In the days of my youth, the legend seemed like a cold and distant fabrication when I heard it. At times, I even felt repelled, questioning whether it was appropriate to depict the sacred Lord Buddha as someone so sickly and ignorant of the world. However, having lived for nearly seventy years now, and having indeed reached old age, which inevitably brings illness and the clarity of my own demise that lies beyond the affliction, I find myself utterly admiring the truth of each and every word expressed in the legend—-yes, yes, absolutely, I keep telling myself, this is what it means to live: if you thoroughly scrape out from human existence, using a bamboo whisk perhaps, all things that pass and fade away, including youth, beauty, love, emotions, material wealth, social status, and worldly abilities, the skeletal frame that remains in the end will be merely made—-for everyone alike—of old age, illness, and death. Everyone, including myself, realizes this for the first time only after facing old age, after facing illness, after facing death. But perhaps, we die without ever becoming aware.
Buddha, however, was still in the flower of his youth when he’d understood—one beautiful day when his hair was still jet-black in hue—the absolute skeletal frame of life itself to be the ‘suffering’ caused by old age, illness, and death. What’s more, he understood this suffering to be common to all living things and renounced the world to pursue the spiritual path to transcend this suffering. What cosmic sensitivity, what cosmic kindness! What delights me even more is the fact that the youthful Buddha has articulated exactly what lies behind our aversion to old age, illness, and death, which are inescapable truths for all of us. He said,
When young, one is subject to aging
when healthy, subject to illness
when alive, subject to death.
In other words, he’d realized that behind our denial lies our subconscious belief in our own superiority—our arrogance. Ahh, who else on earth could ever speak into my ear these words that tear open my chest and expose so plainly, so logically, how rotten my heart has become in the course of living and harboring it for seventy years.
In the latter part of the book, she writes about her current state of mind as follows.
If ‘life’ were clothing you put on a skeleton that bears old age, illness, and death, then I’d like, if possible, for this clothing, worn only for a while, to be beautiful and graceful. If one thinks of the way one lives in life as the way one dies in life, one is fortunate. If you understand that living with exuberance is to go on to die with exuberance, you’ll have peace of mind.
I was inside a taxi on the night of January 3rd, returning to my apartment, when I suddenly had chest pains. My breathing got rough, my heart began to pound, and every time I breathed my throat made a whistling sound before my entire body began to shiver. It felt as though several of the tubes of my lungs were clogged, preventing oxygen from properly reaching into the depths of my chest. Eventually I became incapable of exhaling properly, of blowing out puffs of breath, as it were. My entire body felt like a deflating lifebuoy, its air being forcibly released through a pinhole.
I had to loosen my tie, unbutton three buttons of my shirt, remove my belt, take off my shoes, and lie face down on the mouton-matted rear seat of the car. Amid such a pressing situation, the driver called out to me many times, but I explained that I was just a little tired, having eaten hardly anything the past three days.
After getting off I went up the stairs of my apartment but had to stop and crouch down three times to take deep breaths.
Several years of hard work were taking a considerable toll on my heart. Every time I pushed myself a little these
days, I started suffering symptoms of angina. My family doctor—a graduate of a women’s medical college—said it was cardiac neurosis, judging from the symptoms I was experiencing of cardiac arrhythmia and chest congestion. She occasionally prescribed for me a mild vasodilator and children’s aspirin. At any rate, the pain was rarely this excruciating.
The room was chilly but I didn’t feel like turning on the heater; my chest was yearning for fresh air. So, without turning the light on, I opened the window first.
I looked up into the dark, starless sky of New Year’s Day. The breath I let out flickered white in the dark. I stretched myself out by the window, my jacket still on, and probably breathed over a hundred times a minute for nearly an hour until I felt heavy with sleep. I then closed the window and lay down on the bed, but my chest pain remained.
Feeling as though I’d swallowed a clock gone haywire, I simply remained still, not moving a muscle.
