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shawnsvalentine · 5 years

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business + pleasure : one

description: shawn’s always been into older women but sloan is the exception that drives him wild

warnings: language, failed attempts at humor [2.6k]

It was a rarity for Shawn not to get what he wanted when he wanted it, and she made the mistake of adding to his perfect record as soon as she saw the white cylindrical box engraved with CHRISTIAN DIOR PARIS. There was an elegant note card attached at the top that had been sealed with a golden Giorgi Armani sticker. She made sure to open it while Cassandra was out with a client, knowing that the box wasn’t a care package from her mother.

For your collection. If you have one.

— Shawn xx

She couldn’t stop herself from gasping at the gift inside, the beautiful silk feeling foreign against her finger tips. The Strength mitzvah scarf, that she knew costed more than the thrifted one she was wearing when Shawn first approached her, every bit as gorgeous as it looked in the pictures. She knew that it was no coincidence that he’d chosen the S scarf, but she had no idea how he’d came across her name; she certainly hadn’t told him.

“Good afternoon, Sloan.” Her head snapped up to see him, just as alluring as usual in a plum button up and tight slacks. His eyes darted to the Dior package and he smiled, his whole face brightening at the sight of it opened. “I wanted to get you the whole ABC collection, but I figured you’d think it was excessive.”

“The only thing I thought was how odd it was for one of the board members of Giorgio Armani to gift me a Christian Dior scarf. Something you’re not telling us about your brand?”

He shook his head, his teeth glistening as a smile broke out across his lips. “Our scarves are just fine, you just struck me as a Dior woman.” Shawn wanted the next few moments to be scripted, for Sloan to wrap the scarf around his neck and pull him in so close that he could smell her signature fragrance personally. For her to mold her lips around his and grab onto his arms, moving on to moan sweet nothings into his ear. But of course, all she did was smile at him, thanking him for the gift. “Why don’t you wear it to dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?” What about Cassandra? was the subtext that both of them knew was written in invisible ink.

“A friend of mine just opened a restaurant about a month or so back, it’s in Brooklyn. Neither of our circles run in Brooklyn.”

She smacked his chest playful, taking note of the hard muscle underneath. “Excuse you, I live in Brooklyn.”

“Even better, we’ll be in your borough.” He knew he was playing a risky game by reaching out for her hand across the glass top mahogany desk, eyes fluttering up to catch her reaction. “Just one date. And if you genuinely think we’re nuts for sneaking around, then I’ll leave you alone. But at least let me buy you dinner before you turn me down.”

She laughed lightheartedly, using her free hand to point back at the color splashed creme scarf. “You already bought me a two-hundred dollar accessory,” He pouted, completely unprepared for her to shoot him down. “But yes. Dinner sounds nice. Pick me up at nine.” Sloan scribbled her ten digits on a loose sticky note, stuffing it in his pants pocket before sashaying her way to the break room for a cup of coffee.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t positively giddy at the thought of spending a few hours with Shawn in public, completely uninterrupted by her boss or one of her colleagues. It meant actual conversation and not hushed whispers in between meetings and body language of strictly platonic professionals in case anyone barged in while Shawn was paying a visit. It meant getting to kiss him for the first time.

Sloan blinked back to reality as the Keurig began brewing her coffee, the black liquid filling up her boob-outline mug that she got on sale from Urban Outfitters. “Isn’t this like your third cup today?”

“What can I say, Kimmy, I love coffee.” Whenever Kimmy added her two cents where she didn’t bank, Sloan wanted to roll her eyes so far back they could get stuck. She couldn’t even drink coffee safely.

Kimmy disregarded the snark and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, glancing through the door as she sipped from the ice cold bottle. “Aren’t they just the cutest thing? Cassandra’s so stinking lucky, I’d give my right arm to date Shawn Mendes.”

“You’re left handed.” Sloan grabbed her mug and tried to return back to her desk in peace, but the sight of Shawn cozying up with Cassandra in the middle of the department’s floor had her sick to her stomach. They looked far too sweet giggling over nothing with one another, him practically nibbling on her ear, and all Sloan could do was wish that it was her. She hated feeling like a side piece, and even though she knew Shawn’s angle, she still felt like one. The girl he had to keep hidden.

Maybe: Shawn: It’s Shawn. I saw you watching us. I’m sorry. Will try to keep the office encounters to a minimum. SM.

Sloan: No, it’s not your fault. It’s on me

Besides, if you stopped showing up I’d never see you

Shawn: Fair point. I’m still sorry though. Going to try to wrap up this deal as soon as possible. SM.

Sloan: What the fuck is sm

Shawn: My initials. I initial all text messages, force of habit. SM.

Sloan: You didn’t have to— nvm. SS.

Shawn: SS?

Sloan: Sloan Spelman

“You have a shoot tomorrow morning and you’re texting? It better be with your Gucci connect to secure that cowboy hat.” Cassandra. Most everyone has complained about a fatal flaw of their boss, but Cassandra Rosen? She was all flaws. Sloan often wondered how the hell she made it to where she was, the Editorial Director of the Vogue Magazine, talent be damned. How could anyone put up with one hundred and sixty pounds of pure mean just because she got things done? It was an answerless question Sloan had been asking herself since the day of her interview.

“Y-yes, I was just confirming it for the New Age Western shoot.” Sloan made a mental note to double confirm the hat for the shoot, otherwise she’d be out on her ass for telling such a boldfaced lie. She was still a bit baffled they were doing a shoot around a custom made Gucci cowboy hat for Lil Nas X all because he snuck it into one of his songs. It was kind of crazy how a guy younger than her had managed to wrap brands right around his finger, and he couldn’t even drink yet.

Shawn was practically staring her down from the doorway, fighting the urge to defend her against Cassandra’s sharp tongue. He knew his way around Cassandra by now, and saying anything to help Sloan would only increase her raging paranoia. It was just better to sit this one out. “I’m about to head out, I’ll see you tomorrow, Cass.” He wanted to say goodbye to Sloan but he settled on a polite nod as he turned to leave.

The rest of her work day was utter hell with Cassandra’s constant bitching about how Sloan’s first editorial shoot had to be perfect, as if Sloan wasn’t already stressing herself out. The only thing that kept her above float, aside from her coffee and Toblerone bar, was the reminder that her date with Shawn was mere hours away. She kept pushing aside the overwhelming anxiety surrounding getting caught and focused on daydreaming little scenarios about the two of them in some obscure underground speakeasy with total strangers.

Sloan spent extra time in the shower, shaving everywhere just in case, and making sure she was fully lathered in her coconut meadowfoam body wash. After a solid ten minutes of back and forth, she decided on keeping her curls out and wild, scrunching her bangs so she’d actually be able to see Shawn. She was still deciding between a tight black dress and a silk tank top with floral patterned bottoms when he texted her. It was longer than his normal and she was fairly sure he was nervous.

Shawn: I’m on my way. Took a while to decide on car or subway, but ultimately picked the subway because I wasn’t sure about the restaurant’s parking. He may have mentioned something about a nearby parking garage but those scare me. See you in about thirty minutes. SM.

She started to panic watching the minutes tick by and she grabbed the top and pants, letting her towel drop as she dipped into her body butter. Her underwear was barely on when her doorbell dinged, her hand reaching out to throw on her fuzzy purple robe before shouting out that she was coming. She figured it was her friend Alicia coming to hype her up before her date, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. It was Shawn. “Is that what you’re wearing? Bold choice.” He handed her the bouquet of peonies he was holding before kissing her temple. It gave her chills.

He looked absolutely... delicious. The maroon button up he was donning was showing off a bit of chest hair and his lucky pendant, and he’d rolled the sleeves up to the swell of his forearm. His hair was slicked back perfectly, his brown wavy locks framing his face in a way she thought should be illegal. She gulped at the sight of him towering over her, the urge to mount him oh so very real.“You said a half an hour? I swear it’s been only five minutes or so.”

Shawn shoved his hands in his pockets, his feet tapping against the welcome mat. “I had terrible reception at the terminal, it probably sent the second I resurfaced.”

“Well, come in. You can wait on the couch while I finish up.”

He shut the door behind him, showing himself around the coat rack to her living room. She followed a concise color aesthetic from room to room, the living room obeying the laws of pink and gold. There were plants surrounding her plush pink couch, and white throw pillows to match the rug beneath the golden coffee table. He felt like he was sitting in a Vogue interior design spread. “How long have you lived here?”

“Since junior year of college.” She kept her makeup to a minimum, light foundation with eyeliner and mascara, using extra caution so her outfit didn’t get stained. “It definitely beat paying that expensive ass room and board.”

She completely forgot about shoes as she left the bathroom, Shawn’s attention immediately on her and his jaw on the floor. Sloan tried not to pay any attention to it as she slipped into a pair of black pumps. “What? Is this not venue appropriate?”

“I-It definitely is, it’s just that I wasn’t exactly, I didn’t expect...” He rose from the couch, eyes still fixated on the way the silk clung to her body and how her curly afro graced her shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever been legitimately speechless in my entire life. Until now.”

They walked to the restaurant, taking advantage of the warm air and quiet street, using it as time to warm up to one another. The overwhelming lust wasn’t enough to make them fall for one another, but the conversation was. She led, and he followed, a dynamic neither of them were quite used to but most certainly suited them. He was chivalrous, almost too much so, but she basked in the unfamiliar feeling of being treated like royalty. She wanted to get lost in him.

