The Long Highway Pt. 02

Part 2

The Art of Putting Your Foot in Your Mouth

We were having oinarisan for dinner, pouches of fried bean curd stuffed with vinegared rice. Translates literally to "Honorable Mr. Inari," inari being the god of the harvest.

"I was thinking. Does your mother call it that?"

"What?"

"Your mother. Does she say 'oinarisan'?"

"Yes."

"Because somehow I can't picture it."

"Really?" Akemi looked baffled, though distracted, attention still on meal preparation.

"It sounds too cute for her."

"Hmm."

I sensed disapproval. I was making presumptions about her mother, whom she misses and whom I barely know. I can't understand much she says. I don't know Japanese nor she English.

I kept going, the way you do even knowing you'd be better off shutting up, limiting the damage to that already done.

"Your mother strikes me as a pretty no-nonsense person."

I meant it as a compliment. Akemi seemed to see instead more presumption.

"Not really," she said.

"Yeah, I mean I don't know, of course."

Quiet from the kitchen.

"Maybe all mothers seem no -nonsense, because they're mothers."

Pretty good line, I thought.

Maybe "oinarisan" is not cute in the original, after all.

I sensed Akemi might either hit me or start crying. She can get moody at this time of month. I should have considered that before bringing up stuff sensitive for her.

I hoped she'd work out her anger and homesickness in bed that night.

--

I woke up looking at what appeared to be a black square condom wrapper floating before my eyes, but gradually my eyes focused and I realized it wasn't that but the dark rectangle of the computer screen on the desk at a distance from the bed. I understood then that I'd been asleep and remembered what had happened, Akemi gripping my head, her fingers working my scalp like shampooing, working up a lather, as she rotated her hips.

Deep sleep. I'd been drunk, drank during dinner and after, had worked hard all day and it was a sustained workout in bed. I'd fallen asleep without noticing, plummeted to Davy Jone's Locker.

Earlier we'd both biked home over the bridge. I'd started first- she was held up a minute talking with a friend from the college at the base of the bridge- the friend wouldn't be crossing, was headed in a different direction- and I decided halfway maybe my going on ahead wasn't a good idea, Akemi shouldn't be left alone to ride her bike; it might be dangerous for her on her own. She'd be vulnerable. Who would come to the rescue up over the water, among nothing but blue riveted steel girders and wind? Few people were there and just one bad one was all it would take to waylay her.

An accident had blocked the path ahead so I turned back, my decision pushed into action by the temporary obstruction.

I wondered if I'd be able to find Akemi as she approached on her bike or if we'd miss each other riding in opposite directions.

That was what it had been like fucking, riding in different directions, building cross-currents, and it had felt good having Akemi's light weight on top of me, buoyant as she was when cycling, her limbs golden tan in the night light.

I liked a triangle of flesh from her tail bone to her lower back, a sort of inverted V, plush as velvet, liked working my fingers there, helping her pump, feeling the lithe motion. She was so earnest then, like a cyclist at the height of her ascent, knocking herself out.

Who knows what she was thinking about- Japan? her mother?- before she was thinking nothing. There's something nostalgic about sex, when time seems to break down, expand, each moment becoming eternity that goes by in a flash- again, I'm getting worked up writing about it.

Funny, I guess, that I address you directly. What if there were no you? This would be like wanking into the pillow. But I'm here and so is she and you too- after all, who's reading now?

I remember before sleep she told me she'd put air in the tires of her bike before riding to the college (safely, not harangued). So maybe she wasn't thinking about much at all.

I was surprised, since we usually go to top off air pressure together. Fact is, Akemi likes to do things independently, and more power to her. She's an artist. She paints, and that has nothing to do with me.

When I think of it, I understand that her loyalty is probably greater toward her friends and family in Japan than to yours truly. And I don't mind. I accept that as natural.

When I first saw Akemi, I thought she was a poseur. She acted cool (I can't think of another word), seemed to play the part of a sophisticate. And that didn't bother me. I liked the pose she struck, her smooth elegance. I didn't just accept her image, I wanted it, to get into it, break it apart, to see the glittering treasure, take off her mask and costume to the core beauty beneath, her sleek hair that curved forward pertly to her cheeks, her velvety plush bush also deep black my hand would comb.

Her lips which pursed nearly red when she showed her feelings, ones she kept under wraps. When they let them show, they exploded. Her hips wriggled, her whole self vibrated (again, words fail me).

In bed wide awake now I thought for some reason of my commute the day before. I'd taken the subway and on the return trip from the college saw a friend who needed help I didn't want to give and withheld. I spotted Nelson, my former teacher in town for a showing of his art work, boarding the train ahead of me. I was still on the platform and decided to go into another car to avoid sitting with him, having conversation during the ride. I felt in the wrong, as I knew, I know, Nelson wanted to talk, is going through some things in his life (feels his career is in decline; he's not getting the attention he once did). I reasoned that if he doesn't see I'd opted against his company he'd think none the worse of me. But still I'd know what I'd done and would continue to feel in the wrong.

I don't know why this came to mind, except it shows how differently I feel toward Akemi than everybody else. I like to give myself to her and not to others but recognize that can't work, won't make a successful marriage- however you define success; again for want of other words.

And it's hard to say whether wanting her is the same as wanting what's best for her (which is for her to decide). Ideally, the two coincide, in getting pleasure I'm also giving it. But when I draw her waist up onto my elongated hard cock, that's definitely for me. I think I talked about this in yesterday's chapter (the first), the selfish impulse, the aggressive impulse. Love is mutual happiness, isn't it?

Anyway, it's not as if I'm telling you anything you don't already know from your own experience.

I'm inviting you on board this rocking and rolling union (strictly as a passenger). See how long you can hold on, not only when it's smooth sailing but on the rocks. Like any couple. we have our share of hard times. Life makes that happen. Not much is really in our control- such as whether you choose to keep on reading, lol.

You, I'm talking to you!

Imagine your cock head plunging deep into Akemi's wet pussy, smooth, elastic, susurrating, then churning dark, yeah pumping (the right word). How long would you hold out before losing your senses, as it may seem to you I have, lol.

Christ, I hate that lol thing, don't you?

But I don't hate Akemi, her hips in my firm grip, even when I grip hard, nor does she me, even when she's that close to pounding my chest. She's passionate but nonviolent, like a cat who doesn't use its claws.

It was good being with Akemi, enjoying my life, forgetting everyone else's. I stirred her in bed though it was after two a.m.

At her quietest, how deep does Akemi go? How alone does she feel?

I see I'm writing more than I want about myself. I want this to be about her too, mostly about Akemi, though maybe that's also for me, about but not necessarily for her. It's hard to think clearly when every thought leads to her great ass, silvery sleek as a fish.

But I don't feel today's chapter is going as well as hoped. Some of these things are beyond your control. Like sex is, at its best (although control is also good). Akemi didn't say too much last night. Can I help that?

I felt profoundly alone before she woke up in the dark, much as I had on the bridge wondering if I'd find her.

Her breasts had swung in reach of my face, there for me to catch, as her hips rocketed up and down, building toward her climax on top of mine.

I wanted that again. There was another black condom packet ready to go.