by Guy Willard
With a boldness born of desperation, I ascended the steps. At the top, I went to his door and stood before it for a moment, then knocked.
Someone called out in Japanese and a thought shot through my head: What if he doesn’t live alone? But I knocked again.
The window to the right of the door slid open. In it was the boy’s face, and his expression was a strange mixture of puzzlement and guilty recognition. For my part, I couldn’t think of anything to say, so we just stared at one another for a moment.
I could see he was leaning against a sink, undecided, wondering what to do. He disappeared for a second, then the door opened. He was standing to one side, backed away to make room for me to pass, and making hesitant gestures of welcome.
Tentatively I stepped in. He greeted me with a questioning look in his eyes as if we’d never met—as he’d greet any stranger. Feeling silly, I held out my hand.
We shook hands and introduced ourselves. I pointed to myself and told him my name. He did the same, saying, “Kiyoshi.”
I saw his glance go to my feet, but I knew without his telling me that I had to remove my shoes before I entered. We’d been shown an educational film on board the ship before hitting Japan. I slipped off my shoes and he showed me into his tiny room.
I saw at a glance that he lived alone. His room was much too small to be shared. In fact, the whole apartment was not much bigger than a small bedroom back home. My glance took in the straw-matted floor I’d seen in movies, the closet with its sliding paper doors. Kiyoshi placed a couple of flat cushions on the floor on opposite sides of a small table, and we sat down facing each other.
Never had I felt so awkward. True, I’d brought the situation upon myself. If we’d been in the States, I knew I could have handled it with a little more finesse. But this was totally different. I was dealing with someone who was from an alien culture and had a completely different way of thinking.
As I looked at him, (he seemed unable yet to look at me straight,) I began to wonder if this shy boy could even be the same person who’d fondled me so boldly on the train. The only common point between them was the maroon and white jersey, and, come to think of it, there might have been other boys who were wearing a similar jersey…. I felt my heart contract. Could it be possible that I’d made a mistake? After all, I’d only seen a reflection in the window of a crowded train. It could have been anyone. In which case, Kiyoshi had every right to wonder what the hell a strange foreigner was doing here in his room.
Putting that thought out of my mind, I started a conversation. Maybe I could find out what was going on.
“Can you speak English?” I said, enunciating my words clearly.
Kiyoshi made violent gestures of denial.
“Great,” I muttered, getting a little angry with myself. A look of perplexed amusement crossed the other’s face, and I decided I’d been the victim of a grotesque mistake. Either that, or this boy was playing a sadistic joke on me. Suddenly I felt like leaving.
He must have seen the exasperation on my face, for he made a gesture with his hand of drinking from a glass. I checked my impulse to leave and nodded. He got up and went to his toy-sized refrigerator, returning with a bottle of beer and two glasses.
This is more like it, I thought.
He filled both glasses, and we clinked glasses and drank. As the initial awkwardness wore off, we began making halting conversation in sign language. To my chagrin, my search for adventure had apparently turned into nothing more than a pleasant chitchat.
I had to admit, though, that Kiyoshi was a decent guy and a thoughtful host to boot, making the most of a strange situation. As the beer started to take effect, his reticence gradually wore off and I discovered he knew a lot more English than he’d initially let on. And now that I wasn’t looking at him sexually, I was more struck by his open-mindedness and good nature. What would an American have done in his situation? If this had been happening to someone else, I would have laughed at the misunderstanding.
He told me he attended a university in Tokyo—much to my surprise, for I’d thought him much younger, perhaps even in high school.
I replied by telling him I planned to go to college after I got out of the Navy.
He looked surprised, then in halting English continued, “Bill? You like rock music?”
“Yes, of course.”
He got up and revealed his collection of LPs neatly stacked in the closet. The stereo was ensconced there, too, the speakers flush with the jamb, making the most of limited space. Handling his records carefully, as if they were treasures, he let me examine them. I recognized many of the album covers from back home, and was struck anew at the universal appeal of American pop music. Hearing all these familiar songs on Kiyoshi’s stereo really brought the fact home for the first time.