The restaurant was fairly busy but not at all chaotic. Patrons stuck to their tables, keeping conversation at appropriate noise levels for the ambiance, and the staff floated about as if they defied gravity. The architecture was fawn worthy with its sleek modernity meets upper class design. “Your friend owns this place?”

“Maybe friend is too generous a term, but we went to college together. We keep in touch, get together every now and then for a drink. He called me when it opened.” He gave the hostess his name for the reservation and she led them to a staircase that led out to the rooftop. There were only two other parties up their with them.

“Shawn, this is absolutely insane. Semi-private seating?”

He waved it off, opening his menu as he pretended to browse. “It was nothing, I promise. Jalen insisted it was the perfect first date table.”

She watched him closely as he went off on a miniature tangent about how he and Jalen met. They went from hostile roommates to close friends who jammed out together on the weekends, and that sparked their years long friendship. He was quite the storyteller, animated and engaged, careful about each and every word he strung with the next. Her senses were in overdrive the whole night, watching him be absolutely gorgeous without trying whilst actually listening to every precious word that slipped past his lips: and he made it far too obvious that he was doing the exact same thing.

“I know I’m getting ahead of myself but… what about a nightcap?”

Sloan tried not to laugh at his obvious attempt at a different date night activity. “You? In my apartment? Drinking? Nuh-uh.”

“What? Why not?”

She searched for the words to sugarcoat we’re not in the same tax bracket, that their shred of a relationship didn’t need an introduction to class divides this early. “I live in a rundown brownstone that I most certainly wouldn’t be able to afford if my nana hadn’t left it to me. And I’m willing to bet you live in a two-story penthouse on the upper east side that you can afford because Armani treats you a little too well.”

He took a longer sip of his drink this time, placing it back down with a bit more conviction. “Alright, touché. But just because I live like a douchebag doesn’t mean I am one. I’ve already seen your place, what’s the big deal?”

She took a moment to think about it, twirling her fork in the last few noodles on her plate. Maybe she was judging him too harshly. Maybe she was the one who was uncomfortable with the class divide and he wasn’t even thinking about it. She shook it from her thoughts, going back to the good time they were having all on their own on the rooftop. How good her looked staring back at her awaiting her response, the faintest hint of a grin on his rosy pink lips as he shifted his weighted onto his forearms. “Admit it, you’re just trying to get in my pants.”

Shawn gasped, his hand flying up to press against his clavicle to feign shook. “Me? Try to get into your pants? We haven’t even gotten dessert.”

She rolled her eyes, tapping her fingers against the table as her leg crept up the side of his. “You’re such a dork.”

He was suddenly that much more aware of their proximity, her arm flush against his and her body heat radiating onto him. Shawn flagged down the waiter for the bill in a split second, reading between the lines of her body language as well as her hand that and snaked its way to his thigh. He’d never signed his signature as fast as he did right then and there, shooting up from his chair to help Sloan up. He leaned down to whisper in her ear about what the night held for them when the most obnoxious, ear-splitting shriek stopped him.

“Sloan! This is so crazy, I was hoping us Fort Greeners would cross paths one day!” Her eyes were focused on Shawn the entire time, flickering back to Sloan only to shoot her an all-knowing smirk.

“K-Kimmy, hi.”

taglist: @shawnase , let me know if you’d like to be added!

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes series #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes x black reader #shawn mendes x black original character #business + pleasure

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ranposlittle · 4 years

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Hello I'd like to have a matchup😳 - I am 155cm , skinny girl with wavy brown hair and same color eyes with round glasses, Aries. Others think I'm outgoing and confident. But deep inside me is fear of new changes and easy to cry. I'm a good listener while others were mad or upset, but I'll be scared of they're really mad to me. I'm always overthinking and want to show my best and be nice to others. I love reading and listening to music. Also I kinda like aesthetic and vintage stuffs. Thanks :D

here's my actual answer, anon. im sorryyy

I ship you with...

🌸 Yukichi Fukuzawa 🌸

You walked into the Armed Detective Agency President's office for an interview and with your vivacious personality and a taste for vintage style, you complimented Fukuzawa for his nice "aesthetic". You were hired on the spot.

Fukuzawa observed you from his desk. You're vibrant, exciting and talkative; traits of a true Aries. You get along with pretty much everybody in the agency, carries yourself in a certain level of confidence and you're not shy to take on leadership roles when it's needed. He's impressed, to say the least. Fukuzawa is a very reserved man so when the time came where he asked you to meet him for tea outside work, you were a bit baffled, only realizing that it was an actual date when Fukuzawa openly admitted that he admires you.

You didn't really thought that you could also fall for the quiet man at first, but Fukuzawa's gentleness just calms your natural fiery nature. He's caring and attentive to the people around him, so you can be sure to get your daily dose of attention from him. He'll give you praises for your good work everyday and compliments you on your beauty whenever there's just the two of you in the room. He even asks for your advice sometimes if he has to make a decision and you feel flattered that your opinion matters to a wise man like him. He told you it's because he believes in your intelligence and he trusts in your wisdom. In fact, he often gets into intellectual discussions with you when you're together and sometimes even have a friendly debate. Either way, you enjoy the stimulation and challenge that it gives you and it makes you feel good about yourself. In your mind, you've put Fukuzawa in a completely higher level than you are but seeing how well you actually click together, maybe you're just equals after all.

And that's what made you fall for him even more. The way he makes you feel like he's never above you nor that you're under him, you're equals, standing beside each other on an even ground. His ability's name says it all. He never aimed to control you in any way and he lets you live your own life. You're independent and self-driven, he loves that so much about you and all he really wants to do is to support you. In a way, Fukuzawa became your best friend. You know you can tell him everything and he won't judge you. But if you speak or act before thinking, he's there to hold you down. He's outspoken with his opinions and Fukuzawa might not be domineering, but he's not a pushover either and you just like him like that.

Underneath your strong and independent surface may lie an insecurity that's hidden behind your lively personality. You have a drive to succeed and you could put too much pressure on yourself, resulting in self-doubt. Whether you admit this to him or not, he already knows. Fukuzawa's observant eyes was able to see the slightest contortion of your face whenever you start to overthink about anything. You would suddenly become quiet, staring at the distance and would even bite your nails sometimes; he has memorized all the signs of it so before your train of thoughts can even go too far, he's able to pull you back. Fukuzawa is just so great in comforting you. He knows exactly what to say to ease you back into reality as if he can hear your thoughts. Sometimes, if you get too deep in your worries, he would even hold you and rub your back to assure you that there's no reason to be too worried and things aren't always as bad as you think they are. The softness of his voice and his calm demeanor just gives you that confirmation that if he's this cool then yes, maybe things are really okay; that you're okay.

Overall, I think you're a good fit for each other because Fukuzawa will be the gentle air fanning your flames brighter. Yes, you're an energetic and independent person but you also need to feel appreciated and loved, being with Fukuzawa gives you that and more. Fukuzawa might not be on the peak of his youth anymore but that doesn't mean that he's boring. He goes with the flow and you can ask him to do anything with you and he'll most likely would agree. You can show him new music that you like and he will appreciate it, too. It may not always be his cup of tea but he will be okay with it, you can play your tunes with him around and he'll just watch you lovingly as you sing or dance along with it. You'll be a pillar for each other because as an Aries, you're always encouraging and giving strength to your partner and Fukuzawa thinks you're absolutely great to be around when he's in need or in times of despair. You're always there whenever Fukuzawa would wake up in cold sweat from a haunting nightmare from his past, he'll wrap himself around you and your presence alone is enough to calm him down. Fukuzawa is a man of great virtues and he lets you know openly how much he's proud of you for just trying to be the best person you can be and generally being nice to other people. He won't let anything or anyone to cause any harm with his subordinates so just imagine how much he'll protect you when his feelings for you is this strong; they'll have to go through his lifeless body first before they can even lay a finger on you. That extends to harmful thoughts and emotions, too. Fukuzawa won't allow you to wallow in the negatives if he can help it. No matter what he's doing or where he is, he will always put you first. He's not afraid to talk to you about feelings and emotions and make sure that the day won't end without him seeing a smile on your face again. Fukuzawa admires your strong personality, embraces your weaknesses and supports where you're insecure. He will wipe every tears and soothe any fears, whispering words of wisdom and affection in your ears until you believe in it too. Sometimes you get scared by the thought of losing him, but as he reached out for you as soon as he wakes up and your name being the first thing he utters in the morning; the taste of his lips being the last thing you think of before falling asleep; every little kisses he gives you in between the day when you're away from prying eyes; his quiet proclamations of love for you and the way his gaze only focuses on you despite being in a crowd, the doubt in your mind evaporates little by little. You're faithful to him and he is to you. The more you've stayed with him, the more secure you feel towards your relationship and in time, towards yourself too. Fukuzawa just can't deny himself from adoring you. How can he resist your incandescent brown eyes shining through your glasses and the curves of your hair dancing with the rays of sun as you walk towards him? Fukuzawa has a weakness towards cute things and you're at the top of the list.

