Platonic Love
Chapter 2
Crashing sounds of ming vases adorned with court ladies being knocked down startles you. A little. You are used to it. Your husband is getting one of his attacks. They are coming more often than usual. Now, thrice a day instead. His heart is too weak for the masculinity of him. Sometimes, the little beats speed up as if he has run a marathon, sometimes the beats diffuse into flaccid thuds. However you don't remove yourself from your comfortable position at the edge of the bed. Cluster of jerky voices- some shouting instructions, some gasping, reach you. In this predicament you still remain perched and composed. There are two options- to attend to your husband or stay still. You choose the second one. You don't wish for this incident to affect your mood. The other man who whispers sweet nothing in your ears has arrived in Tokyo- you haven't seen him in a whole month. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
The ski trip from many years ago. It pops in unexpectedly. The slightness of the other man's confession remains in your head even he is miles away. But not today- he is back in Japan. If you were at a campfire you would do a Kimbaya dance, making three rounds around the fire.
You enter the room stricken by grief, and see your mother-in-law sobbing for the umpteenth time. Her shoulder heaves. Up and down. Pause for a nanosecond. Down and up. Bobbing like waves- the Tsunami you wish will arrive promptly with the Suou's money beckoning like hefty bait, wash this grieve away.
I have to go home for a while, my father's gravely ill. You find yourself saying, in a mock tense manner. She gives a nod of approval, eyes rounded and misty and you almost spring out immediately.
The chauffeur offers to take you, but you reject graciously. Far too risky. So you hop onto the waiting cab. Fidget. Lock and unlock your hands.
Buildings tower over the small vehicles populating the roads and hug the crossroads of street path as you peer out of the misted windows. You note that the rarely seen stars are exceptionally bright. Twinkling, winking at those who bothered to take a fraction of a second off their hasty schedule and pursing their ludicrous glitter all over the city. Like stardust. Slivery diamond sheen. Good omen. Everything's going to turn out nicely.
You alight at a hotel. Press several five thousand yen notes into the driver's palms giddily after you both exchange polite closes and he wishes you a nice time. Stilettos gliding across a tessellation of smooth marble. Left, right. Left, right. Rapid lady-like steps- just like how Granny Suou taught you years ago. You get into a lift before the door shuts. The air is overpowered by oppressive perfume, snaking up noses, strangling each passenger; a silent oppressor. Twentieth storey, you've reached. X marks the spot. Not quite. Suite 2005. Ten more shaky steps to that man.
Knock. A resounding, anxious knock. The door swings open and you dash into his arms. Hikaru!
He is instantly rewarded by long rebonded ebony hair bouncing into his vision. He pulls you to him immediately; the grip is strong and wanting unlike your husband's fragile hold. Your lips meet. Lips straining with need, attention, the monthly dividend of pleasure. His mouth moves lower and you feel the cool air attacking your skin as he pushes the full skirt of your pastel colour sundress up. It is a Versace number in peach hues. The Suoh granny warbles that socialites should be dressed richly in classic colours, not those cheap-looking harlot like jeans and tops in vibrant cosmic colours. You don't want to cross her path. You comply.
There is a wanting. Or to put it more precisely at the turn of events, there are too much wanting, needing. The familiar feeling you is mellow, unyielding and compelling. A feeling darting between fork-tongued guilt and excitement. Why there are thieves who steal not for money, you can comprehend the physiology. You smell of the luscious DKNY cream of ginger and white peach that the other man presented to you in a gift box together with the flirty Vera Wang cocktail dress which ended with an attached vanilla pencil skirt. That dress is in the back of the walk-on wardrobe smelling of the rich scent of another night's love-making.
Underneath the outfit is a matching set of lacy black lingerie. Your lover snatches it off so fast; momentary disappointment depreciates your flaming desire for him by a little. His fingers are exploring your vanilla waist, occasionally dipping dangerously close to the spot where you are growing wet. You want him hard between your thighs accompanying you to the place like heaven where syrup and honey foster down lanes endlessly. You hanker for him pushing into you, hurting you, driving up the hollow walls testing your boundaries, limitations and endurance, then making you come.
You tug his boxers down and smile- he is ready for you.
All the time you are under him, shaking, head thrown back in demanding passion, you are mulling hard. Then dismissing the guilt callously. Whatever, you think. You know you shouldn't do this, but every time you are with the other man your heart beats in joy and your fingers cannot keep off him. You demand for his arms to be around you all the time- a false sense of desired security, and literally cry when your two part ways. A mild sense of intoxication sweeps over a you who is delirious with ravishing solace.
Then, it is over. Hurled down from the peak.
An aftermath of hickeys, croissant shaped imprints tattooed bodies, an array of creases embossing the bed sheet- dire evidence of crazy love- you and your body are satisfied.
The suite is silent except for his voice, the air-conditioning humming and you going "Mmm hmm..". Your fingers draw circles on his chest while he tells you about the accomplished job he is so proud of. He drones on about his latest fashion show in the States, the Mandarin Oriental- a glitzy tower or vertical mall, the snake-skin lined grand piano, the red roses that spelt out his name and the spoilt size-zero models with coral lipsticks strutting around in the shearling-lined outfits he designed. He laments that among the star-studded crowd women from actresses from the West whom Japanese are almost madly obsessed with naming Meryl steep to Paris Hilton was present. Jealousy is a worm. It wriggles uncertainty and squirms unease in you. Desperately trying to banish it, you pout. Like a routine, he ends with 'But I only have my eyes on you'. Routines are divided equally between your husband and the other man.
The stars glimmer off the mini chandelier and sparkle lust in his eyes. And the eyes turn tender like a lamb. Inside the pupils are mirrors of the future, one that will not involve both of you soon. But you can see that the other man wants you as much you thirst for him. Although this meeting is as pointless as a teenage love affair, he is the bread you feed on for survival.
The other man runs a hand through the mane of auburn hair and you shift yourself so that your contours match his and kiss him for the umpteenth time. He is so good-looking. Angular jaw line, the sharp cheekbones of a Japanese male pop idol, 'M' curvy lips so soft and hot at the same time and body taut from physical workout. A recent gossip magazine once listed him as number five under the category: Japan's most sexiest bachelor. Girls flock to him aplenty and sometimes it makes you derangedly jealous. Most of the time.
"I love you, Hikaru." You breathe, hoping that he would not seek out the plead in your voice, licking him like a cat.
Trailing fingers explore your back, stroke your thighs. His touch is like hot steel.
"I love fucking you." None of the host club boys have ever said that word or any word like that way back in high school. Vulgarities like that were considered crude, not to be left from a mouth once born with a silver spoon. Time and fame has enriched his vocabulary.
Wrong answer, you sigh. Nevertheless, in return you clamour over him, grip onto his shoulders, steady yourself and take the lead to do what is required for me.
"Ride me" he says.
During your frequent rendezvous, he enjoys lying down motionless and being pleasured. You make him come and he makes you come, that's how he sees love-making as from one of his jarring aspects. Another physical pleasure he engages in life, far from prying eyes of the media and public is threesomes. Two ladies servicing. This man has many other dirty habits, fan girls are unaware of. He confides in you when he is surly from alcohol and you lend him a listening body. His life is not perfect, but you love him. More than Mr money-bags Hubby, one foot into the grave, half-dead on the bed at home.
The blood that spurts life in baby lying in the lacy crib back in the Suou residence, probably wailing and making a hussy fuss by now, does not have a single trace of Suou essence. No one, except you and the black bunny, in whom you have a penchant to confide in, who hides behind the garden shed, knows that of course.
How beautiful it
is
It is
How wonderful to be
Set free