Bedtime Eyes

Amy Yamada is the author of over twenty works of fiction and nonfiction. She is the winner of the Naoki Prize, Japan's equivalent of the Pulitzer, and - for "Bedtime Eyes" - the prestigious Bungei Prize. She lives outside of Tokyo, Japan.

 
Spoon made me feel fantastic—by that I mean he made my body feel good, but not my mind. He could make love to me, but no matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t make love to him. I wanted to know what other people did in the same situation, so I asked my friend Maria, but she wouldn’t tell me. I wanted someone to tell me what to do, to give me a list of instructions to follow.
 
It took me too long to realize that it was far more difficult to lick his wounds than to suck his cock. Now I wonder why I didn’t start practicing earlier.
 
Even now his empty bottle of Brut aftershave and his vitamin-E tablets (without which he swore he wouldn’t be able to fuck) are on the counter of my bathroom sink. I can’t bring myself to throw his stuff away, I can’t even put it in one of the suitcases he left behind and hide it away in the back of the closet.
 
When Spoon ran away from the Yokosuka Naval Base, he packed all his things neatly and came to my place, bags in hand. He rang the doorbell politely before coming in, so it almost felt like I had a semipermanent houseguest staying with me. In one of his suitcases were twenty Hershey bars he’d brought for me, but I felt strangely uneasy; it didn’t seem right to accept them all just for putting him up.
 
The first time I saw him was at a bar on the base. For some reason he was wearing a tuxedo with a bow tie, and he looked cooler than cool among all the other guys playing pool in their jeans or overalls.
 
While my boyfriend was wrapped up in his pool game, a dollar bill in his cueing hand as he played, I kept stealing glances at Spoon. I remember the glass he was drinking his bourbon and 7-Up from, glittering gold, like honey dripping between his black fingers. Now when I see a glass like that it just reminds me of one of those little cups you get at the hospital for a urine sample.
 
His other hand was thrust deep into his trouser pocket and he seemed to be touching something. I could see from the way his hand was moving that he had long, bony fingers. He seemed to be gently caressing the lining of his pocket with his fingertips, and I blushed as I wondered how it would feel to have those same lustful fingers probing my slit, him still wearing that cool expression on his face.
 
The moment our eyes met, I felt as though he had read my mind, and I looked down at the floor. When I looked up again, he caught my gaze and motioned toward the door. I stood up like I was possessed, told my boyfriend I was going to the ladies’ room, and left the game room. Spoon was waiting for me right outside the door, both hands thrust in his pockets now, leaning against the wall and looking like some kind of small-time gangster.
 
He took me by the arm and led me to a door at the very corner of the building. The sign on the door read: keep out! It was the boiler room. Inside, it smelled old and dusty, and bare pipes were sticking out everywhere.
 
As soon as the door closed behind us, I was alone with Spoon, the two of us in that room together.
 
I opened my mouth to speak. I guess Spoon took it as a sign of urgency, of my desire for him. Or maybe he simply thought there was no need to talk, I don’t know, but he just forced his tongue between my lips and into my mouth. His tongue was alive with passion and clearly intent on overwhelming me.
 
I clawed desperately at his jacket and tore at his shirt buttons. I couldn’t wait to have his scent on me. But there was no letup from his hands or his tongue, and I was so excited that I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking long enough to undo the buttons. I finally gave up and ripped the shirt open.
 
The black skin of his chest was thickly covered with hair and he wore a gold chain around his neck.
 
I pressed my lips to his chest, tugging at his chest hair and enjoying the smell of his body. It was a familiar smell, one I recognized from long ago. It was both pungent and sweet, like cocoa butter. A strange smell came from under his arms, too. It was musty, not offensive, but at the same time not pleasant either. It was the kind of smell that made me aware of our primal attraction. Maybe it had the same effect that the musk of wild animals had on each other when in heat.
 
In contrast to my raw aggression, Spoon was quite gentle as he skillfully undressed me.
 
There wasn’t enough room to lie down, so I stood with one leg raised high, my high-heeled foot braced against the wall, my tiny panties hanging like a handkerchief around my ankle. His black arm was twined around my leg, and the light sparkled off my anklet.
 
His dick wasn’t the kind of disgusting, red cock that white men have, nor was it the pathetic, infantile thing of Japanese men, the kind that doesn’t do a thing for you until it’s inside you. With Japanese men, anyway, I always worry that I’m going to get myself tangled up in their pubic hair because it looks so much like seaweed floating on the surface of the sea.
 
With Spoon, maybe it was just that his pubic hair was the same color as his skin, but I was totally in awe of his dick. It was gorgeous, like a big chocolate bar, and as I stared at it excitedly I couldn’t stop my mouth from watering.
 
We spoke only in gasps and sighs. I was too excited even to call out. In the midst of this wonderful mixture of pleasure and pain, all I could do was cling tightly to his jacket. My hand brushed against his pocket and touched whatever it was he had been caressing at the end of the pool table. It seemed to be made of metal; a familiar, everyday object . . . but then my orgasm began to build and I lost all sense of what was going on around me.
 
 
I stared at him, still standing with one leg raised high against the wall.
 
He brushed the hair stuck to my sweaty forehead away from my eyes, and said, “From now on I’ll probably feel like jerking off whenever I think of you.”
 
It was kind of sad to think of him masturbating with a picture of me in his mind.
 
“What’s your name?”
 
“Spoon.”
 
I remembered the cold, hard object in his pocket, and the English phrase about children born into wealthy families: “born with a silver spoon in his mouth.” Friends probably nicknamed him Spoon from a mixture of affection and derision for his comical habit.
 
Why would anyone born with a silver spoon in their mouth want to walk around with it in their pocket? It seemed so unfair that God would make someone like him, with such a wonderful body, so unsure of himself that he couldn’t help overdressing and clinging to a spoon.
 
“You’ve been sad sometimes, haven’t you?”
 
“No, I’m always happy.”
 
I knew he was lying.
 
“Come home with me,” I said.
 
I wonder whether, at that time, I wanted to be a martyr or something. Perhaps I had some wacky idea that I could make him happy. But he soon put me right on that score.
 
“Put your leg down! Doesn’t that make you tired? You’ve had it up there the whole time. If you want to fuck some more, let’s do the second round between the sheets.”
 
He winked at me the way only black guys can, one eyebrow slightly raised and his eye shut tight. It felt like a flame leaping between us. The feeling started in my mouth and settled down inside me, then gradually melted and spread, sweet and warm, throughout my whole body.
 
Copyright © 2006 by Amy Yamada. English translation copyright © 2006 byYumi Gunji and Marc Jardine