***

Thank you for sending this in, anon~ here's a song from Fukuzawa to you hehe (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ the app I used to make Fukuzawa's avatar is different and I know what he's wearing is not a yukata but it's the closest one I can find ;-; anyways, I hope you liked this and cheered you up even just a lil bit. I hope the little scenario thingy I put in the beginning is ok. Take care, anon! Someone out there loves you!~ (✿^‿^)

#yukichi fukuzawa #bsd scenarios #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd hcs #bsd imagines #bungou stray dogs imagines #bsd headcanons #bsd fukuzawa #bungou stray dogs scenarios #bungou stray dogs imagine #bungou stray dogs fukuzawa #matchup #bsd matchup #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fukuzawamw

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starlingsrps · 6 years

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anna tate char. dev. (short)

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: anna verity tate

Nickname: annie

Birthday: august 3, 1997 (DEAR GOD.)

Age: twenty one

Gender: female

Place of birth: mobile, alabama

Places lived since: mobile; nashville

Parents: zeke and sabrina tate, 40

Siblings: clara, 17; jacob, 12

Relationship with family: good and close as hell. her mom was her manager for a long time until she started getting bigger than county fairs and her parents have been nothing but encouraging when it comes to her career. she and her mom moved to nashville by themselves when anna was sixteen and now that she's starting to become a Name and be played on the radio, she's trying to pay them back for everything they've done for her but they won't let her.

Children of her own?: no and she's a long ways off from them.

PHYSICAL

Height: 5'5

Build: lanky

Complexion: fair and freckled

Distinguishing features: expressive faces, bright smile

Hair color: light brown

Usual hair style: usually styled to be wavy and she likes to flip it around and play with it.

Eye color: blue

Glasses? Contacts?: both

Style of dress/typical outfit(s): jeans and a t-shirt if she has it her way. jeans and a tank for performing.

Typical style of shoes: boots. anna is a boots afficianado. with her first paycheck for selling a song, she bought a pair of fryes and they are still her first love.

Health: reasonably good

Grooming: good!

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: pierced ears, rarely for jewelry, "be brave" tattooed on her right wrist

Accent?: thick southern drawl

Unique mannerisms/physical habits: she tends to stand on one leg like a flamingo when nervous

Athletic?: ish? like she runs when she can't relax.

INTELLECT

Level of education: GED

Level of self esteem: pretty good! she's still new to all of This and negative comments can sometimes get to her but she's starting to develop a thicker skin.

Gifts/talents: song writing, singing, guitar. she's also friendly as hell.

Shortcomings: she's still learning how to hold back pieces of herself in interviews. she's a mouthy little shit usually and oops.

Style of speech: pretty even but fast when she's excited or nervous.

Artistic?: yes!

Mathematical?: yep

Makes decisions based mostly on emotions, or on logic?: emotions

Neuroses: she's superstitious before performing - left boot on first, spare guitar picks always, hand written set lists.

Religious stance: raised baptist

Cautious or daring?: daring.

Most sensitive about/vulnerable to: some of her songs are really personal and she's hesitant about putting them out there but what the hell why not

Optimist or pessimist?: incurable optimist

Extrovert or introvert?: extrovert

Level of comfort with technology: good! again, management is trying to get her to be less personal on her instagram but she can't help it.

RELATIONSHIPS

Current marital/relationship status: on print, single but really dating sawyer williams

Sexual orientation: heterosexual

Past relationships: ehh not really? she's been so busy for the past few years that it's kind of fallen by the wayside.

A social person?: yes!

Most comfortable around: pretty much anyone tbh

Oldest friend: sadie rose perkins, her best friend back in mobile. they talk every single day.

How does she think others perceive her?: she hopes it's good.

How do others actually perceive her?: talented performer and songwriter, little too mouthy sometimes.

VOCATION

Profession: musician

Past occupations: songwriter

Attitude towards current job: it is the Dream

Attitude towards current coworkers, bosses, employees: she loves her band and her road crew but her manager needs to stop threatening to take away her phone

Salary: p good p good

SECRETS

Dreams: just to keep doing what she's doing as long as she can

Greatest fears: writer's block

Hobbies: riding her bike, song writing

Past sexual transgressions: nah

Crimes committed: oh god no.

What she most wants to change about her current life: she takes all of these cute pictures of sawyer and can't post them so what's the use?

What she most wants to change about her physical appearance: she's made her peace with what she's got

DETAILS/QUIRKS

Daily routine: perform perform perform travel travel travel sleep sleep sleep

Night owl or early bird?: night owl

Light or heavy sleeper?: heavy

Favorite food: bagels

Favorite book: harry potter

Favorite movie: walk the line

Favorite song: “take me home country roads" by john denver. or "any man of mine" by shania twain. or "jolene". or-

Coffee or tea: diet coke

Type of car she drives: nah

Lefty or righty?: lefty

Favorite color: orange

Cusser?: she's trying to knock it off

Smoker? Drinker? Drug user?: no / not legally / no

Pets?: lil bit, golden retriever back home with her parents

#c: anna tate

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coffee-obsessed-writer · 7 years

Text

Trust

Request: [Daryl Dixon x Reader] by anonymous asked: Would you please write a Daryl x Reader story about Daryl finding the reader wandering the woods, dirty and alone. She'd been out there alone for so long she's scared of him at first but back at Alexandria, she's glued to his side and wary of everyone else. Oh please please please.

Warnings: Language, lil fluff

Words: 4858

Hope you enjoy it anonny! <3

You needed to go out to find food, but knowing how many of the dead were around left you frozen and huddled in the corner. Yesterday you got as far as the edge of the treelined forest before completely losing your nerve. The one small knife you��d manage to keep was gripped in your hand, but one groan from an unknown direction was enough to send you running into your flimsy shelter.

Today you had to go. You hadn’t eaten in nearly four days, water was gone since the night before. Your clothes hadn’t been replaced for over a month and whatever resolve you had to keep going was fading fast.

Opening the door to the garden shed, you took the small hoe as a backup and quietly made your way towards the path that lead to the closest neighborhood. Creeping up on the backyard of a small white house, you were so focused on trying to stay clear of the dead, you didn’t see the man following you.

Two roamers came around the corner of the privacy fence, causing you to stumble backwards and fall on your ass. Before they could get another lumbering step closer, two bolts flew past your head, dropping each one to the ground.

“You alright?” a gruff voice asked from behind you.

Scrambling to your feet, you backed up against the fence as you took in the stranger. He had long hair that obscured most of his face. His clothes were clean, but not free of wear and tear. In one hand he held a crossbow, the other hovered over a holster attached to his hip.

“Hey,” his hand moved away from the gun and asked again, “you alright?”

When you didn’t answer, he took a step back seeing the need you had for some space. Your body relaxed a little when he added some distance, but you didn’t take your eyes off him for a second.

“You got a place to stay?”

You shook your head slightly and quickly glanced back towards the woods. He nodded as if he understood.

“I come from somewhere that takes people in,” he said, watching you closely, “I’d just have to ask ya a few questions. That alright?”

“Ok,” you finally spoke, causing him to twitch a smile.

“Ok… How many walkers you killed?”

“I -- I’ve lost count.”

“How many people?”

Sighing, you met his eyes and tried to stand up straighter, “Two.”

“Why?”

“Because they wanted to kill me first.”

He seemed to contemplate your answers and after a minute gave you a shrug. “Good enough for me… I’m Daryl. You got a name?”

“Y/N,” you said quietly, starting to feel slightly at ease with him.

“You wanna come back with me Y/N? We got walls, food, houses… you can get cleaned up. You’ll be safe there.”

Before you could answer, the snap of a twig from your left had you grabbing at your knife and turning quickly to defend yourself. Daryl raised his crossbow and pointed it in the direction of the sound, but quickly lowered it when a man came from around the other end of the fence.

He had short, wavy hair, and his clothes were extremely neat and clean. With his hands raised, he smiled at the stranger who saved you and casted a look in your direction.

“You found her!” he said to Daryl, excitement all over his face as he took a step towards you. “We’ve been looking for you for a few days now.”

Daryl saw you recoil from him and stepped between you and the other man. “She’s a little scared Aaron. Guessin’ she’s been out here a while. Let’s head back, if she’s comin’, I’ll ride with her, alright?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m just,” he paused and looked around Daryl at you, “I’m just glad Daryl found you. I’ll head out to the car and meet you there.”

Daryl nodded at him and when he was gone, turned back to you. “Ready? Do you need to go get of your stuff? Any shit you left behind in the shed?”

Your eyes snapped back to his face, wide with surprise, “You know about the shed?”

“Yeah, we saw you there yesterday, but I didn’t want to scare ya,” he took a tentative step forward and reached out a hand to you. “It’s alright, Y/N, we ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

“People told me that before,” you said trying to decide if you trusted him enough to go with them.

“The ones that tried to kill ya?”

You nodded.

“I can promise ya, I ain’t gonna try anythin’. The people where I’m from, they’re good people. We do what we gotta do to survive, but otherwise, shit’s like it was before. Just livin’ and survivin’ together,” his hand was still stretched to you, “you comin’?”

“Yeah, ok,” you stepped forward but didn’t take his hand. Keeping one hand hovering over the small knife on your belt, the other still holding the garden hoe, you carefully followed Daryl to where his friend Aaron waited with the car and the bike.

“We should make it back by nightfall if we take route twenty-two back,” Aaron said as Daryl approached, a smile unfolding across his kind face when he saw you behind his friend.

“Alright,” Daryl mumbled and fixed his crossbow to his bike.

“You can ride with me if you like,” Aaron offered, motioning toward the car and shook his head with a laugh. “I’m sorry, where are my manners… I’m Aaron,” he held out a hand and when you didn’t move he looked to Daryl then back to you. Slowly retracting his hand, he gave you a nod, “I get it, you don’t know us. I’d be wary of us too, but as I am sure Daryl explained, our community is safe. You’ll be able to be live there without worry.”