In the pitch-black room I embraced my own cold body with all my heart, feeling terribly sad. It had been quite a while since I’d felt this way, I thought.
The next morning I called the family doctor and asked her to give me a checkup right away. As usual, she took an electrocardiogram and X-rays of my chest.
There was nothing terribly abnormal about my heart, the middle-aged, bespectacled doctor told me. But an examination of the X-rays indicated that there was some accumulation of fat around the heart. She gave me seven days’ worth of drugs and tranquilizers.
On my way to the office from the clinic I kept imagining the yellowish fatty substance stuck around my heart. I wondered if that fat was also an integral part of me.
When I arrived, the several hundred pictures taken three days ago of men and women in full formal attire were ready: old men sitting up straight with a cane in hand behind smoked-glass car windows; ladies in heavy makeup and fur, greeting guests with dramatic flourishes at the front gardens of the Hatoyama and Ozawa residences. I began writing down their names and titles with a soft-leaded blue pencil on the flipside of the copy paper of each photograph. I wrote down the names of cabinet ministers, ordinary members of the Diet, high-level bureaucrats, the brasses of local support groups, and the executives of large corporations. I was able to confirm half of the guests, but that still left two or three hundred of them nameless in the end.
The task took me a full six hours to finish, and when I noticed the time it was one hour past my appointment with Mrs. Onishi. When I called the hotel the lady was in the usual room. I apologized for the long wait and told her that I wasn’t feeling too healthy, and that I wanted to call off the rendezvous tonight. Her voice sank with disappointment as she asked for the details of my condition, so I answered, It could be that I’m just playing sick.
In that case, come!
The missus was waiting for me, as usual, with the Pink-Rotar—a love egg vibrator—inside her vagina. There’d been a gap of more than a month since our last tryst, so she was horny as hell, the sight of her downright disgraceful.
You told me to stick it inside the moment I got up this morning, she said, clinging on to me as soon as I entered the room. So it’s been in there for twelve hours already, you know.
I’d completely forgotten, but come to think of it, I may have commanded her to do such a thing on New Year’s Day, in the morning, over the phone.
Detecting a faint vibration in the abdominal region, which she began rubbing against me, I listened closely and heard, indeed, the hum of the quivering love egg.
You’ve been a good girl, haven’t you?
Due to my state of health I refrained from being a tease as usual and immediately got down to the nitty-gritty. Completely turned on already, the missus didn’t particularly seem to mind either.
At first I made her crawl naked, and after fishing another, fat vibrator from her Louis Vuitton bag and throwing it in a random direction, I made her retrieve it with her mouth, like a dog, from the carpeted floor. We tirelessly played this game of fetch for about thirty minutes, but I intended to clear out early that night, so whenever she came back with the thing in her mouth properly, I had her face her butt toward me to reward her with a good jiggle of the love egg peeking through her vagina. With the fat vibrator crammed in her mouth, the missus let out a
queer-sounding muffled cry and continued to come multiple times without getting tired.
&nb
sp; Next, I tied her arms tightly together behind her, using a rope she’d also brought along, and then went on to gag her, slip a mask over her eyes, throw her down on the bed, and smear jelly lotion all over her body while pulling out the love egg and shoving the vibrator instead, deep into the base of her vagina, turning the dial to maximum intensity before thrusting it in and out. The missus was drooling, and, by turns, sobbing and screaming; in that way, even though she took intermittent breaks to wipe her vagina with a hot, wet towel, she continued to come incessantly for more than two hours. Casting a sidelong glance away from the missus, who was lying now on her back with her mouth open like a slob, drifting off to sleep, I looked at my watch and noticed that it was nearly eleven. Both my arms were starting to get numb by then, and even though I was now down to just my undies, I was sweating bullets all over my body, partly because the room’s heating was set too high. I sensed then, in the area of my chest, a faint warning of an impending seizure, so I decided to wrap it up for the night with some foreplay the missus had recently taken a particular liking to.