As we listened, we relaxed some more, taking sips from our glasses, bobbing our heads in time to the music. When Kiyoshi got up to get another bottle, I noticed how unsteady he seemed. And he’d begun talking louder and laughing much more, too; was he so unused to drinking? Or was it that he was faking it a little, acting drunker than he really was? In any case, I found myself also getting more lightheaded and talkative, either from sympathetic reaction, or a subconscious desire to play along with his game.
I was starting to enjoy myself. What the hell, I thought. Even if I’d made a mistake about him, I was still going to have a good time.
I stole a glance at his body. As slender as he was, he definitely had a well-muscled body with a balance that had been pared down to the bare minimum. I’d seen far too many of the guys aboard ship, even the younger boys, getting overweight from lack of exercise. Kiyoshi’s body contrasted quite favorably with theirs; I tried to imagine what was beneath his tight, American-made jeans.
“Do you play sports, Kiyoshi?”
He nodded. “Baseball.” He made motions of swinging a bat. It was so child-like I had to smile. Besides the fact that he looked so much younger than his years, there was an element of innocent purity about him which I rarely found in American boys, who generally like to act tougher than they really are. Charmed and delighted, I wondered if all Japanese boys were like Kiyoshi.
“You look strong,” I told him.
He looked puzzled, so I flexed my biceps and pointed to his.
“Oh, no.” He fanned his hand before his face in a gesture of denial. “Not strong.”
Then he pointed to my arms. “Bill is strong.”
I laughed, now truly feeling the effects of the alcohol. Never one to be shy, I peeled off my shirt and flexed again.
Kiyoshi came forward on his knees and, without the slightest sexual intent (it was more a child-like curiosity than anything else,) put a hand on my biceps, rubbing them, then squeezing. He nodded, smiling.
Innocent as the touch was, I became excited. I saw his eyes flicker down to my chest and away. Neither of us had noticed it, but the record had ended and the room was now silent. Emboldened—before I had time to think about what I was saying—I asked mischievously: “Do you like sex?”
His reaction was unexpected. He laughed. In fact he laughed so hard he actually rolled onto his back, then sat up again. Smothering his giggles, he nodded and said, “Yes. I like.”
Caught up in the mood of the moment, I rubbed a hand suggestively over my crotch, exaggerating the motion for effect. At this, Kiyoshi cracked up even more, and when he could finally control himself, I saw that he had laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes. Then his own face turned mischievous as he thrust his hand toward me, clenched in a fist. A thumb peeped out suggestively between the index and middle fingers. This time the obscene gesture made me laugh.
Still unsure if my meaning had been understood or not, I got up to my feet and went to the window, whisked the curtains shut. When I turned around, I found that he’d gone to the door.
He locked it.
I felt a curious relief, mixed with a sense of wonder.
He crossed over to the stereo to put another re
cord on, turning the volume down as he did so. It was a recent disco hit, a 30-minute non-stop song with a suggestive beat.
Then he reached up to the hanging light fixture and tugged at the thin cord, switching the room’s lighting from a bright fluorescence to the faint glow of a tiny yellow bulb. In the dimness, the odor of the straw matting seemed to fill up the close room, a not unpleasant smell. Now he pushed the small table to a far corner before returning to the open closet and tumbling out bedding mattresses from the top compartment. With practiced motions he spread out the soft, thick mattresses in the middle of the room, straightening them neatly. Then, still squatting, he turned to look at me, his dark eyes shining.
I’d been watching his preparations with a feeling of dreamlike disbelief, and now that the moment had come, I saw that I had to initiate the action. In the stillness, a train thundered across the nearby overpass as if urging me on. I began undoing my pants and saw Kiyoshi follow suit a moment later, as if he’d been waiting for the signal to begin.