He was kind, but you didn’t quite trust him yet. Taking a step back towards Daryl, you looked at him from the corner of your eye, then at his bike.

“You wanna ride or drive?” he mounted the bike and pulled a pair of sunglasses from his inner pocket.

“Ride,” you said just loud enough for him to hear you.

“Alright, but you’re gonna have to let me hold your knife till we get home. You good with that?”

You unstrapped your knife without hesitation and handed it to him. He tucked it away in his front jeans pocket and motioned for you to hop on. Throwing a glance to Aaron, Daryl held up a hand in a wave and accelerated forward.

The ride to the community took far longer than expected. When you rode up to the high walls, and the gate rolled opened, you were stunned by what you saw inside. A large, paved community with big homes, townhouses and a slew of people going about everyday life. You watched it all in amazement as Daryl maneuvered the bike inside, closely followed by Aaron in the large Buick.

Parking the bike, Daryl killed the engine and hopped off. Offering you a hand, he assisted you off the bike and made sure you had your footing under you before letting go.

“Gonna have to meet Rick and Deanna, ok? They’re good people, the just wanna ask you some more questions.”

“Can you stay? I mean, while they ask?” You were beyond scared at the idea of having to meet new people and stand up to their scrutiny. Somehow, having this man you just met near calmed your nerves.

Daryl bit his lip and nodded slightly. “Don’t see why not. C’mon, let’s go see ‘em now. Sooner that’s done, sooner we can get you a place to get cleaned up and have a proper meal.”

Deanna’s home was large and ornate. Books and expensive knick-knacks lined nearly every shelf, and the small, dynamic woman filled the rest of the room with her general presence. Daryl introduced you to both Deanna and Rick who remained in the kitchen during the interview. He leaned back against the island with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on you.

Daryl stood in the doorway between the entry and the sitting room, one foot kicked over the other, his arms also crossed. His gaze floated between you, Deanna and Rick as if trying to monitor the interview.

“So,” Deanna started with a politician’s smile, “tell me about yourself, Y/N. What did you do before the outbreak?”

“I, uh, I had just opened my practice up north…”

“Practice? Were you a doctor?” she asked.

“No, a vet.”

“Oh, well, that’s still a great skill and knowledge set that will come in handy here.” Deanna smiled and motioned for you to continue.

Looking around nervously at Deanna and then Rick, you felt the panic rise and your words disappeared in the dryness of your throat.

“I came back this way to check on my family, but they were gone. Since then, I’ve just bounced around.”

“You didn’t have a group?” Rick asked from the kitchen.

“No, I thought I was safer alone,” you answered but looked over at Daryl, who’d been watching you like a hawk. “I tried once, and the men… they did terrible things. Tried to…”

“It’s ok,” Deanna said, “you don’t have to explain. I think we all understand.”

She stood and walked around the coffee table, sitting on the edge so she was within arm’s reach of you. You sat back in the chair to create more space, and from the corner of your eye, you noticed Daryl take a step forward. His body took on a defensive stance, and you thought for a second he was worried you’d attack Deanna.

“Listen, Y/N, you’ve been out there a long time. It’s going to take a while for you to adjust to life here in Alexandria. But I promise you, we have nothing but good intentions. Let’s get you a place to stay, and I’ll have one of the girls from the pantry bring you everything you’ll need to get settled in.”

“Thank you,” you replied meekly, “you’re all very kind.”

“Rick, can we put Y/N in the townhouses, number 213?”

“Nah, she can stay with me,” Daryl spoke up, “if you want too. I can show her around, help her get settled.”

“Maybe just for a day or two,” you looked up and met his eyes. Daryl smiled and nodded for you to follow him. The idea of being alone in a large space felt foreign and unnerving. You’d gotten used to the night sky and sleeping with one eye open. Being alone in a strange house wasn’t something you felt ready for.

“Alright then, I’ll have Jesse or Olivia bring some essentials to Daryl’s place soon. Some new clothes too.” Deanna added as she walked you and Daryl to the front door.

“Thanks,” Daryl said and opened the large wooden door for you to walk through.

“Welcome to Alexandria!” Deanna called out before the door closed behind you.

A day or two had turned into nearly a week of staying with Daryl. Anytime he left the house, you went with him. He walked you to the pantry anytime you wanted to go. When he had to go hunt, you were right there by his side. Going out of the walls in the first couple days helped relieve a little of the anxiety you had while within them.

The day before Rick had come by to get Daryl, and as politely as possible asked you to stay behind.

“I’ll be back soon, alright?”

“Mmhmm,” you said, unable to look at his face for fear he’d see how scared you were to be alone.

“I can stay if you need me to.”

“No, it’s silly,” you shook your head and sighed. “I’m fine, really. I need to be able to be ok and adjust to this on my own. You’ve done more than enough for me Daryl.”

“Well, I just know what it’s like and it ain’t easy to adjust to all this. ‘Specially when you were out in that for as long as you were.”

“I’ll get there,” you smiled, finally able to meet his blue eyes, “thanks though, you’ve done a lot for me…”

“Stop,” he said, taking a step closer to you, “it’s what we do.” Daryl paused and placed a hand on your shoulder before leaving to meet up with Rick. It was the first time he touched you where you didn’t reflexively flinch away.

On the morning of the seventh day, you figured you’d wore out your welcome when he was gone before the sunrise, having only left a note on the counter that said, “Be back in a day or two.”

Daryl’s was the only place you felt comfortable so far. A few of the others around the community had been friendly, but you never completely felt ok, until you were back in his space. Seeing the note sent a wave a dread through your stomach, but you knew it was probably for the best.

Gathering up your things, you threw it all in the backpack that Olivia had brought you, and walked to Deanna’s front door. Greeting you with a large grin, you explained that you were ready to move into your own place if she was still offering.

“Of course! Let me just get my jacket and I will walk you on over,” Deanna said and within minutes you were entering the front door of your new home.

The first night there was unnerving. The unnatural quiet of the townhouse was far too loud for you to be able to sleep. At least outdoors there was the chirp of crickets and owls and at Daryl’s… well, he was there. You could hear his soft snoring coming from the couch down the hall, and that seemed to be enough to help you fall asleep.

Digging around in the care package that Olivia had brought you, you came across a small bottle of wine that you passed over before. Unsure of how else to fall asleep, you greedily downed the bottle and relished in the speed with which it hit your head. It didn’t take long for you to crawl into your bed and pass out.

You woke the next morning feeling tired and slightly pissed at yourself for thinking the wine was a good idea. Sitting up in bed, you heard a loud knock at the front door. You shambled down the hallway and slowly opened it, shielding your eyes from the morning sun that smacked you in the face.

“What the hell?” you heard before you could focus on the early morning caller.

“What?” moving your head to see beyond the blinding light, Daryl was in front of you with his hands on his hips brows raised questioningly at you.

“Hi, you’re back,” you tried to smile, but the pounding was now transferred from the door to your head.

“Yeah, and you were gone,” Daryl was annoyed, but you could see he was trying to keep calm. “Can I come in?”

You moved aside for him to enter. When he looked around, he saw the empty bottle on the counter and the mess of pantry supplies Deanna sent.

“I can see you got your care package,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “This why you look like shit?” he picked up the bottle and examined just how much you drank.

“You’re pissed... why?”

“Why? Cause you left while I was gone, no note, no nothin’,” Daryl stopped fidgeting about the kitchen and looked at you. “I thought maybe you left for good.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry Daryl. I—I saw your note and I thought maybe you needed a break from me or something. I know I’ve been a little clingy since I got here…”

“You’re fine, Y/N. I didn’t mind helpin’ ya get settled in,” Daryl shrugged in indifference, but his expression told you a different story; he looked hurt.

“I used to be really independent Daryl, a little too much so I guess, depending on who you asked. But being out there alone for so long, it fucks with you after a while. You were the first human I’d seen in months, so I sorta attached myself to you.”

You came further into the room and sat down at one of the stools at the counter. Resting your throbbing head in your hands, you eventually looked up at him and shrugged. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Yeah, I know. Just came back and thought you were gone.”

“At least you wouldn’t have to feel responsible for me any longer,” you snorted a nervous laugh and was afraid to meet his gaze that you focused on you.

Daryl picked up the wine bottle again and shook it slightly in jest, “Someone’s gotta be.” He picked up the bookbag you had left on the counter and dug to the bottom, pulling out a small bottle of aspirin. He opened it up and shook two out, handing them to you.

You took them gratefully and watched Daryl move about the kitchen getting you a glass of water.

“Here, take ‘em,” he nudged as he handed you the glass. Daryl watched you take the aspirin and then handed you a hunk of bread wrapped in a cheesecloth from the pantry supplies. “Now eat,” he said breaking off a piece and laying it front of you.

“You don’t have to do this Daryl,” you said but loved that he was.

“You’re gonna feel like shit, today,” he said ignoring you and going back to the food on the counter.

“Daryl…”

“Eat, then shower, I’ll get some coffee on for ya,” he continued over you as he turned back to the middle counter.

You reached across and grabbed his arm to get his attention. “Hey, you don’t have to do this. It was my dumb fault for drinking so much.”

“Just let me, alright. Now go shower.”

