Splash Damage (Part 1)
How a bad relationship during my decade of living in Japan caused me to revisit the grief I had long avoided.
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After I settle into the rhythm of my new commute—during my fourth summer in Japan, in 1991, having taken a job in the center of Tōkyō—I decide to become a nightly denizen of the local BBS, a dial-up modem connection called GayNet Japan, GNJ for short. Most users live in Tōkyō, and now that I work there instead of the suburbs, I hope it’ll be easier to meet someone who also wants a relationship. I’ve made excellent friendships so far and, to my ongoing surprise, continue to experience lots of sex, but the desired combination of familiarity and intimacy still evades me.
Brent, the Californian I met within my first four months in Japan, had not only rapidly introduced me to gay nightlife in Shinjuku, but also let me confide my ephemeral hopes. Many a night, I picked up the phone to review my latest gentleman caller with him, but even after years of repeating similar confessions—he was so handsome, and I really think he’s going to call me back—Brent would still try to disabuse me of my fantasies.
“What if your paramours are just in it for the safe sex?” he’d say, but I didn’t have the ears to hear him.
In December, therefore, when a man named Kazuya, who loves to travel and speaks English well, slips into my GNJ inbox, I decide against calling Brent. This time will be different, I swear to myself, and I chat with Kazuya for weeks about work, hobbies, and my Japanese abilities. At twenty-nine, he is four years my senior. His favorite destination? New York City, where I spent many a weekend during my junior and senior years of high school. He’s also visited places I’ve only dreamed of, like Bangkok, Hong Kong, Seoul, and San Francisco, so when he asks me to meet him at the GNJ Christmas party, I eagerly agree. A date!
When we finally connect, he leans into my cuddling embrace. His eyes shine brightly yet softly, and when I speak, he looks at me with such passionate interest that I never want to stop talking.
A week later, I invite him to my apartment. He’s spiked his hair with styling gel, and sitting in my living room, he encourages me to touch it. “It’s much softer than you’d think,” he says.
My subsequent flirtations—an invitation to tour my bedroom, a compliment tendered on the curve of his tightly-jeaned ass—pass without comment. He does, however, proffer a kiss when he stands to leave. Kisses are good, I reassure myself.
Kazuya and I meet at Tōkyō restaurants and movie theaters throughout January at his suggestion; he lives equally distant from central Tōkyō, but in contrast to my northwest remove, he arrives from the southwest, in the Kawasaki direction. When he first spends the night at my apartment, he shyly insists on as little light as possible. Even still, I find ways to highlight his attractiveness for him. The curve at his nape. The gentle rise around his hips. The adorable little thickets of hair on each toe. But he skitters away from my sexual attention, preferring to attend to me without reciprocation.
Slowly, his expressions of intimacy bifurcate. Affection settles into his voice, and his sense of humor comes to the fore, inhabiting a smutty territory I know well. Physicality, however, goes on hiatus. I chide myself, though, for focusing on sex. There has to be more to relationships.
Kazuya invites me to his friend’s bar in Shinjuku’s Ni-chōme one night. A squeal from a dim interior heralds our arrival, and Kazuya echoes it. The karaoke machine lights up, and together, the bar’s master and Kazuya perform a series of duets, all Pink Lady numbers from the 1970s. The two of them dance atop the bar in perfect, memorized synchronization.
The lyrics to one song in particular, UFO, amuse me with their reference to boring earthmen, and when Kazuya follows me home, he smiles before turning away from me in bed.
“It’s been a long day,” he says.
We keep dating, however, and more of his personality comes to the fore. His quiet passivity, amplified by his softly bright eyes, feeds my urges to draw him out and protect him. When he visits for Valentine’s Day, I order in Chinese for dinner; afterward, we retire to the couch, cups of tea in hand.
“What’s your favorite food?” I nuzzle against him.
“Juicy Black cock,” he deadpans.
I bark out a laugh to cover my surprise. “Kinda hard to come by.”
“Accent on the hard.”
“Is there anything special you want to do tomorrow?”
“Actually…” He elides into a pause, lowering his eyes. “I wanted to ask you a question.” He moves closer, curling into me on the couch. “My roommate, Dan, is being asked to relocate. He’s a flight attendant for Northwest, and they want to base him in Honolulu now. I don’t know where I’ll be able to move to, and I wondered if I could live here until I find a job.”
