earlier than they. I have gotten used to having to arrive this early in order to
participate in a male-dominated sport. So, I had a naughty idea: I left a pair of worn hello kitty panties inside the cubby-hole where he stores his armor. So that the other
students wouldn’t spy it, I left it hidden behind his lacquered breastplate. I took the
class with my heart pounding even more than usual! I took the thwacks he levelled on my
face guard with a certain masochistic glee, knowing what I had done.
After class, I left quickly without waiting for the locker room to clear out. I showered
at home, touching myself, I have to admit, while I did so.
Then the next day, I went to the dojo in the middle of the day, when I knew there would be
no class. I knew he was ther, though, because I called first, hanging up like a schoolgirl
when he answered. When I got there, he was not in his office, but in the practice studio,
doing a solitary practice, without armor. He was beating “Ken”, the practice dummy, over
the head, shouting as he did so (as is customary in our sport). I cleared my throat. He
was obviously surprised to see me. I said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I seem to have
left something in the locker room yesterday. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I have, but if you want it back, you’ll have to put it on. Show it to me.” I
nearly fainted! But I obeyed, bolting into the locker room, and coming out in it—only.
“Come closer,” he told me. I did, and then proceeded to have the first episode of what is
now a Tuesday afternoon ritual. Wow.
Nobody knows, and in front of the other students, we act the same as before.
Posted by: susan, tokyo | 2005.10.10 at 10:59 AM
There was once a monk that I met who loved to eat fruit. He was on a flight to Korea and there he was munching on oranges and lemons and kiwis and finally a nice little banana. Now you must understand that "banana" is a general term that embraces a number of species. There is the Musa species, originally found in Sulawesi but then imported by the Japanese during the Second World War first to Hiroshima then to Tokyo. Then there is the Ornata, found from Pakistan to Burma -- it of course is prized for its long thick rope which grows limp and dies in the lifespan of a nightbloom. But this banana was none of these. It was an Abyssinan Ensete copulatum -- known for its stout formation and sweet aftertaste. I watched this monk eat his banana and for the life of me, I could hear the wind wispering across the skin of the fusalage. He ate slowly, using his small tongue to savor every drop of the gewy interior. He looked at me, this fruit monk, this man of many tastes....I imagined him naked in front of me. He was whispering -- the fruit is like our lives, each of us delicous and particular. It has been a long time since I thought about this beautiful monk. But there are still nights when I have reached a state of bliss so outside of my normal self that I dream of bananas. They are like stars, ferrying across the night blue sky.
Posted by: raphaellerria | 2005.10.30 at 06:21 PM
The gig is finished and this girl, this mixed up girl who's been calling over and over, she comes to see me. She comes because I convince her -- the show ended before she got off work, but the band is out drinking, and it's one of the few times I'm in the city, and this girl who's been calling me everyday, she crosses Seoul to come to see me.
And when she arrives, half the band has gone on to the punk rock place, down the road, and she and I are talking, and drinking, and drinking, and talking.
"But you call me every day," I say to her, a little angry and a lot confused. "You can't pretend you don't miss me. That you don't feel something about me."
"Sure," she says, smoothing her hair back. "I feel something." She stresses something weirdly, the second syllable. Why it should feel natural to me, I don't know, but it does. "I feel we are friends."
And in this district, I know that even holding her hand could make a fight break out, the weigukin with a local girl. But I don't care about that -- I'm too drunk and I know I can do more than that.
I kiss her, and there's a moment of shock. A dire moment where she isn't kissing back, but isn't puling away. She's processing. Processing through the haze of beer, through the desire, through the fear and embarassment. And then her tongue slips into my mouth, and there we are in a seedy, terrible little bar in a cheesy part of Seoul, and I can feel eyes on us.
She can, too. She tells me we should go. She grabs my hand, and we walk out -- because the band paid for everything on their way out and left us with a pitcher to spare.
When she hails a taxi, we plunge into it, and the driver doesn't say anything. He could have, some drivers do. Some drivers call girls awful names, yankongju and yangsaekshi, things that mean she's a foreigners' slut. But I'm on top of her, and we're kissing, and the driver just drives. Across town is far enough a big enough fare to put up with anything.
When we're out of the cab, only she knows where we are. She leads me down beneath an underpass, one of those buried walkways that pedestrians are relegated to, since street traffic has priority. Down in the flourescent lights and the hum of the underpass, I press her against the wall and put my mouth to hers again, and we keep kissing until she shivers. "Let's go," I say, but she doesn't want to go where she wants to take me. We're in her neighborhood, but we're not going to her room.
"How about over there?" I ask, pointing across the street at a cheap hotel. There are only Ritzes and cheapies in this country, nothing in-between, but like most girls, she's not comfortable with the idea. "I'll never go to a place like that."
"Then let's go to your place," I say, and she shakes her head. "I don't want to do that with anyone who isn't my boyfriend."
"But you want me to be your boyfriend, right? I mean, since you want to do that?"
She shakes her head. "Of course I want to do that, I want to do that with you, but I don't want to do that with someone who isn't..."
"What? Why did you bring me here?"I spent all my money on the cab. I have no idea where I am.
"I'm sorry," she says, and takes my hand, and drags me down some stairs into a karaoke room. We kiss some more, touch one another, but I can't figure out how to get the lights out. She breaks a promise, she breaks something else inside me, and at the end of an hour, it's over and precisely nothing at all has happened that I can see in a good light.
She says, "I'm sorry. I can't have a foreign man as a boyfriend. You're too... different. Hairy. Stronger. Different."
I wince. "So you can't date a foreigner, but you're okay sticking your hand down his pants, huh?"
Tears collect in her eyes, but I don't tell her I'm sorry. Because it's true. After months of her calling daily, checking up on me, catching herself think of me at random times and for no reason, she still can't get over that one barrier.
"I'm sorry," she says, and I am looking at the pavement, saying, "Just go away," and then when I look up, finally, I am alone on this street, left to my self, shivering in the cold wind and wondering where I can find a bank machine to get some more cash for a cheap room across the street.
Posted by: g | 2006.04.15 at 09:14 AM