You met Daryl’s eyes and noticed for the first time just how blue they really were. He had his hair out of his face that morning, and when you got a good look at just how they were gazing at you, a swirl of butterflies took off in your stomach.

“Ok,” was all that would come out as you got up from the stool. Daryl went about sorting the food as you did as you were told and took a blessedly hot shower.

As you stepped out of the stall and got dressed, the most delicious smell filled up the house. Between the aspirin and the shower itself, your head was starting to quiet. The second your nose caught the scent of sizzling meat your stomach flipped and you felt ravenously hungry.

“Hey,” you said walking into the kitchen

Daryl grunted a hello without looking up. He was too concentrated on the bit of venison cooking in front of him. A minute later he slipped it out of the pan and onto a plate with a helping of potatoes.

“Here, eat,” he said pushing it in front of you.

“Yes, sir,” you said and gave him a mocking salute.

Cutting into the food, you found yourself devouring it faster than you intended. The uneasiness of your stomach finally started to settle, and the headache was completely gone.

“Thank you, really. I’d probably still be in bed right now if you didn’t come along.”

“Mhmm,” he put the pan in the sink and wiped his hands on the towel hanging from the stove.

“I never guessed you for the domesticated type,” you chuckled as he cleaned up the utensils he used.

“I ain’t, trust me. But cooking a damn steak is no big deal. Besides, you needed to eat and I ain’t seen ya cook since you got here.”

“It’s because I suck at it,” you shrugged.

“Well, maybe then you wanna come to Aaron’s house with me tonight for dinner?” Daryl asked, his tone tentative as he nervously fidgeted with his hands.

His invitation came unexpectedly and nearly knocked the wind out of you. The idea of spending more time with him was a welcome distraction, but the idea of being around other people from the community had not completely set in yet.

“Dinner at Aaron’s?” you repeated and drew in a deep breath.

“If you’re not up to it, I get it. He’s just been after me to bring ya over,” Daryl chewed on his bottom lip, and you felt the butterflies tickling your insides again.

“Yeah, its fine… let’s go to dinner at Aaron’s,” you said accepting the invitation, but swallowed hard at the image of trying to hold yourself together around others.

Just as the sun was starting to set, Daryl knocked on your door for the second time that day. You stopped to take one last look in the small hallway mirror before answering it. Since he had left that morning, you spent most of the day trying to find something that looked decent enough for an apocalyptic dinner party.

In the spare bedroom closet of the house, you found a bunch of clothes and even several in your size. Settling on a black off the shoulder blouse and pair of blue jeans and boots, you swept your hair up off your neck and put on a touch of lipstick that you’d found in the medicine cabinet.

When you opened the door, you were still nervously fidgeting with your clothes. But one look at him standing on your porch, you couldn’t help but stop and smile at Daryl. For the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t wearing his winged vest. He had on a pair of clean and tear-free blue jeans with his black biker boots and a long-sleeved black button-down shirt. The ends of his hair were still wet from being washed, the wild locks brushed back from his face.

“Hi,” you said finally, realizing you’d been staring.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice cracked as he took in the full sight of you. “You, uh, you clean up real nice.”

“Thanks, you too,” your nerves were getting the better of you, but you were starting to realize most of them now stemmed from being around Daryl and not so much about having dinner with the strangers in the community.

The walk to Aaron and Eric’s house took only a minute, but you found yourself growing increasingly more edgy with each step you took. Standing on the porch, Daryl could sense your unease and took your hand in his without a word.

As you waited for your hosts to open the door, Daryl took your hand and gave your fingers a squeeze. “You’ll be alright, I promise. They’re good guys. Besides, Aaron makes some mean spaghetti,” he smirked and glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

When you turned to look at him, he snorted a nervous laugh and shook his head. When your eyes met his after that, you found it hard to look away and he seemed to be having the same problem.

As the front door opened, Aaron’s welcoming smile was met by you and Daryl gazing at each other curiously. Your hand was still in his, and you felt his finger begin to lightly rub against your palm, which sent a bolt of heat straight through you and causing your heart to flutter. Neither of you noticed him standing in the doorway.

Clearing his throat, Aaron got you to break the awkward gaze and turn your attention to him. “I’m so glad you came! Please, come on it, Eric’s got everything all ready to eat. And, he’s extremely excited because he grabbed the last bottle of red from the pantry. So, please indulge him, he’s been planning this meal all day.”

Dinner wasn’t as intense and unnerving as you imagined it was going to be. You found both Aaron and Eric’s company to be incredibly easy-going and welcoming. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear life was normal and that the undead wasn't roaming the earth.

The men did most of the talking, and you were even surprised by how much Daryl contributed to their conversations. Once you were midway through the meal, you started to feel more comfortable talking and joining them in a discussion.

Eric picked up the bottle of red and offered it to you when he saw your glass was empty. Waving him off you chuckled into your napkin as you wiped your face.

“No, thank you, Eric. I had my fill last night, I think I should keep it at a two glass max this evening.”

“Well, you are no fun!” Eric laughed and refilled Daryl’s than Aaron’s glasses. “At least this one will have one or two, or five, glasses too many!” He winked at his husband, which earned him a scolding look from Aaron.

“Well, I don’t want to be the party pooper, so, alright, one more then,” you said, feeling a small smile building on your lips. Eric refilled your glass far more than halfway and you were suddenly glad there was more aspirin on the counter at home.

Once dinner was done and cleared, you and Daryl each drank another half glass of wine before calling it a night. It may have been the alcohol or the good company, but all the insecurities and fear of the people of Alexandria began to slip away.

Daryl stumbled slightly over the curb and you couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess it’s my turn to take care of your drunk ass,” you teased as you caught up to him.

“I ain’t drunk, just…” Daryl trailed for a second, “Shit. I’m drunk.” He ran a hand over his stubble and shook his head.

“Now who needs someone to look over them?”

“Nah, I can handle my shit,” he said as he zig-zagged towards his small porch. “Wait… no, I gotta walk you home first.”

“I’ll be fine, go to bed Daryl, you are shitfaced,” you said standing in the middle of the road. “Thanks for taking me for dinner. We’ll have to do it again some time.”

As you turned to go, you felt an arm on your shoulder. “Wait,” he said, turning you around.

“You should just stay here. I mean, I got the room, and we can conserve energy and shit,” he looked at you hopefully, causing drunk you to grin like an idiot.

“Fuck… what? No, I mean… shit,” you said, and then laughed. “That’s not what I meant to say, at all,” a fit of laughter doubled you over and you tried to catch your breath.

“You’re drunk,” he teased as he slipped his arms around you to hold you up.

Being so close to Daryl, you couldn’t help but take in a deep breath of his him. The mixture of leather and sweet soap caused a long-thought dead feeling to bubble up from deep inside.

“C’mon, let’s get ya home,” Daryl said as he draped your arm over his shoulders and neck.

Supporting each other while walking, you made it back to the townhouse and both looked up at the stairs.

“Fuck,” he growled, “see, if ya hadn’t left, we wouldn’t have to deal with stairs.”

“I can make it from here Daryl, take your drunk ass home,” you took your arm off his shoulders and took the first step up before turning around. Being eye level with him made it more difficult to just turn and go.

Seeing Daryl drunk with his own defenses down, made you feel like maybe you could lower yours as well. Leaning in, you kissed his cheek and lingered for a few extra seconds. His face was flushed red all the way up to the tips of his ears that peaked from his long hair.

“See you soon?” you asked as you pulled away from him.

“Mmhmm,” he nodded, “someone’s gonna have to get your hungover ass outta bed tomorrow and feed ya.”

“And that’s gonna be you?” you teased and took another step up towards the door.

Daryl placed a hand on the railings on each side of the steps. He put one boot up on the first step and pulled himself up trying to stay as steady as possible.

He was eye level with you again, and dangerously close, “Who else is gonna?”

“True,” you mused and smiled at him. “So, I guess I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Mmhmm, you will.” It was his turn to lean into you and leave a lingering kiss on your cheek. “Night, Y/N,” he whispered before stepping back down to the sidewalk.

As you watched him walk away, you reconsidered calling him and asking him to stay. But with all the wine you drank and the buzz of a fun night with real people, whatever was left of your rational mind held you back.

“See you tomorrow,” you said quietly and when he turned the corner, you found your way up the steps to your home; Daryl’s face firmly set in your mind as you drifted off to sleep.

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#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #fan fiction #daryl dixon fan fiction #fanfic #daryl dixon drabble

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attractionjapan · 7 years

Text

The Birth of Japan Game: Episode 3: The Nanpa Intro

The Birth of Japan Game is a chronicle in ten parts, recounting the early years of Dorian Gray’s journey along the path. The narrative begins some time in 2006 and concludes in early 2012. Names have been changed to protect the guilty and innocent alike. Previous episode here.

After her year of exchange study finished, Maya went back to Japan, and we continued on in a long-distance relationship. I tried to stay faithful to her, even though I was tempted daily by other girls, some of them new Japanese exchange students. There were a few unsanctioned encounters, but for the most part I managed to stay focused on my studies, as I was now set on becoming an exchange student myself and heading over to Japan.

Over the past two years I’d steadily risen to the top of my class. There’d been some stiff competition – particularly from the Chinese students, who had a natural advantage in already knowing the kanji – but somehow I came out on top. As I lived on campus, I also took an active interest in events put on by the Japanese Studies department, and I stayed in contact by email with friends like Hayato, who introduced me to the outgoing exchange students from their universities. Soon my high grades and extracurricular efforts came to the attention of the department head, who asked me to become president of the university’s Japanese Society. Bemused at first, I eventually accepted.

