(no subject)
Mishima feverishly gnaws at my neck and earlobe, mumbling his mercilessly lascivious hate as he claws my back until I am sure there will be blood. This is what Mishima is all about because he is a business man, that is, he is all business. “I suppose we both got what we wanted out of that” is what I guess he is saying after we have both cum and he is pulling his underwear back on. I am laying there with my podgy stomach riddled with scrapes and dark-green bruises, nursing a bloody lip (from where he bit too hard) with a tissue from beside my bed. He is ruthless and insatiable, Mishima.
“Are you going out?” I ask. He does not reply, he just pulls his shirt over his head. “We need some garbage bags. I mean, if you’re going out.” He grunts, Huhh. “You don’t have to get them if you’re not going out. We don’t need them unless you’re going out for other things.” He goes somewhere.
It has been like this for about two months now, me and Mishima. He is a superman, a paradigm of humanity, but he is also kind of neurotic and annoying. He bites his nails down to the cuticles and uses up all of my ocean-breeze body wash, which is pretty expensive. But whenever I smell him and sigh longingly, he simply turns away, red-faced. I would show him my plethora of products designed for hygienic maintenance, but he would be disgusted. He is a man’s man, but also a pretty man‘s man‘s man, much to his chagrin. However, I suspect that he shaves his feet and toes.
When people ask me if I am seeing anyone, I do not know what to say. Usually I just say that yes, I am sleeping with an older Japanese man, a writer. “Ask him if he knows Murakami,” my savvy friends will always excitedly inquire, and I will always assure them that Murakami is not even remotely on the same level as my older Japanese man, my writer. My friends look sheepish and uncomfortable, and I do not tell them that I already asked Mishima if he read Murakami. (I once gingerly held out my copy of The Elephant Vanishes, at which Mishima had furrowed his wizard-brows and let loose a symphony of displeasure and revulsion. Later on that day he put me in some sort of martial-arts stranglehold until I saw stars, and I liked it.)
What Mishima really needs is a job. I know that he can speak English. His English is most likely better than mine is. I am sure he would never end a sentence with a preposition. He simply refuses to utter a single word in English. I know why, as anyone who is familiar with the man should know why. This does not change the fact that his pride prevents him from taking a menial job, and his stubbornness prevents him from taking a job in America with any sort of prestige. He was writing for a while. I bought him a type-writer I found at a flea market in Medford, and he seemed happy. He gave me a hug and then made dinner. One Wednesday morning, I heard a loud crash and ran into the living room, where I saw him standing by the window, his face, stone. The typewriter lay on the sidewalk, smashed to bits. Rosa from upstairs called the police.
Things are better now. I have passion in my life now. Sometimes I feel like Mishima’s tongue is going to slam clean through the back of my skull and I will be dead instantly. Our teeth click together incessantly and my brain rattles. “I don’t like always being so rough,” I tell him, staring him in the face and pulling his arms away from the back of my head. He looks confused, which is a rare facial expression for him. We are nearly the same height (we are both slightly shorter than average) so it is easy for me to wrap my hands around his waist and kiss his thick neck in measured volleys of controlled passion. I feel him exhale through his nostrils and am relieved until he deftly thrusts his arms between mine and tosses me onto my back quicker than heartbreak. I watch him undo his belt-buckle, his face never losing its grimace. “Don’t you ever feel like you’re disappearing?” I ask, finally resigned to what I should have known all along.
Oh, Mishima. I wish you would let me hold you tight, my left arm across your chest, my right across your stomach. I wish you were part of the Now, that you could let go of the Then. That you could let go of your stucco-faced boyhood, the shadows and craters of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and your feudal, futile, fatalistic sensibilities. You are lonesome, like a wave crashing on a rocky Hokkaido beach. I know it, you do not need to tell me. Sometimes when my eyes catch the glint of your samurai sword which now obscures my Magnolia Electric Co. poster, I imagine that some night I will reach across your chest at 3:36 a.m. and recoil, my hands covered in gore. I imagine I will pull your shoulder towards me and see your beautiful dark eyes at half-mast, your mouth open in a silent scream that says "forever."
“Are you going out?” I ask. He does not reply, he just pulls his shirt over his head. “We need some garbage bags. I mean, if you’re going out.” He grunts, Huhh. “You don’t have to get them if you’re not going out. We don’t need them unless you’re going out for other things.” He goes somewhere.
It has been like this for about two months now, me and Mishima. He is a superman, a paradigm of humanity, but he is also kind of neurotic and annoying. He bites his nails down to the cuticles and uses up all of my ocean-breeze body wash, which is pretty expensive. But whenever I smell him and sigh longingly, he simply turns away, red-faced. I would show him my plethora of products designed for hygienic maintenance, but he would be disgusted. He is a man’s man, but also a pretty man‘s man‘s man, much to his chagrin. However, I suspect that he shaves his feet and toes.
When people ask me if I am seeing anyone, I do not know what to say. Usually I just say that yes, I am sleeping with an older Japanese man, a writer. “Ask him if he knows Murakami,” my savvy friends will always excitedly inquire, and I will always assure them that Murakami is not even remotely on the same level as my older Japanese man, my writer. My friends look sheepish and uncomfortable, and I do not tell them that I already asked Mishima if he read Murakami. (I once gingerly held out my copy of The Elephant Vanishes, at which Mishima had furrowed his wizard-brows and let loose a symphony of displeasure and revulsion. Later on that day he put me in some sort of martial-arts stranglehold until I saw stars, and I liked it.)
What Mishima really needs is a job. I know that he can speak English. His English is most likely better than mine is. I am sure he would never end a sentence with a preposition. He simply refuses to utter a single word in English. I know why, as anyone who is familiar with the man should know why. This does not change the fact that his pride prevents him from taking a menial job, and his stubbornness prevents him from taking a job in America with any sort of prestige. He was writing for a while. I bought him a type-writer I found at a flea market in Medford, and he seemed happy. He gave me a hug and then made dinner. One Wednesday morning, I heard a loud crash and ran into the living room, where I saw him standing by the window, his face, stone. The typewriter lay on the sidewalk, smashed to bits. Rosa from upstairs called the police.
Things are better now. I have passion in my life now. Sometimes I feel like Mishima’s tongue is going to slam clean through the back of my skull and I will be dead instantly. Our teeth click together incessantly and my brain rattles. “I don’t like always being so rough,” I tell him, staring him in the face and pulling his arms away from the back of my head. He looks confused, which is a rare facial expression for him. We are nearly the same height (we are both slightly shorter than average) so it is easy for me to wrap my hands around his waist and kiss his thick neck in measured volleys of controlled passion. I feel him exhale through his nostrils and am relieved until he deftly thrusts his arms between mine and tosses me onto my back quicker than heartbreak. I watch him undo his belt-buckle, his face never losing its grimace. “Don’t you ever feel like you’re disappearing?” I ask, finally resigned to what I should have known all along.
Oh, Mishima. I wish you would let me hold you tight, my left arm across your chest, my right across your stomach. I wish you were part of the Now, that you could let go of the Then. That you could let go of your stucco-faced boyhood, the shadows and craters of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and your feudal, futile, fatalistic sensibilities. You are lonesome, like a wave crashing on a rocky Hokkaido beach. I know it, you do not need to tell me. Sometimes when my eyes catch the glint of your samurai sword which now obscures my Magnolia Electric Co. poster, I imagine that some night I will reach across your chest at 3:36 a.m. and recoil, my hands covered in gore. I imagine I will pull your shoulder towards me and see your beautiful dark eyes at half-mast, your mouth open in a silent scream that says "forever."