I hug him. “Of course you can.” Surely, cohabitation will solidify our relationship. Surely, I want this. Surely, more sex awaits me.
Over the next two weekends, I shuttle Kazuya’s clothing, computer, and travel books in my Daihatsu Charmant from Dan’s place, near the border between Tōkyō and Kawasaki City.
We settle into patterns of domesticity I describe to Brent (I had let him in on Kazuya at the end of January), and crow that I have finally won the boyfriend lottery. My bar visits and anonymous sex hookups end as I decide to play by the only relationship rule I know: monogamy. Kazuya’s interest in sex, sparse though it had been when we dated, evaporates further into nonexistence.
He remains affectionate, though, dispensing smiles, hugs, and reassurances of his love for me. I sleep cozily beside him in my double bed until one morning in late February, when he wakes with a scowl. “Why do you hog the mattress? You keep touching me.”
Bowled over by his sudden anger, I sputter, “That’s a bad thing?”
“Why don’t you try sleeping next to a furnace?”
Consumed with guilt, I teach myself to sleep on the edge of the bed, facing outward, clutching the mattress’s edge. Desperate to earn my way back into his good graces, I pin my contortions on the possibility of restoring intimacy. Whenever Brent calls, however, I focus on what I still believe. I am lucky to finally be in a relationship.
One early March morning in our Okegawa apartment, Kazuya has a question. “There’s a guy on GNJ, Kamoda. I think you met him at the Christmas party? He wants to ask me about travel plans. Do you mind if I have dinner with him?”
I shrug. “The old professor with the elbow patches and tweed jacket? Go ahead.”
His dinners with Kamoda recur the next week and the week after, and my hackles rise. “Is anything going on between the two of you?”
“No. But … Kamoda did ask if he could sleep with me.”
“Are you joking?” I pound a fist onto the kitchen table. “What did you say?”
“No, of course.”
Slamming my office door behind me, I sit at my Macintosh and log on to GNJ. Excoriation flies from my fingers into Kamoda’s inbox. “How dare you come on to Kazuya? Stay away from him!”
A response comes within minutes. “I cannot convey how sorry I am. Please let me apologize in person. Can I take the two of you to dinner tomorrow night?”
The prices listed outside the restaurant Kamoda had chosen startle me. As we approach the table, I whisper to Kazuya, “The entrees here are more expensive than my rent!”
Kamoda, however, has ordered ahead, and a tray of blowfish sashimi waits at the table. Kazuya claps in delight, and I concede its deliciousness—mildly sweet with just a faint tingle on the tongue. When a second tray arrives, Kamoda places an envelope on the table and bows, his forehead to his place setting. “I humbly seek your forgiveness. This is for the two of you.”
Within the envelope await two plane tickets and a printed hotel reservation for a long weekend in Seoul. Kazuya’s eyes widen in delight.
I glare at him. “We can’t accept this.”
“But you have to,” Kamoda interjects. “Everything is paid for already, and there are no refunds.”
Kazuya shoots me a hooded glance. “It would be rude not to accept the tickets.”
With a barely polite bow in Kamoda’s direction, I mumble my thanks.
I take two days off from work for the bluster of a Seoul March with Kazuya. Having visited the city before, he exults in his role as guide, introducing me to the subway system, the street food, and the odd taxi routine—drivers pick up other fares when they share similar destinations.
In our hotel room, we nibble on squid kimchi and little rolls of plain kimbap before bundling up to find a place for a proper dinner. Kazuya leads me to a restaurant, and when the server places the hot stone bowls of bibimbap down, she smiles at me before proceeding to mix the egg, beef, and namul (blanched spinach, carrot, and bean sprouts tossed with sesame seed oil) into the mound of rice.
Back at the hotel, I thank Kazuya for helping me to orient. I only know how to say thank you (kamsa hamnida) and excuse me (silla hamnida) in Korean, and I can’t read any Hangul.
He waves my gratitude aside. “Wasn’t it the right decision to accept Kamoda’s apology gift?”
“It seems a shame to waste this wonderful bed.” I pat it, smiling at him.
His face flickers with disappointment. “Not tonight. I think I ate too much.”