It was the first time I’d ever been in charge of anything. I had always been something of a loner, but now I was…well…a leader. To be fair, the responsibilities weren’t great – putting on dinners, meeting the new exchange students and showing them around the city, organizing the occasional movie night – but it still seemed like a prominent position. Suddenly I was confronted with political decisions, albeit those of an exceedingly trivial nature: who should be treasurer, Lisa or Sarah? Which student should I recommend to become next year’s president, Jason or Minh? It was a great foretaste of future office politics and other universal human bullshit. I didn’t take any of it too seriously.

The time came to apply for my year abroad. Now my grades and time spent running the Japanese Society paid off, as my application was accepted and I easily passed the interview. Most of the exchange positions were in places like Kyoto and Hyogo, but I managed to secure the sole spot in Tokyo. I would be living in Shinjuku, which seemed sublimely urban in contrast with the small Australian cities I was used to. Maya, who now lived with her divorced mother in central Tokyo, was ecstatic.

The day came and my parents drove me to the airport. I’d decided to arrive in Tokyo well ahead of the new semester’s start, to give myself time to get my bearings and settle in. Or at least that’s what I told everyone. In reality I wanted a week or two to myself to experience the city’s night life. The university I would be attending offered to send someone to meet me at the airport but I declined; true to my solitary nature, I preferred to figure things out for myself.

Stepping out of the terminal at Narita Airport, I felt a breathless sense of expectancy. I had arrived in Japan at last and the future with its infinite possibilities stretched before me. Compared with native speakers my Japanese was still rudimentary, conversational at best and riddled with errors, but I wasn’t lacking in confidence. I hailed a taxi and lugged my bags to the student dorm where I would be staying. Mrs. Murata, the kanrinrin or dorm manager, came out to meet me. She was a short, stooped middle-aged woman with a subservient demeanor and what I would soon discover to be an almost infinite patience with the raucous ways and irregular hours of her student charges. Since I had arrived two weeks ahead of anyone else, we were the only people in the dorm apart from Park, a Korean graduate student in his thirties. Park took me under his wing and helped me get my resident card, health insurance registration and mobile phone contract.

“I’m still rubbish at Japanese,” I told him. We were sitting in the dorm’s lounge watching television and drinking cans of Kirin beer.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve been here for ten years. Just watch TV every day and you’ll be able to understand everything after a year.”

At night I went into the city by myself and spent time in bars and clubs with names like Atom and Womb. Sitting alone in a darkened dive with a glass of beer and a cigarette in hand, I felt that I’d arrived. And when I wasn’t exploring new areas, I was making up for lost time with Maya, staying overnight at her house or meeting in the city for love hotel visits.

Eventually the other exchange students showed up, and I found myself with a veritable United Nations of new friends: British, American, Thai, French, Swedish, German. There were a few Anime Club-style shut-ins and misfits, but for the most part they were a personable bunch.

I also had Japanese friends in the city who I’d met through Hayato and other connections back home. One of them, Ryu, was a young salaryman with a broad outlook and devilish personality. Short of stature even for a Japanese, his looks and mindset had earned him the nickname “Lil’ Satan.” Not yet thirty, he’d spent time in America and Australia, ostensibly to improve his English but really to sample the bars and clubs and hopefully hook up with a Western girl. This he did with great success, even if he at first misunderstood foreign strip club etiquette, taking “ten minute private lap dance” to mean “ten minute round of aggressive sex.” Getting kicked to the curb by the bouncers didn’t dampen his enthusiasm, and before long he was on his way to victory. Now, back in his hometown of Tokyo, he was eager to show me around, and we often did the rounds together, hitting up bars and his favorite, the hostess clubs, where he’d haggle with the promoters outside for reduced prices.

Surreal encounters abounded. One night we wound up at a Middle Eastern-themed shisha bar in Koenji, sucking fruit-flavored smoke from a water pipe on the second floor. Before long a pair of girls wandered in. One was a standard university type with prim clothing and wavy brown hair, but her friend was a full-blown visual-kei goth with facial piercings and blonde extensions, wearing clunky black platform boots and a fake leather corset. Her expression conveyed a detached boredom with life.

Ryu and I engaged them in conversation. We’d been to a tobacconist earlier in the day and picked up some cigars, which we now handed out to the girls. Ryu seemed interested in the more conventional one, Saori, while I took a liking to Miyuki, the goth. The conversation was slow going at first, but between my gaping foreign enthusiasm and Ryu’s practiced Japanese cool, we soon had them talking. Things looked set for a quick bounce to karaoke or even directly to a hotel, when Saori suddenly stood up.

“I’ve gotta get up early for my part-time job,” she announced. “But you guys have fun.”

Nothing we said could convince her to stay, and Miyuki barely seemed to care. Sitting in the darkened lounge, she sucked on her cigar and stared vacantly into space. After a few moments of silence she excused herself to go to the bathroom.

“I want to fuck her so bad,” I told Ryu. “I don’t know what I can do, but she’s totally my type.”

Ryu nodded sagely, and when Miyuki returned, his impish – or perhaps merely practical – side took over.

“DG wants to fuck you,” he told her, employing the crudest, most direct Japanese locution.

I could have strangled him, but I remained calm. Getting pissed and losing my cool wouldn’t get me anywhere.

“Too bad,” Miyuki said. “I have a boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Ryu countered. “He isn’t here now, is he? It doesn’t matter.”

Miyuki exhaled a puff of smoke. “I guess not,” she said. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Utterly lost, I stared at them both. Was Ryu actually helping me rather than fucking me over? It was impossible to tell, but I was already on my fifth or sixth beer and, suddenly emboldened by the strange atmosphere, I leaned over and kissed Miyuki on the neck.

“Don’t try that again,” she said. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

Now Ryu made his own move, even more brazen than mine. Sliding over to Miyuki, he threw his arm around her and kissed her on the lips. In response Miyuki opened his mouth with her own, waited until his tongue slipped past hers and then seized it with her teeth.

Then she bit down with all her strength.

Ryu started to struggle. Shorter than Miyuki, he was probably stronger than her, but now he flailed about helplessly and tried to shake her off. Miyuki held on, gazing directly into his eyes as his face reddened, engorged with blood.

Finally she drew back and let him go. Ryu clutched his mouth like an injured child, blood dripping from his lips.

“That’s what I do to people who try to kiss me,” Miyuki said.

In my drunken state, I took this as a challenge.

Pulling her into me, I kissed her neck again and moved up to her mouth, pushing my tongue into hers. As expected, I felt small, sharp teeth closing around it, followed by a blossom of pain. My tongue felt like it would burst, and I could taste something coppery in my mouth, but rather than pull back I gripped her tightly and stared into her eyes as my blood mixed with her saliva. Then I moved my hand down to the space between her legs.

I seemed to have passed some kind of test, because now Miyuki was kissing me back forcefully – sans teeth – and moaning as I massaged her firm thighs through her black tights. I could tell she had an incredible body beneath all the protective covering. I went for her breasts and then she got up and straddled me.

“Let’s go to karaoke,” Ryu said, desperate to reassert his claim. But Miyuki was having none of it.

“Not you,” she told him. “Only him.”

To his credit, Ryu took this with admirable dignity and excused himself immediately, a barely perceptible frown the only sign of his displeasure. Soon after, Miyuki and I made our way back to my dorm, where we evaded Mrs. Murata and high tailed it up to my room. Her body exceeded my expectations, and I realized that her initial violent defense was only a means of screening out those incapable of matching her passion. We stayed up all night drinking, talking and fucking.

As you can imagine, I wasn’t the only one in the dorm interested in girls, and the other exchange students and I often went out looking for them. But I was more interested in making Japanese friends of the same persuasion, hoping that I could learn from them. Expat writers of all kinds are quick to malign Japanese men, characterizing them as superficial, uncommunicative and emotionally distant. To me, these stereotypes always said more about the men making them. If you didn’t like Japanese men, I decided, then you didn’t like Japan: they were, after all, half the population. Even as a student I saw all too many foreigners falling into the trap of associating only with Japanese girls and picking up feminine speech and mannerisms as a result. Japanese speech patterns are more distinctly gendered than English ones, but too many of the exchange students and even long-term residents I knew seemed oblivious. I realized that a man who associated only with women would always be half a man, not understanding the other side of the dynamic. Japanese women didn’t want men who spoke and acted like them, they wanted men who spoke and acted like men, or at least their culture’s conception of the term.

More importantly, Japanese men were with the women I most desired. I almost never saw foreigners with girls I wanted; my envy was reserved for the locals and their stunning paramours. Countless times I saw small, ugly, poorly-dressed men with fashionable stunners, or browsed magazines to find lanky, effeminate boys with phenomenal teenage beauty queens. In contrast, foreigners always seemed to be with the same kind of girl: short, plain, and recently returned from homestay in Idaho or some other middle-of-nowhere American state. These were the international party girls, those who thronged terrible Roppongi clubs like Gas Panic and Muse. Appearances aren’t everything, and I’m sure many of these men genuinely loved the women they were with, but time after time I heard the same complaints in bars:

“Akiko (or Yuka, Maki or Kaori; the names were always the same) is great, but…I always wanted to try one of those other girls. You know, the flashy kind. Shibuya girls, the type who shop at that 109 store, or the girls in the clothing ads.”

