The Long Highway Pt. 14C

I thought, "I'm going pretty hard but it's all right. I'll do the same for Akemi." I'd do right for her. Bang bang.

I pushed with force, bringing the strength of my hands, pushed her up and down. Reached to her shoulders, I remember, gripped there, let her move her head independently, enlisting her will along with her body.

Drunk, I summoned the same thoughts over and over. I wasn't capable of complexity, just thought again, "This is good even if it seems violent. After all, I'll be doing the same for her." Booze had simplified my cognition to the monosyllabic. I'd be doing the same for her, sliding my face against her pussy, harder and harder, letting her open on me.

But before that she got her mouth back on and over, rosing up again at my urging and engaging my cock as a standing pole. The sound effects got more audible as she moved freely, on her own, creating space, and I could watch.

Slop, slop, slop.

Akemi on the subway in her white scarf on her head, like a bandage it had looked from a distance through the moving commuters in the passage she'd entered from one directly to the left, a tributary that joined the river my friend Peter and I were in, coming straight toward her. She looked for a moment like war wounded, a returning warrior, until I found out she was all right, that wasn't a white bandage but a scarf. I never did find out where she was coming from that day.

The passage was damp, with a smell like a cave, not a bad one- you thought of water lapping somewhere- though a bit dank.

That night I managed to reach my father. He was fine too, of course, and asked about my marriage, which was new then. He encouraged me to grow in it, with Akemi, said he liked Akemi because she "didn't have many hangups."

My friend Nelson, former teacher who became my mentor, sort of a surrogate father, also urges me on with Akemi. "Find an Asian woman," he had once counseled. He had old-fashioned-dated- notions of "the Orient," the spiritual, the exotic, but where Akemi was concerned he wasn't far wrong.

Yes, she was a woman liberated in the sense of not holding back or expecting me to. A "revolution" was what she called our meeting and was all for going forward, discovering. Nothing shocked her- or if anything did she hid that well. Put another way, she liked shocks, saw them as part of our growing together, like my white semen shooting in her mouth that would coat her cheek, sticking in her hair. I gave her an orgasm too- actually I don't remember, just that we smiled at each other like two passing commuters, returning warriors and had coffee.

-- --

message from Akemi to Nelson

Hiroko translate

I was thinking of you and wanted to put my husband's penis in my mouth and think of you.

Last night we went out with friends and I told Mitchell I looked forward to us back home alone.

He said I looked good in my tight pants. My hips, he said. His view was from behind as we walked away from the restaurant. He had been talking to his friend and I was ahead with his wife, my friend, and Mitchell came and caught up to tell me about my pants. He said it looked like dancing when I walked in them.

It was funny because he'd been flirting with my friend. They'd agreed to keep in touch, talk more about something they had talked about at dinner. Mitchell's friend was from work. Mitchell hadn't realized, had just learned, that his wife was also interested in something related to their field. Her name is Maddy. She's pretty, has curly blond hair which matches her character. She is usually cheerful, has a loud laugh though also a quiet side I like. Her personality is both outgoing and introspective. She likes to make people happy. She's bigger than me, has wider hips.

She wrote her phone number on his wrist by the back of his hand. He kept looking at it like he was afraid he'd lose it, the numbers might fade quickly. I didn't mind. That wasn't serious, and we're both free to talk to whoever we want, right? And she's married, after all, to Mitchell's friend.

Mitchell said her writing on his skin felt like getting a shot from a nurse. He's funny. She likes him. He has charisma when he's not stressed from work. I wanted to help him with his stress (I want to soothe yours, to put you in a good mood, excite you).

Talk had been about an annual physical exam he and his friend were going to get at work and found a bother. They speculated on how long that requirement would remain in place, joked that maybe when they were old they wouldn't need checkups at all anymore because they'd be going to die soon anyway. They laughed, both in good moods (I liked Mitchell's friend too).

Mitchell was feeling so high, not only from drinks at dinner, that he danced as we approached the car, and a woman, thickset Hispanic woman, smiled at him, his cheerfulness on display. She liked dancing, I think. There was a gleam in her eye.

She didn't know what Mitchell was thinking- looking forward to our getting home alone. The good-natured bystander in the parking lot had frizzy hair with grey in it, was in her forties, I think, looked Filipina. It was ironic. Because there were four of us, she didn't know Mitchell was thinking about me (it could instead have been his friend or her wife) and he didn't know I was thinking about you. I wanted to make it so hard and wet.

Am I a bad woman? But he enjoyed it!