Wordlessly we both stripped down to our shorts, though Kiyoshi kept his jersey on. I thought perhaps he might be ashamed that his chest was so much smaller than mine. What interested me much more was the bulge I detected under his briefs, a burgeoning excitement barely held in check. I’d heard that Oriental boys had much smaller dicks than Americans, but I could already tell that I wasn’t about to be disappointed in that respect.
Knowing he wouldn’t undress completely until I did so, I rolled down my briefs, exposing my own brazen state of arousal. For a moment we faced each other uncertainly. Then, seeing he was still hesitant, I stepped over to him and began tugging at his briefs.
He backed away shyly, quickly slipping out of them himself, dropping down to his knees as he did so. I did the same, kneeling before him so that we faced each other on the bedding, each gazing down at the other’s dick, like children, fascinated by the mirror-like double display of our erections. I’d been right: Kiyoshi’s dick was only slightly smaller than mine, perhaps about six inches long.
There are some things done the same way the world over. The language of touch and desire needs no interpreter. In fact, the more intimate an act is, the more universal it is. The musky odor of desire filled the close room, overpowering everything else. It was the same smell I’d encountered so often in my friends’ bedrooms back home.
I rubbed his stomach lightly before slipping my hand up under the football jersey which he still hadn’t removed. When I tried to take it off for him, I met with resistance. I thought of a young girl ashamed of her tiny breasts; I didn’t insist.
We dropped down onto the bedding and I began stroking his dick and rubbing his chest over his jersey. It was only when I’d brought him to the point of excitement at which clothes become a hindrance, when the body begs for skin-to-skin contact, that I peeled the obstructing jersey up.
Then I saw why Kiyoshi had been so shy.
An ugly white scar curved up the left side of his chest, ending at a point just below the nipple. I felt a cold wind blow through me. Feeling a mixture of revulsion and pity, I traced the pale line with my index finger. Kiyoshi kept his face turned to the wall, his chest flushing livid and goose-bumping because his secret shame was now exposed to my eyes.
It was a pity that such an ugly gash should mar an otherwise beautiful body. I knew that in Kiyoshi’s eyes, the scar made him a freak. Because of it, he was unable to undress before others or go to the beach or pool. And it was impossible for him to indulge in the supreme joy of an attractive boy—that of showing off his body to others.
I asked him, as gently as I could, how he’d gotten the injury. With what English he knew, and using his hands, his face, his eyes, he described the childhood accident to me, until I could see it vividly in my mind: the bus stop, the crosswalk, the white car which had seemed so far away, so safely distant. I felt a wave of tender pain engulf me, and bent down to kiss the scar, running my tongue delicately up its length.
I felt Kiyoshi shiver.
I did it again, this time letting my tongue linger.
I heard him moan.
The most intimate act between two people, I thought, is not sex, but the sharing of each other’s uglinesses.
I played my tongue over a chocolate-colored nipple and pinched it softly between my lips. Beneath me, Kiyoshi began to writhe and groan. When I shivered my tongue over the flayed white scar again, he cried out. I felt a moist warmth sprinkle against my chin—again, again, and again...and then, like soft grateful kisses, trickle gently down my neck.
We parted at the station in the pale early morning. As my train pulled away, Kiyoshi gave a little bow and I found myself bowing back. We waved.
In my heart I felt a great happiness. Never in my life had I enjoyed so much uninterrupted sex with another boy. Between the two of us, we’d had ten orgasms—five each—and would have had even more if we hadn’t fallen asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms. The knowledge that we might never see each other again had certainly lent a fervor to our lovemaking, but I’d felt no regrets at parting from him at the station. And somehow I sensed he felt the same. If I had any regrets, it was that Kiyoshi seemed completely happy with just kissing, mutual masturbation, and oral sex. I would have liked a little more variety, but I certainly wasn’t complaining. Now I finally felt like I’d enjoyed a true sailor’s liberty.