After untying the rope at her back, I made her legs split wide open and fastened her ankles to her wrists with two short ropes, tying each into multiple knots. The missus resisted, but only outwardly; that’s how she reacts every time, and the moment I yell, Don’t move! she immediately becomes tame.
Reinserting the lotion-soaked love egg into her vagina for the time being, I left the bed, removed a nail clipper from my briefcase, and carefully clipped the fingernails of both my hands, one nail after another, clipping the forefinger and middle finger of my right hand particularly short.
Taka Kato, the porn actor, in a popular series titled The Squirting Club, had emphasized that the secret to making your partner achieve a successful squirting orgasm was to properly cut your nails in such a way. A close-up of his right hand clearly showed that his fingernails had been cut short; I remember being impressed by this testament to his dedication, to the thoroughness of his professionalism.
When I returned to the bed and pulled out the love egg, an unbelievable amount of liquid spilled out from the missus’ vagina.
Lodging, at once, the forefinger and middle finger of my right hand in there, I fixed the balls of my fingers to the upper part of the vaginal wall, where the wrinkles were the most prominent, and began to apply strong pressure, rubbing from the bottom up. At the same time, with my left hand, I stimulated the clitoris, turning it like a small screw after, once again shamelessly and without any hesitation, peeling back its hood.
As I made the lower half of her body convulse intermittently while gently calming her as she tried to instinctively release her hips from my grip, I fingered, with a single-minded focus, a single point on her vaginal wall for nearly fifteen minutes, when her abdomen surged suddenly and she began to writhe with waves of ecstasy rippling through her, letting out a sad scream, sounding like a child crying—aaaahnnn. At that moment, a torrent of liquid gushed out from between her legs, soaking my right arm.
Once women get started like that they lose all control and turn incontinent. In the end, the missus thrashed about so much that the sound of the bed creaking resounded throughout the room as she repeatedly spouted out more urine from between her legs, as if to empty her stomach, while her wrists and ankles turned crimson red with bruises, and the gag I’d made her bite chafed both ends of her lips. She finally passed out, looking horrible, the veins of her forehead bulging.
Taka Kato, in one of his video appearances, while watching actresses he’d just met for the first time on set falling prey to his technique with great ease, losing control of their urinary tract and fainting, said, Wow! I really envy women. How is it possible that they can feel so good, experience so much pleasure? I’m so jealous! He casually dropped this line over and over, but you could tell that he was being candid, judging from his half-amazed expression and manner of speaking. It’s often said that the more you master sex the more it approaches sport. I couldn’t agree more.
I didn’t hate Akiko Onishi, nor did Akiko me, I think. But we were never in love. The affair was nothing more than the result of some goodwill toward each other. But if such a faint link is all it takes to propel a man and a woman toward engaging in acts of shameless debauchery, just what on earth is the point of a sexual relationship anyway?
That night, on my taxi ride home, I remembered Raita saying, "Sex is just like eating and sleeping: it’s a momentary, flash-in-the pan performance. And, like, the only reason you could keep doing it over and over again is exactly because it’s so fleeting and forgettable! You know what I mean? Like if you think about it, how else could
we all just go on eating, sleeping, and fucking throughout our lives without ever getting bored, right? In that sense I don’t think it’s even a game, this male-female relationship thing. You don’t hear anyone saying eating or sleeping’s like a game, do you?"
I also remembered Honoka saying, I think liking a person and having sex with that person are, in reality, two unrelated things. But still, men and women get so caught up with the idea of how deeply these two must be connected and eventually get old without ever arriving at a decent understanding of what it really means to like a person, or for that matter, of what sex actually is, don’t you think?
6
ON THE NIGHT OF January 6th, after I did some light shopping at the convenience store nearby and went up the stairs of my apartment, at the end of the dim open corridor of the third floor, just in front of my room, there was someone standing. It did occur to me that it could just be Honoka or Raita, but they’d have entered the room at once. Suspicious, I approached slowly and carefully without making a sound, when the other person detected my presence and turned around to face me.