Worse, Akiko was often not a casual fling or girlfriend, but a wife.

Call it shallow if you want, but I’ve always felt it’s better to live your desires rather than sublimate them into tedious complaints. So it made sense that I would have to imitate Japanese men if I wanted to get with my ideal girls. As a result, I quickly dismissed not only my foreign friends but also Western “pickup artists” and others of their kind. What did they know about Japan when they couldn’t speak the language, when they’d never even been here? To this day, when I’ve met several of these vaunted “instructors,” I can’t say I’ve seen them achieve anything other than a beginner’s success in Japan. In fact there are only a handful of foreigners who I’ve seen with truly exceptional Japanese girls.

Then as now, my approach was to treat Japanese men as equals and afford them the same respect I would any of my friends. I did not allow myself to be offended by any flippant comments or “insensitive” remarks they made; in this age of ever-narrowing political correctness, getting pissed and leaving in a huff seemed like the weakest possible option, particularly when the offense was almost always unintentional.

But I still get queries from friends and acquaintances who see Japanese men as the enemy and want to know how to “deal with them.” I always tell them that chest thumping and open hostility will quickly get you ostracized. If you really want to destabilize a Japanese man, praise him in front of his friends. The more humble you seem and the more knowledge of his culture you demonstrate, the more your standing in the group will rise. Use perfect Japanese to talk about his handsome face and effortless style; he’ll soon loathe you. With the louder, more aggressive types, it’s often necessary to get your girl and get out, not giving them a chance to engage with her at all.

But this sort of thing is almost always childish and pointless; non-engagement is the better strategy. I’ve defused fights and turned enemies into friends simply by caring less than the other party and approaching situations with an open mind. The principles behind Japanese martial arts are similar. Karate, after all, means “empty hand,” and aikido depends on turning an opponent’s strength against them.

One night I set out from the dorm alone and headed for a nearby bar. I’d sat through a full day of classes and now, bored and restless, I felt like getting away from the dorm atmosphere, which had quickly become suffocating. Apart from the other exchange students, there were a number of residential assistants – Japanese students who lived with us. They were studious types, more interested in formal language exchange than actually learning the mindset of people from a different culture. Worse, they acted like spies, reporting our activities to the head of the exchange program. They’d already formally complained about me for letting girls spend the night in my room. I didn’t care to be around them any more than I had to, and my close friends were at a party somewhere, so I was on my own.

On this night the bar was crowded, so much so that it spilled onto the street, with customers sitting outside on stools in the warm summer air. I took a seat next to two young Japanese men and struck up a conversation, and they introduced themselves as Hiroyuki and Rintaro. Though we were in an area with several universities, they weren’t students; instead, they worked a series of part-time jobs in noodle houses and convenience stores.

Hiroyuki had a face like a brick. Just nineteen, he looked at least thirty. He was heavily built and would have been handy in a fight; I wasn’t eager to see him angry. Rintaro was more of a pretty boy, except he wasn’t actually pretty. Like his friend, his face looked older than his stated twenty years, but displayed more surface cunning than Hiroyuki’s flat, amiable features. Hiroyuki seemed happy-go-lucky, but Rintaro was the brains of the operation: a canny, practical intellect.

Before long the conversation turned to girls, and they regaled me with tales of “delivery health” hookers and fast pulls with teenagers in Shibuya and Shinjuku. I told them about the kind of girls I wanted, the fashionable kind seen in magazines.

“Oh, you mean gyaru? Yeah, we get with them all the time,” Rintaro said. “We can introduce you to some of them, but…can you hook us up with some Western girls?”

I could tell right away these were dodgy characters I couldn’t fully trust. They were outwardly friendly, even comically so, but I sensed they would use me any way they could and probably not make good on whatever promises they made. Still, I was excited to be hanging out with them; I felt they could grant me access to a side of Japan I’d glimpsed in books and films, an underworld of illicit beauty.

“I’m up to my neck in Western girls,” I said.

This wasn’t untrue. There were more female exchange students in my dorm than male ones, and some of them were on the adventurous side. Their Japanese was still basic, and they didn’t seem to have many Japanese friends. I could tell they were lonely. One of them, Aleksandra, a Ukrainian girl, had propositioned me fairly directly, but I turned her down, not wanting to generate more gossip for the residential assistants. Another, Lindsay, was a young Australian with a somewhat spacey disposition. Blonde, thick-limbed and reasonably outgoing, she’d until now been frustrated by the hesitant approaches of Japanese men, so different from the blunt propositions back home. I decided that an encounter with Hiroyuki and Rintaro was exactly what she needed. In a reversal of the typical Madame Butterfly scenario, the pair proved no match for her Occidental wiles when she ended up dating both of them at the same time and playing them against each other in a way that almost destroyed their friendship. She eventually grew tired of them and moved onto a Chinese exchange student, leaving my new friends frustrated and heartbroken…for at least a few days. To find new girls, it was only necessary to walk outside. Before long they were back to their usual unflappable optimism.

Now that I’d proven myself by getting them laid, Hiroyuki and Rintaro were as eager to hang out with me as I was with them. They called me multiple times a day and asked if I was putting on parties or meeting any new girls. As I’d expected, they didn’t come through with the gyaru I wanted, but they still took me along drinking with them often enough that I didn’t mind. Hanging out with them was an exhilarating but constantly disorienting experience, as their crude, street-level Japanese was miles away from my rapidly developing but still bookish speaking style. And while I’d expected them to support my approaches to girls in the manner of a Western wingman, they were just as likely to steal my targets or blow the whole thing up with an explosion of vulgar mockery. Some of their tactics, if that’s what they were, left me shaking my head, but there was no denying how successful the pair were. I often saw them carelessly discarding girls who would have been the highlights of most men’s lives. In particular, one of Rintaro’s girlfriends, Rimi, was a stunning young woman who could have worked as an adult video star, an eighteen year old nymphet with the face of an angel and the body of a toned and rangy stripper. I fell in hopeless lust with her the moment I saw her, but he constantly cheated on her and eventually broke up with her by simply deleting her contact info from his phone; apparently she didn’t even merit a goodbye. Hiroyuki and Rintaro’s emotions were broad strokes on a canvas of plain primaries, and the whole business of relationships a Rabelaisian joke. I decided that I needed to be more like them: flexible and free, living in the moment, full of violent cheer and meaningless laughter. If nothing else, they were teaching me how young, working class Japanese men really talked.

One day as we were walking the streets of Shibuya, Hiroyuki did something that changed my life. I’d noticed an outstandingly attractive girl walking ahead of us, a petite blonde with an ultra-short miniskirt and a handbag covered with rhinestones. She might as well have been the archetype of young, fashionable Shibuya ostentation. Until now, encountering girls like this had always obscurely wounded me – what could I do about their existence? Was there any way I could enter their world or (even more impossible) draw them into mine? My longing always faded into hopelessness.

“That’s it, that’s the type,” I said in Japanese. “I’d kill to get with someone like that.”

“Huh? Her?” Hiroyuki replied. He looked at her as if inspecting an oddly-shaped rock.

Then, without warning, he darted forward and caught up with her.

Smiling and gesturing while proceeding with absolute calm, he spoke to her in a way that resembled a talk show host crossed with a criminal prosecutor, combining rapid fire statements about her clothing and appearance with a torrent of questions – who was she? Where was she from? What was she doing? Did she have a boyfriend? – that continued even as the girl ignored him. Finally, bafflingly, she stopped walking and gave him her undivided attention.

“Now! What are you doing now?” he repeated.

“Nothing, just….nothing.”

“Let’s go get something to drink. We can go to karaoke, over there.”

Now the girl appeared to be considering the offer as if it were a matter of life and death. Finally she gently shook her head and said, “I’m sorry…I have a boyfriend.”

Hiroyuki turned and left her without another word. Soon he was by my side again. Stunned, I asked what he had just done.

“When you get one to stop, you take her to karaoke or a hotel,” he explained. “From there it’s easy.”

I’d met Momoka in a similar way two weeks earlier, so I was familiar with the concept, but I’d done it unconsciously while drunk. Hiroyuki had done it in broad daylight with total nonchalance, as if greeting an old friend. The girl’s initial reception and ultimate rejection of his offer had had no apparent effect on him. I could readily believe that he tried this multiple times each day – perhaps hundreds. It was my first real experience with nanpa.

It’s best to give a brief history of nanpa (don’t worry, I’ll dispense with the italics). Dating from the Meiji Period, the term originally denoted “the soft bunch” of layabouts interested in spending all their time with women, as opposed to those presumably chaste young men espousing the martial and manly virtues. In the modern sense, nanpa refers to picking up girls in public, often directly from the street or crowded public areas.

Nothing like this exists in the modern West. Sexually propositioning women in public has no even semi-respectable context, and is seen as inappropriate behavior at best and borderline criminal insanity at worst. Western “pickup” has barely legitimized it under the “day game” heading, but it’s still largely seen as a form of harassment. Just imagining it probably makes you think of leering construction workers shouting obscenities at passing women, or try-hard divorcees walking their dogs in the park in the hope of a “chance meeting.” Certainly few men outside of the self-styled “pickup community” would directly and confidently approach women on the street if they wanted to retain their social standing and avoid being maced.

