The Long Highway Pt. 03

I wrote here yesterday about therapy, and while I don't give it so much credence one thing I learned is that in the case of a messed-up family like mine, divorced and damaged parents, you tend to try fixing everything, smoothing problems over. Generally, two brothers like Thomas and me would take alternative roles, one the problem solver and the other acting to preserve a positive outward image. I'm not sure which I did, likely a bit of both, but I can say Akemi has helped me more than any therapist and without a lot of talking.

When she's on top of me, I'm sitting up so we're face to face, our sweating surfaces flush, Akemi's legs wrapped around my trunk, my hands on her breasts smoothed shiny wet from her oil, my hand coursing as if sculpting her forms, as if I'm the potter's wheel and she's the objet d'art, well, I don't feel a lot wrong with the world then, inner or out, things seem pretty balanced, thumping along.

Akemi helps me for sure get in touch, as the therapist put it, with my anger, largely I think by giving me hers. She doesn't hold back. When she's fucking me on top, winching her hips, and we kiss, her tongue lolling to mine, sitting up in bed, both of us- I want you to see this picture- our arms around each other's upper chest, peace comes. Another metaphor- there's no better way to convey this stuff- is peace like at the eye of a furious storm.

Akemi's liquid mouth, her orange- amber-colored- tongue. Can you see how it drags, both loose and full of life, animated, a glistening thing the underside curled up for me to get my tongue around. We poke at each other, high and low. It's play but deadly serious, the way her cheeks rub my shoulders, she turns her head to see me from the side and to be seen that way.

And I know other guys would want that too, their hands slick wet from Akemi, hers from them. I ignore that threat, bore ahead.

Come on, baby. Can you see this, feel this?

I guess therapy, for all its faults, got me in the habit of talking pretty openly. I really think that's true. And here I am doing it, to you.

And I guess all that uninterrupted blabbing about yours truly also made me selfish in a sense. Isn't that what therapy is all about, making yourself happy, getting yourself satisfied, and in a way fuck everyone else (lol, I'm joking)

I mean people like my friend Nelson who also need to talk just don't get much access to my ear at this point. I know he feels he's over the hill and wants assurance from me, an old friend, former student of his at college, that he's not, but I just don't want to give him time I'd rather spend with Akemi.

He asked for photos of her, by the way, specifying- like a teacher assigning homework- that he wanted shots of her sucking a popsicle, which I dutifully provided. He said, "Send a lot, even the bad ones. I'll see something in those too." Claiming that as an artist he had special insight.

Akemi said he's just horny. She's not crazy about Nelson, and I can see why. She said of the photos, "He's gonna want more than that. I know what it's about." A simulation of her sucking cock, she meant. Nelson liked to call it fellatio, dignifying the act.

Yes, he's an artist like her, but self-centered as she isn't.

I was already photographing Akemi so thought why not? And she was amenable, if under no illusions.

One probable reason I chose Akemi, find her so attractive, is that she's so different from my mother, how she looks, how she acts, pretty much just the opposite. My mother's emotional turmoil definitely affected the way I see the world, women.

Akemi said she doesn't want to send any more shots to Nelson and I obliged that wish. I wonder if he showed the popsicle ones to his wife Leticia. I mean, what was he guy thinking?

I saw a shot of Akemi bare-chested I'd sent him on the wall of his studio when I visited, large nine by twelve print. Nelson said, "I'm not especially into big breasts, but Akemi's are special." Words to that effect. And they are, not huge but large for her proportions.

Nelson hadn't met Akemi yet but used her name as if they were close.

So no, I don't want to help others talk about their lives. I just don't have the time. I enjoy mine and talking about Akemi.

She and I don't live in continual harmony, by the way. We reach loggerheads sometimes.

For example: We talked this evening about a blogger both of us read who's pregnant and reflecting of late on her decision to have a child and the thought processes of those who choose differently, as Akemi and I have so far.

The blogger is Japanese and I will call her Fuji. Akemi introduced me to her pages.

We tried to discuss her ideas last night but hit a wall.

I started by voicing criticism I knew Akemi shared.

"She was talking to that twenty-nine-year-old woman who said she doesn't want to have children because she saw that people who did went through hard times raising them. And Fuji said that wrong, you can't base your decisions on the experience of others, you should focus only on your own wishes. But Fuji herself is wrong."

Akemi nodded. "She doesn't consider anyone else's ideas, just hers."

"That's not exactly what I mean. I'm saying something different, that other people's experience does count. They're examples. If a lot have a hard time with children or whatever, it stands to reason you might also."

"She judges everything by her own values."

"You're not listening."

"Okay." Akemi heard my sharp tone and stopped.

I was annoyed. "You just have what you want to say and repeat that."

A bad moment. Our communication impasse then had nothing to do with language differences. Does Akemi really not listen to me?

Maybe there's some underlying tension about whether or not we want to have children some day, what we want out of life, about values, that is.

Seeing things from an objective vantage point isn't easy. There's one more reason I write.

Meanwhile, Nelson's been pretty aggressive. Past a point, there's no other word for it. I like, respect him and all, as a friend. But he does want more and more. Maybe he thinks Akemi will save him too, but that ain't happening.