The first date ended cordially. The second date...well, not so much.
The second date happened a few weeks later. We met in Shinjuku at a Korean BBQ place. Him in his Calvin Klein suit, slicked back hair, and delicious cologne made me flush as soon as he approached my vision. He walked and talked with great confidence and charm. Not to mention his piercing gaze. Dinner again carried on with little depth in conversation. Banter, general talk about life and dating. And again...the tie came off and the top two buttons slipped open to reveal his muscled chest. Did I mention he was a rugby player and still managed to maintain the build 10 years later.
From dinner we proceeded to the Park Hyatt to enjoy some drinks. As we sat the bar, the overt flirting picked up. He asked if it would be ok to hold my hand. This shocked me, as no guy has ever asked, and certainly not one who cared himself with so much confidence. I agreed. He had baby soft hands, that wove themselves between mine. I felt like a child compared to him and quickly found myself lost to whatever he suggested. Needless to say, I exceeded my capacity for liquor that night. While sitting at the bar I tried my first martini, a few imported beers, all topped off with a glass of champagne. Something I had never had and quickly found that I couldn't handle. Feeling tipsy and a bit nauseous, it quickly became clear that I wasn't fit to to make the 40 minute train ride home. At this time I was totally unfamiliar with the area, but my date was nice enough to take me to a rather nice love hotel...what was one of my first, of many, trips (to what I have now come to realize as Kabukicho...wow, was I clueless).
While we waited downstairs for a room to open, I sat with my head between my knees. He continued to rub my back. Once up in the room I was too exhausted to do more than remove my shirt and pants and slip under the covers. He kept his back to me until I was underneath. I called him closer to the bed and ask him to stay until I fell asleep. To be honest, at that point I was up for almost anything. And as he sat next to me, I curled up around him and tried to lure him in. With enough flirtatious conversation his hands made their way over my body and yet he did nothing more than stare. Despite being past my limit, I soon become embarrassed, yet...well, you can imagine. After 15 minutes or so, he lay next to me and just caressed my face. He gently kissed me. It was pleasant and, while I can try and blame the alcohol, I can't deny that I would have been open to just about anything. Yet, he stopped and quickly picked up his things to leave stating he wouldn't feel right doing anything to me in this state. I was shocked and just like the first date, things ended with me dumbfounded as to what had just happened.
The next morning I work early and using a hand-drawn map he had left for me, I made my way back to Shinjuku station. I reached home by 8am, only to find my roommate had bolted me out of the apartment. I was exhausted, hung over, and just wanted to crawl into bed to sleep. I rang the doorbell, I pounded, I called and yet nothing. Finally, I pulled myself up onto the 6 foot tall brick wall, carefully maneuvered my way along the 4 inch wide wall that separated my apartment from the surrounding houses. I can only imagine what it must have looked like to any onlooker who watched as I balanced my way across 20 feet of wall, with the grace of a drunken ballerina, and lowered myself into our "backyard." With nothing else to do, I pounded on her window. Nothing. WHAT THE HELL! I pounded again, this time loudly whispering her name. Finally her curtains opened and she scowled out at me. Granted, I should have e-mailed or something to let her know I wasn't coming home, but was it really necessary to bolt the door, where the heck did she think I was?!
This was the start of my tumultuous relationship with my Japanese roommate and my brief love affair with a true Japanese gentleman.
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