To my slight surprise, it was Eriko. There were two large paper shopping bags lined up in front of the door and a black travel bag placed at her feet.
Why was she here at such a time? I’d never brought her to the apartment, so how’d she come to know about the place? In the heat of the moment I couldn’t find any answers.
Before I knew it I’d trotted over to her and said, raising my voice, What’s wrong? Something happen?
Still, seeing that face of hers after a long absence, my heart filled with nostalgic yearning.
Although I was feeling physically well again, the exchange I’d had with Mrs. Onishi the day before yesterday put me into a melancholic mood, and I just couldn’t snap out of it. The deed I did with her—which was as exhaustive as constantly turning the switch of a blender on and off—had left me considerably spent.
I left Suwa on the limited express in the evening and transferred to a subway line at Shinjuku to come visit you here directly, but this apartment’s really hard to find from Morishita Station, isn’t it? On top of that, all that was written in my new address book was your mobile phone number, so I got really lost before finally arriving here; the only thing I could count on was my vague recollection of the address I used when I wrote you a letter once. So you can imagine I’m really pooped right now. Eriko spoke calmly, as if she’d just made good on some promise.
I’ve brought you some New Year’s treats in lacquered boxes. You’re not eating properly anyway, right? Okay then, come on, let’s get inside quickly. It’s cold out here.
Now that I thought about it, I did recall receiving a letter from Eriko once, and hearing her tell me afterward that she’d gotten my address from a colleague.
How long have you been waiting? I asked, and she took a peek at her watch and said, I arrived just before nine, so around an hour. I looked at my watch too. It was ten.
You should’ve called.
But I decided to just come on a whim.
Sidestepped by her nonchalant air, I lost all will to berate her for this sudden visit that felt like a surprise attack. More than that, I felt sorry for her, having had to stand there in the cold and the dark for an hour.
It’s a royal mess inside though, I said, turning the knob and opening the door.
<
br /> What about the key? Eriko said without hesitation, leading me to believe that she’d possibly already pulled the knob once and noticed that the door was unlocked.
I rarely lock up.
Why? That’s not safe, it’s careless. She gave me a dubious look.
There’s nothing valuable in there.
But …
Come on inside, please. But it’s rather cramped, I have to say.
I went ahead and took off my shoes. Eriko appeared cautious at first, apparently wondering if anyone else was already inside, but after I locked the door from the inside and she entered the room along with me, she seemed to have banished such a doubt. We sat at the kitchen table, facing each other. I boiled water and served a glass of hot Chinese tea, placing it before her.
Guess you’ve been enjoying it, huh?
Yeah, quite often. Hey, I lead a leisurely lifestyle after all—even when it doesn’t really suit me.
Oh come on, of course it does. Look, if you liked it then I’ll buy some more.
The two of us opened the nest of lacquered boxes Eriko had brought and ate sumptuous New Year’s dishes. The food seemed like something catered from a restaurant, but she told me that everything was in fact her mother’s homemade cooking. In particular the caramelized carp, a Suwa specialty, seemed to melt in the mouth; the fish, for the most part, was devoid of the small bones for which carp are known.
This carp’s incredibly easy to eat! I remarked.
You cut them into round slices, you see— she said and stopped, resting her chopsticks on her plate before fixing her eyes on the fish and drawing her face nearer to it with a jerk. And then you pull out, she continued, the small bones one by one, using tweezers, together with your mother, very delicately so as not to disfigure the body.
She then lifted her face and said, smiling, From morning to night, you spend an entire day doing just that, ending up with a stiff neck and numb hands; I get sick of it every time.
I’d heard that Eriko’s folks run a precision machinery company in Suwa. So I imagine Eriko and her mother have been preparing such luxurious food for the New Year holidays year after year, very likely in the spacious kitchen of a large residence.
The Part of Me That Isn't Broken Inside Page 7