3.23 Saturday Sex

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23. That Saturday Feeling

A not quite sweltering Saturday, but rather warm for May in Tokyo, thinks Tommy, as he walks the hill from Shibuya Station, where he'd got off the train from his office in central Tokyo. His car is in for repair so this week he is taking the trains. Near the station he stops at – of all places – a Jewish delicatessen run by Goldberg, a Russian-Jew expatriate who'd come over from Shanghai. The place features various meat cuts. He asks Goldberg to give him a pound of sliced roast beef; and a pint of coleslaw, the slightly sour-creamy, shredded cabbage salad; and a couple of sour pickles – big cucumbers soaked in vinegar and spice –; and Shanghai-fry potatoes, a cross between French and German, fried in soy sauce.
   Goldberg is fat, his face has a small mustache that looks like it is painted on and he runs the store with his Japanese woman. Tommy loves to get stuff there on his walk up the hill to the pink house and Kimi.

Ten minutes later – not 3 or 4 – he is at the door. They never use a key because, after all, it is Japan.

   “Hey, Doll, I'm home!” he shouts toward the kitchen from entrance, where he is placing his shoes.

   Kimi hurries into his arms. “Tommy, you muss my make up.”
   Disengaging, he hands her the package. “Doll, first let's eat.”

   “Sure, Tommy.”

  He goes down the hall, drops onto sofa and picks up a copy of the Nippon Times Kimi had placed for him.

After a while she comes carrying a platter with a dozen thin slices of the red juicy roast beef and the white creamy coleslaw, along with two potato pancakes that Goldberg had slipped in and onto which Kimi had spooned fridge-cooled cinnamon applesauce from a can bought in a food-specialty shop; and on the side, those Shanghai fries with spicy red ketchup and the big fat, dark green moist sour pickles. Kimi sits beside him and they eat, communist-style, off the platter on the small table in front of the sofa. They use Japanese wood chopsticks, ohashi.
   Tommy has explained to Kimi he prefers ohashi to a fork because it allows picking up and eating a very small bit one at a time compared to a fork's gross spearing of the food, and thus makes the pleasure of eating more exquisite and prolongs it. And she has learned from him to use ohashi in place of a knife by deft, quick twist; here tearing off small bits of roast beef from a main slice or twisting fragments off each piece of Shanghai fry.
   She knows Tommy does not like to talk when he eats and, as an experienced entertainer of men, she eats sparingly, just to show the food is tasty. Her teaching is: the man should feel he is master and should never be led.

   She is alert to Tommy's liking to satisfy his sexual desire after eating, and as he picks the last bit of food off the platter, being neat, she starts to gather up things but Tommy puts a hand on her arm. “No, Doll; time for that later. Do you think you know what I'll admire you to do now?”

   Taking the cue from his frequent play on that phrase, she says “I don't think, Tommy,  I know. Better I lock door first; someone might come while we doing.”

   “Whoever! He or she can join us. No, Kimi kid. I wanna see you take it off now, Doll!”

   “I shy, Tommy. I go get nightie.”

   “No, do a strip. Stand right here as you do it.” He indicates exactly a hands length in front and facing.

   She neatly removes her clothes. Tommy, still sitting on sofa, reaches around her fleshy backside, his face at the level just above her hair line.
   “Um!” He takes a big inhalation with mouth closed. Oh! The smell of it! The tang of it! Le'me try your peechko for dessert”.
   “Tommy, where you learn that word. Only we women say.”

    He lowers head so his mouth is in her pubic-hair and she steadies herself with hand on the sofa arm and lifts one leg to make it easier for him to mouth her, and with her juice dripping down, he enjoys his dessert.”

   “Oh, Tommy, Stop! Bad! Bad! Bad! Please stop.” But her hand holding his head tight up against her gives the lie to her words. She knows these words are a formula for inflaming a man's desire. In a minute she orgasms on his mouth and he feels her spasms and he tastes the salty come from her sexual glands. 

   Slowly he eases her down on the sofa. His words change. Now it is “Take it Bitch!” as he covers her and reaches behind her and gets his fingers into her lower cleavage and one finger inserting partly into her back hole, dragging  her violently against his rigid front.

   “Tommy stop!  You hurt! Stop! Stop! Bad! Bad!”

   But her legs encircle him and then she is kissing every part of his face she can reach. In a minute she orgasms again with hard breathings and sighs and gasps.
   Tommy feels Kimi’s second coming by the rapid twitchings of her vaginal collar on his sex and it speeds his ejaculation which spills into her every nook and cranny.

   At that moment he feels an overwhelming love – not for Kimi – but for the impersonal woman he is jetting semen into - the archetype of all women. He feels connected, complete, a unit, doing what a million years of evolution made him and her for.

  Kimi simply feels content – the metaphoric equivalent of rolling off a log, a very pleasant rolling off.

Years later, Tommy will recall these Saturdays – the satisfaction from his work of the week, the taste-of the deli food, the swell sex Kimi gives him – and it will all sum to what he calls “that Saturday feeling,” a powerful source of his enjoying staying alive.
               To read on, now, click 3.24 Seminar 4; Super Memory