The following day, he takes me to Itaewon, and we peruse the leather jackets and handbags on display. I raise an eyebrow at him. “Louis Vuitton?”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “Not at that price!”
For our last afternoon, he guides me to Lotte World, an amusement park at the ground level of our hotel. When he suggests we ride the indoor roller coaster, I hesitate. In my childhood, fast or spinning rides produced the symptoms of a panic attack, and only by screaming did I keep air flowing to my lungs. “I don’t like roller coasters.”
“But it’s so little! Come with me!”
I give in, warning him of my likely outbursts.
The ride lacks most of the vertigo I know from other coasters, but I yell regardless. The gravity of a sudden turn, however, knocks my eyeglasses from my face.
An attendant finds them, although one of the lenses has vanished. “It’s OK,” I apologize. “I have another pair at home.”
On the return flight, Kazuya again tries to convince me that accepting the trip from Kamoda had been a good idea. I say nothing.
In the deep heat of the summer, before the first typhoons arrived, Kazuya asks if I want to join him once more on a trip to visit his parents—he had already led me to their Gunma home in May for an introduction. The mountains would be cooler and less humid, but I can count my remaining vacation days on one finger. Besides, I still simmer with resentment: Kazuya says his job search continues, but no work has yet to materialize. So I wave him off at the station and head in the opposite direction, to Tōkyō. Brent reminded me about an International Friends meeting. He and I had been regulars at that congregation of gay men since December of 1988, but I avoided the meetings after Kazuya moved in, wanting to maintain my monogamy. After all, Brent would be the first to remind me of the many friends who had sought me out during our attendance before.
A head turns as I join today’s group, and a pair of new, excited eyes dances above an inviting smile, beneath which rests a dark beard. “Please call me Masa.” His height equals mine at six and a half feet, and his broad face beams with warmth.
I begin to bow, but he grabs my hand to shake it. His firm grip delights me.
Not skipping a beat, I smile back. “I’m Brian. I love your beard.” Perhaps former momentary lovers had conditioned me, but facial hair on Japanese men strikes me as incredibly sexy. However, Masa’s softly pale skin does not signal an Okinawan heritage as the other bearded men of my acquaintance had.
His smile deepens at my compliment. “Thank you.”
“Can I ask about your accent?” His flawless English impresses, but the rhythms land from somewhere beyond North America.
“I live in Canberra, but I’ve come home for a few weeks to visit my mum up in Sendai for Obon.” Northern Japan accounts for the paler skin.
Brent shoots me an annoyed look. Masa has captivated me, and I haven’t even waved at Brent, let alone said hello. I flash him a quick smile and turn back to Masa.
As the meeting ends, Brent nudges my shoulder with a touch more force than usual. “Coming to Ni-chōme for a drink?”
I look at Masa.
“I’m a little tired. Would it be okay if you and I went for a walk instead?”
I nod before turning to Brent. “Rain check?”
He purses his lips and replies in a monotone. “Whatever. Have fun.”
Masa walks beside me to the waterfront. “Is he your mate?”
“Brent? God, no. Just a friend. More like a sister, if I’m being honest. I’m guessing he’s jealous. No one else at the meeting was quite as handsome as you.”
Masa catches my eye. “You’re not…”
“Lovers?” I laugh. “No. Never lovers.”
We arrive at a playground by the bay, deserted on a humid Sunday afternoon. Masa sits on a swing and gestures to the one beside him. “Is there a lover in your life?”
Suddenly shy, I duck my head. “I’m living with someone.”
Masa takes my hand and surprises me with his read of my unspoken confusion. “It’s not what you expected?”
I shrug, suddenly ready to talk about Kazuya. “What if the person you loved moved in with you, stopped having sex, and then never ended up finding the job he said he would?”
“Sounds manipulative to me.”
Manipulative. The word reverberates, and my shoulders sag from the weight of it. My throat closes up, and I shudder against an unwelcome onslaught of grief. Thoughts of Kazuya intermingle with memories of my father, dead now twelve years, and I refuse to countenance that connection. Not yet. Not here.
Masa squeezes my hand, and, as I always do, I will the sorrow away.
I smile at him, saying, “I should go home.”
Masa’s voice hums low and soft. “Do you want company?”
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Such an evocative post. Looking forward to the next installment.
Also, having been in a very similar situation, my stomach curled up in knots reading this.