tagIllustratedA Woman's Story of Love Ch. 007

A Woman's Story of Love Ch. 007


He kept talking about how wet I was and how good it felt, first to his hand, then to his penis. He didn't know that in my culture people don't talk so directly and I might be embarrassed, or maybe he did know and liked it.

He compared sex to the running he did for exercise, said it was all about stamina and pacing and getting a first wind and then a second.

"And of course about beating the competition."

He laughed after saying that and gave the smile I knew, next the assessing stare. Realizing he might have gone too far, offended, he checks my face to make sure I'm still with him. I feel a little that he is trying to control me then.

He talked about his father, a recent visit to his apartment when found another guest there, a man who to all appearances was trying to extort money from him.

"I don't get it." I shook my head, helpless, apologized.

Mitchell started from the beginning. The first ring of the doorbell had brought no answer. He'd been about to give up, leave the white lobby when the jarring noise of the intercom called him back. His father's voice sounded different than usual, surprised, not oriented. It almost seemed he didn't recognize his own son, wondered why he was there. Mitchell climbed the familiar flights of stairs and came upon a scene that disoriented him in turn.

The extorter was a short, thickset man with slicked-back black hair, a big square head, who seemed to squat before Mitchell's father as if playing up to him, to command attention that might otherwise go to the visiting son. Having gotten into the home of his "mark," the well-dressed criminal clearly didn't want to miss the chance to state his case persuasively. Mitchell's father had met him a casino he'd gone to only once to entertain business clients, and the man had latched on and wouldn't let go.

There'd been an appeal to his father's good nature. Casual deception. A signature, a trick. Mitchell said he barely understood it and was sure his father didn't.

"You really should retire, Dad."

Mitchell smiled at me as he recalled his own words, which had floated off into the ether, unheard.

A bronze-colored suit, he remembered. It was hot, but windows weren't open, giving the apartment the feel of an interrogation room. "You know those long living room windows? Not even cracked." The vest stretched across the back of the unknown visitor seemed to wheeze as he did. He must have refused a chair, wanted to show Mitchell's father deference, half-stood half-crouched, hands on knees sometimes bracing himself. Maintaining the posture cost effort.

"Out of shape."

Brown shoes."Where do people buy those, at a Mafia outfitter?" Mitchell laughed about that dated style even as he described a serious threat.

"Think of old movies where the good guy ends up behind bars or in a box."

His father, he meant, of course.

"I swear the bastard wore cufflinks."

I saw from the way his eyes changed to fear that he was talking now about the villain.

"An underworld type."

Mitchell said he tried to intervene, thought he might get through as his father couldn't.

"I was more on the guy's level, strange as that may sound."

They were of the same generation- his father seemed, by contrast, a world away- but Mitchell sensed a common outlook. He saw his eye movements and felt they might even reflect character traits similar to his own.

His father was getting old, and bitter about it. Mitchell said he felt for him but wished his personality weren't worsening with age- not everyone's did. Mitchell found him increasingly hard and intolerant, and visiting more of a chore each time. He had to push himself to go. When possible, he brought a friend along for the moderating effect; face to face with a third party, his father became agreeable.Throughout his life, he'd prided himself on his cordiality- and with reason; he had great charm. Mitchell just wanted to draw that part of him out again.

"I've been thinking of inviting you to come with me soon."

He wanted to know how I felt about the idea.

Was it some kind of test?

Mitchell talked about the importance of sex to him in general and especially in our involvement. "You've gotta know that." I was with him until he started in about a key card to a hotel room. There were two ways only, he said. Either you could enter or not.


I didn't really like how he looked or talked to me then. I wasn't his student anymore.

Not clear at all! I wanted to say.

"Being open, honest with each other?" I guessed at his meaning. The topic had come up before. Americans talked more than Japanese about feelings. Our difference sometimes led to misunderstandings.

"Yes, but no, no, not that. Only sex." Mitchell saw I wasn't getting it again and looked slightly annoyed. "You drop the card in the slot and get a clear answer. Sex or no sex. Just that clear."

In the first case, he explained, he and I could go ahead together, in the second he'd say goodbye and wish me well.

We both broke down laughing.

But Mitchell was serious and didn't pretend otherwise, said he had a personal philosophy and needed to know whether I understood and accepted it.

"I have to," he reiterated, shrugged without apologizing.

And I didn't understand why. I enjoyed sex with him. Was that not enough?

message: This morning some men cat-called me on the street from a construction site. Weather is warmer, clothes lighter. Because of your message I imagined it was you not them watching and wondered how you would react.

message: I don't like cat-calls. I like thinking of you.

message: Maybe because I wrote you about cat-calls, I had a dream last night that a man- not Mitchell- was photographing me. I was semi-nude, in a costume consisting of sequined silver strips that adhered to my skin and set off its color, bangles that swung when I moved. He was friendly, kind except when I suggested he end the photo session, stop taking pictures. Then he'd turn domineering, make clear it was his will not mine in charge, and that only by following it could I enjoy harmonious relations between us- if I stayed tractable, we got along like a happy married couple; no one- not even I- could feel an imbalance. I ended up in a space apart (upstairs? an attic?), large pale blue room with high ceiling, empty of furniture but handsome like the one I'd come from, bearing the fine details of a town house well preserved from another century. The interior was neither a bedroom nor living room but a hall, somewhere to gather. Windows let in soft radiance, late afternoon light. You could see motes floating down, continuous soothing fall. I discovered I was not alone. Wandering figures appeared in the near distance, neared slowly and veered away, went on with their circling but aimless motion. They seemed to have been at it for ages. Was this their home, the life to which they'd resigned themselves? After some moments I understood that women like me, whom he and other men like him had abused, filled the space. We were in a kind of limbo, waiting between worlds- as in some ancient text- for him to take his pleasure with us at times of his choosing. As newest arrival, not yet bowed by despair, still able to think, exercise hope, I recognized in a flash that the only way to free ourselves would be by joining forces, fighting alongside each other. In a group we'd overcome the fear that prevented any of us from taking action as individuals. I think the dream was about the "me too" movement.

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by Anonymous

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by Anonymous08/07/18

Excellent! Reminds me a bit of my Japanese wife. Two cultures interacting and then not.

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by Anonymous08/06/18

5! I didn'tg read the story but

her breasts and nipples are a 5!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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by Anonymous08/06/18

ten stars

absolutely fantastic!

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