As the scenery outside gave way to bleak factories, I looked about me. Already, despite the early hour, the train was beginning to fill up. I found myself pressed farther and farther toward the center of the car despite my wish to remain near the door so that I could see outside. Kiyoshi had told me what station to get off at and I needed to be able to read the station signboards, which were written in English and Japanese.
At one large station, the incoming crowd caused me to accidentally bump into someone behind me. I turned around to apologize and came face to face with a pretty schoolgirl dressed in a sailor-suit uniform. She smiled uncertainly at my apology, then covered her mouth to muffle the shy giggles which shook her body.
A sudden roar filled the air, drowning out my thoughts. The train was crossing a bridge which spanned a dirty, weed-choked stream. I couldn’t remember crossing it the night before.
Taipei
The dead cat floating in the harbor bobbed gently in the wake of a passing fishing boat. Slick and bloated, it turned and spun lazily in a wide arc, nudging against a freighter moored nearby. A sailor standing watch on the quarterdeck finished eating his apple and chucked the core out into the water, where it plunked under, then re-surfaced, already covered with a thin slime.
From the park overlooking Keelung harbor, my ship looked as small as a toy. Spring had come to Taiwan and the cherry trees all around me were in full bloom. Their pale pink blossoms shimmered like snow on every branch. From the bench I was sitting on, the haze gray frigate looked as if it were floating in the midst of this dazzling springtime vision.
I was the only sailor in the park. The others, I supposed, were in the bars downtown, or in hotel rooms with their girls. No wonder local people despised sailors. We never failed to live up to our sordid reputation. I felt ashamed that my short haircut would make me immediately identifiable as an American sailor.
Getting up from my bench, I began strolling through the park. In a hollow area behind a low hill I came upon a group of young boys playing baseball. I watched them for a while, thinking back to my own childhood and the friends I’d once played with. It seemed so long ago now.
As I rounded a curve in the path I caught sight of a high school boy sitting on a bench reading a book. His light gray uniform contrasted fetchingly with the shower of pinkish white petals all around him. I felt a pang in my heart, knowing that this lovely vision would imprint itself forever in my mind. At the same time, I knew that this boy would become just another of those charming strangers glimpsed in passing, whom I was destined never to get to know better...and for whom I’d pine in romantic retrospect.
I deba
ted whether or not to approach him, for I knew that high school boys in the Orient love to practice their English with an American. If I was lucky it could lead to something more. But even as I hesitated, a girl in a dark blue uniform approached and called out to him with a smile. And the boy smiled back in recognition...he’d probably been waiting for her.
Ruefully I continued my walk. Beneath the stretched turquoise sky, a sweet springtime melancholia flooded my soul. I thought of Kiyoshi and wished now that I’d gotten his address. (What had deterred me was my worry that the nosy postal clerk, Bennings, would wonder why I was getting letters from Japan.) Lately I was finding myself more and more attracted to Oriental boys. I used to find them too delicate for my taste, but now their slender builds and graceful movements seemed very sexy to me.
I roamed restlessly through the park, peering anxiously into the face of every attractive boy who passed...and felt a stab of loneliness when my silent plea went unanswered. Self-pity, perhaps, mixed with a feeling of homesickness, made me yearn for those innocent days before I’d joined the Navy, before Brett’s rejection of me had set me adrift in the wide world.
Trying to shake my funk, I hurried my steps. Set among a stand of trees was a squat concrete building of some kind. As I neared it, I saw that it was a public restroom. I thought of the ones in the parks back home which blossomed at night into meeting places for lonely homosexuals. Might not this one serve the same purpose?
The stale smells of urine and wet cigarette butts greeted me when I stepped inside. No one else was around so I made a quick check of the urinals and stalls, looking for any graffiti which might give me hope. (There are certain universal symbols which are unmistakable.) But, other than some Chinese characters which I couldn’t read, I saw none. The only way to find out for sure was to come back here tonight and see for myself. The thought of doing so excited me. I stepped outside again.