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Chapter Eight: Hijacked Love

January 27, 2011

The next day, I’m writing news headlines at the studio of INT News, dreamily thinking about the last night. Who bloody cares about the fate of Japan Airlines, I think to myself while penciling in the sensitive news about a bankrupt company that is dragging the entire nation with it.

I almost got lucky last night, would be the top story of the hour if there was a news program monitoring life in Tokyo.

Now that I have grown semi-accustomed to receiving emails from you, I wake up my laptop and furtively check my email. There is indeed a new message appearing at the top of my Inbox — “Hello from office”, say the bold black letters. I find myself grinning, and click on it to see what my handsome fellow has to say.

Hi Yuki,

How do you do? Working hard or hardly working?

I enjoyed our time together a lot. I also searched a dictionary for a word you have in your profile “clutz”: “Someone who is extremely careless, stupid and a hazard to be around.” 🙂 Except for the little alcohol you spilled you were very dexterous with your hands. So I will be probably safe around you:))

I’m certainly looking forward to our next date. However, before that I have to tell you that I have a girlfriend in Czech. Hope this doesn’t change things between us. She doesn’t mind if I would find someone here (actually, she encouraged me couple of times to do that). Yeah, we have… an interesting relationship (but that would be for a long discussion). I really like you Yuki… (and that should be good enough)

Hope you are OK with that, and that we will meet on Monday.

-J

PS: I wanted to tell you before we get more intimate just in case you would mind, so that it would be easier (e-mail also seems better so that I would not eventually ruin your evening).

I feel a jolt of pain in my chest, followed by numbness when I read those words: “girlfriend in Czech”.

So he’s taken already. Then it’s over with. Done. Dead in the water.

My cheeks burning with humiliation, I slam my laptop shut, and quietly storm out of the room to pour myself a cup of tea from the corner resting room.

What a fool I am, I think to myself, spilling a bit of tea from my paper cup as I bring it to my lips with an unsteady hand.

God, God, God! Why did I have to meet a good man, only to find out he’s not available? Walking back down the mirrored halls toward the Newsroom,  I contemplate the next course of action: what should be done?

I look at my reflection in the mirror with a sense of horror and icy fear.

It’s a pretty face. A kind, honest face, but  a small crease has appeared on my left cheek, reminding me that my youth is drying up. White hairs are starting to spring up from the side of my head, a memento mori that my time on earth is running out. In five years, I will be like that dried-up cake in the store window, the one that no one will buy.

Anguished, my entire face crumples with desperation.  I’ve been a good person! Am I not a good person? It’s the first thing my mind screams out. I donated thousands of dollars to charity, I have always helped out a person in need. I have never spoken ill of anyone at work, and have done my utmost to help my brothers, to be kind to my mother and father. Why, Why, Why do you torture me so? Why can an immoral and demented woman find a husband, and why must I must struggle so hard to obtain just one fleeting shot at love?

Oh God, God, how much longer are you going to make me wait for Love?! I believe in You….and yet I fear it is Your plan for me to be alone. Look at me …. 29 years old and never in love….I believe in You and yet I notice more and more that You’ve forgotten about me…I am waiting and You don’t have anything planned…

I sat there for more than a minute, contemplating my months ahead, alone and crying myself to sleep, wondering if I will be old and gray-haired when Love finally finds me.

Something inside me snaps.

No.

No, no, no, no more.

Flustered, I stand up. 29 years is quite long enough.  I am not willing to bear, I refuse to be single any longer.

Even though reason and logic tell me that this man is not The One, he is the first “someone” to cross my path in all these years. I am going to wrench love out of Destiny’s hands, I am going to mug Love in its path and beat her down until she gives me a share of what she has given everybody else.

No. It’s fine to be a virgin at 19, but 29 years is unacceptable. I haven’t even held hands with a man before, never even kissed a man I like, and You expect me to refuse this temptation, like the virtuous girl I am.

All my life I have been an honest and good girl, but there is no way I am going to live with this humiliation for one more day.

I am changing, right now. As of today, I am yanking the handle away, and if I crash, so be it.

Taking three deep breaths, glaring at my face in the window, I slam down my cup and walk with angry, deliberate steps back to the office, and throw open my monitor in an abusive manner.

Okay, Josef. You’ll get your fling. I’ll get the affection and connection that I deserve.

So I write back, furtively, thanking you for telling me and replying that I’m fine with this, that I will have to go back to Canada anyways and that it’s better not to establish deep ties with anyone in Tokyo, which is logically correct.

With the restless, cold sensation like live worms in my stomach, I hit “send,” and contemplate the dizzying possibility of days to come.

There, my fate has been changed. Dear God, I am sorry but I cannot wait for You to do something any longer.

 

***

 

While walking outside of the INT building corridor out into the Shibuya fashion district, a sudden realization hits me like a drop kick to the chest: if I am going to be undressing in front of you, I seriously need presentable underwear, and fast.

All I possess now are the spandex sports bras in grey, black or “used-to-be-white,” and cheap $3 undies that I figured no one would ever see. There is that one baby blue lace bra and panties, but I cannot wear the same underwear for you night after night.

 

I walk past the hippie clothing and fair trade/organic gear, toward the epicenter of cool in Tokyo — Spain-zaka, a narrow, sloping street along my way to NHK.

I walk back to Une Nana Cool again, not only because it was cheap in comparison to luxury lingerie, but because they were not like the other lingerie shops around, with “template” bras and panties. Those pieces of underwear were disturbing to me, mostly because they were supposed to inspire passion in the bedroom, yet were clearly crafted with zero passion and 100% industrial utilitarianism. They all had the same “Made-in-China” look that made me think not of sexy women, but of low-paid middle age women slaving away in a factory.

 

But at Une Nana Cool, the shop was filled with the kind of underwear in all kinds of luscious, delicious colours come into your sight range: there are dazzling, purple-toned blues, delicate gold lace, crimson red, amethyst purple,  forest green, sunlight yellow, ripe peach.

 

I pick out two bras: one, a baby blue lace one, and another crimson red, yellow-polkadot bra where the circles look like overlapping yellow bubbles. It’s a bit cutesy, and could even pass for a bathing suit, but I choose it anyway. I choose another one, a dark purple bra with ribbon-pattern fabric.

 

Walking out of the store with bags in both arms and a lighter fabric, I feel awkward and strange: it’s so unlike me to spend $100 on this kind of underwear.

 

The 6pm sky was a surreal, biblical-painting blue, and I walked with light steps through the bustle and noise toward Shibuya station, feeling like an upgraded version of myself.

 

The underwear was now covered — now, there was the question of actual sex.

 

I wonder if I should do some research on giving blow jobs, general etiquette, or watch some porn as “research” for my first experience.

As I get home and turn on my computer, though, it feels like all the tips and tricks would probably just be a distraction and I should simply let it happen (who knows if we will even have sex on the third date, anyhow?).

 

 

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