But in Japan, this context exists. Japanese women, I discovered, were used to shrugging off nanpa, and most considered it a distraction that barely registered on their mental radar. Although genuine harassment exists as it does in every country and should not be trivialized, the majority of women I’ve spoken to have admitted to meeting at least one past boyfriend through nanpa. And in practice, I’ve had sex with hundreds of women met in this way and enjoyed long, fantastic relationships with many of them. The Japanese girlfriends and other sex partners I’ve met this way vastly outnumber those I’ve met through “traditional” means such as bars, parties and friends’ introductions, and even more modern methods like online dating. By “vastly” I mean at least two times more than all the other methods put together. Simply put, I’ve spent a lot of time doing nanpa, and can vouch for its effectiveness.

But I’ve met all too many foreigners who view nanpa as a dirty word. They prefer the “chance meeting” model, where everything is supposed to look natural. They’ll shyly start a conversation in Starbucks by asking how to read a particular kanji, or else ask for directions in public and then desperately try to segue into a personal conversation. These methods always struck me as unbearably phony, and in my experience they strike girls that way too. Those who use them are still bound to the Western paradigm that street approaches are something crass or abnormal. But the young Japanese men with the stunning, fashionable girlfriends don’t do “chance meetings.” They do nanpa.

If all this sounds a bit weighty, it’s important to emphasize that successful nanpa should be fun, light and witty. If the girl doesn’t feel engaged and won over by a cool, confident guy, you’re doing it wrong. And you’ll really know you’ve succeeded when she thanks you for approaching her. It might seem difficult to imagine, but the thought of being approached at random by their dream man is exactly what many girls want. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard “aite yokatta” – “I’m glad we met” – when our “meeting” was me walking up to her on the street as a complete stranger and talking to her as if I’d known her for years.

Some girls actually go out with the intention – subconscious or not – of being picked up: wandering around in public, or sitting on a bench at night alone looking bored. Often this isn’t planned: they were out with their friends, and then their friends went home, leaving them with nothing to do. Having grown up receiving constant attention, they know on some level that all they have to do is look receptive.

Look for girls who are walking slowly, Hiroyuki told me. They’re probably not doing much, and are receptive to approaches.

This isn’t to say that girls won’t ignore you, run away from you or have other unpredictable reactions. But there’s no law against talking to strangers, and as long as you’re not a complete psychopath or groping menace (hint: don’t touch them, it isn’t necessary), it’s rare to have heavily unfavorable reactions. In fact, much of what someone new to nanpa would interpret as “unfavorable” is often an expression of shyness or bewilderment rather than a real lack of interest. If a girl doesn’t know why you’re talking to her – particularly a girl who’s had little experience with foreigners – she’ll be less likely to respond. Complicating the issue are the scouts and hosts who approach girls hoping to recruit them for their clubs or turn them into customers. But if you make her laugh or, more powerfully, put her at ease by demonstrating that you understand and can relate to her, she’ll quickly open up.

Okay – sounds good, right? But like many things, nanpa is easier in theory than in practice. It would take me hundreds of encounters and a few more years to really internalize the process. At this point it was still beyond me, and I could only react with awe to what Hiroyuki had done.

Of course, I had other things on my mind too. Over the course of the year my relationship with Maya had grown strained. She was an amazing girl, but my sexual ambitions had grown, even if they still seemed so much idle fantasy. I wanted more girls: sexier, flashier, and more accommodating, girls who would fulfill my every fevered dream. I wanted tall, statuesque models and writhing porn stars. I wanted girls glittering with jewels and dressed in stylish clothes, girls with sparkling nails and shining eyes, from rough ghetto hostesses to high-end university students and jet-setting society ladies. I wanted inexperienced teenagers and mature women, feminine waifs and boyish athletes, stick-thin sylphs and filled-out, curvy goddesses. My tastes seemed to change on a whim. One moment I was obsessed with classical beauties like the actress Ryoko Shinohara, the next I wanted voluptuous goofs like the adult video star Aoi Sora. A single picture in a magazine or album cover was enough to send me into a frenzy. And above all, I wanted to be the kind of man these girls would be proud to have their arm around.

But the reality was different. My clothes were dull and unfashionable. In social situations I came across as diffident, even withdrawn. If I’d directly stated my desires, the women around me would have written me off as a daydreamer at best and a creep at worst. And looking back, I wouldn’t blame them. Incongruity is always unattractive.

Imagine a strong, conventionally handsome man with a great job who treats his girl like a prized possession, but is so jealous and insecure that he monitors her every move and seizes on every conversation she has with another man as a sign of her infidelity.

Now imagine a beautiful woman on the arm of a fat little man, old and grey-haired. He’s shorter than her, and seems otherwise unimpressive. But suddenly that fat old man tells an amazing story, demonstrates himself to be a man of the world, a gentleman of refinement. Other people cross the room to hear what he has to say. He makes a joke at his own expense and casually disarms his audience. Suddenly we, and the women around us, are enthralled.

So, which is really more attractive? The outwardly desirable man who lacks any inner strength, or the man you’d pass over without glancing at twice who’s comfortable with himself and in complete control of his life? I wanted to be more certain of myself, even if I had no idea how.

My encounter with Momoka proved to be the catalyst for breaking up with Maya. Now that I’d been with a girl who could have stepped from one of my dreams, it was time for me to do the right thing and break up with my girlfriend. Even though I’d spent only one night with Momoka – in contrast with the nearly two years I’d been with Maya – I was convinced that we shared a deep connection. There was a hint of sadness to her, an existential depth that Maya utterly lacked. And with her tall stature and stunning body, she was clearly more desirable. As soon as I broke off with Maya I would make Momoka my new girlfriend.

But the grand relationship I’d planned for us proved to be an illusion. Momoka met up with me a few times more but, perhaps frightened by my ardor, eventually decided she wanted nothing to do with me. In the caprice stakes, men and women are just as bad as each other, and looking back I can say that I fully deserved what I got. But at the time it struck me as a cosmic injustice, and I was ruined for weeks, pining over my lost dream girl. You can imagine the pathetic sight I made, sprawled on my bed listening to the same bands I’d shared with her, now feeling even worse than they had made me feel as a teenager. I still can’t listen to Bjork.

And even before all that, the breakup with Maya was painful and protracted. I’d given too much of myself away, and in my youthful exuberance I’d become excessive: writing her poems, declaring my love, projecting future happiness. Maya, a country girl from Hokkaido who’d moved to Kyoto for university, had never experienced anything like this. She took my early, infatuated hints at marriage seriously, and I’d met her mother.

In fact, I’d slept with her mother.

This requires some explanation. I first became aware of Maya’s mother, Mrs. Tanaka, when she wrote a letter to her daughter in Australia. Evidently Maya had mentioned me, as the letter contained a paragraph addressed directly to me, inviting me to Japan for “karaoke and bowling” and asking various personal questions. I considered this somewhat odd, but chalked it up to cultural differences. From Maya I learned that her mother was in her early forties (Maya had been a teenage pregnancy) and divorced, and was looking to relocate to Tokyo. Later, once I’d moved there myself, I was able to meet her in person.

Mrs. Tanaka – Eriko – resembled her daughter enough to be an older sister. But while Maya dressed somewhat conservatively, Eriko wore high heels, skin-tight jeans and revealing tops along with flashy golden belts and shiny jewelry. Like her daughter she was tall and had an impressive figure, slender and gently curved. Maya loved her but complained about her “noisiness” – literal translation – and transparent attempts to ingratiate herself with a younger crowd. I got the impression of a stifled party girl who’d married too young and still craved affection. Once she realized I was in Tokyo for at least a year, she took every opportunity to invite me around, going so far as get my phone contact information and make me promise not to tell Maya. I considered this eccentric but harmless; after all, what could happen? I had no intention of doing anything with her; in fact the prospect frightened me. But I couldn’t deny that I found Eriko’s slutty flightiness exciting, and the idea of bedding both mother and daughter intrigued me. Still, it seemed too ridiculous to take seriously.

For the first few months Maya was always present whenever I encountered her mother, and for the most part Eriko and I kept an appropriate distance. But over time I found her sending me more and more text messages, most of them open-ended and innocuous, but still clearly requests for attention. Eventually she invited me to go shopping with her, and I followed her through Shinjuku’s Takashimaya department store while Maya was at work. There was no real sense of an illicit encounter, but I couldn’t deny a strange undercurrent to our interactions as Eriko asked for my opinion on various new clothes and eventually treated me to lunch at an Indian restaurant. Our conversation was resolutely trivial, but I could tell from her body language and facial expressions that she was enjoying my presence in more than a friendly way. I finally said goodbye to her outside the station, uncertain how I should feel.

The situation progressed over the next few weeks, with Eriko eventually inviting herself over to my university dorm. While our shopping date had seemed light and unreal, occupying a weightless dimension of its own, as soon as my girlfriend’s mother stepped over the threshold of my building, reality sunk in…and was immediately compounded when Mai, one of the residential assistants, came out of the laundry room and stared in surprise at the older woman standing next to me. True to her background as a gregarious country type from northern Japan, Eriko struck up a conversation without missing a beat, and I had to hurry her along to my room, certain the Orwellian-minded RA would be taking notes.

Once inside, Eriko busied herself picking my scattered clothes from the floor, folding them neatly and arranging them into piles. It seemed more reflexive than considerate, an unconscious desire – partly cultural, partly personal – to impose order on disorder, form on formlessness. Or perhaps it was only a way of making herself feel at home in my charmless student’s room. When she had finished, she sat down on my bed with an air of mock exhaustion. I joined her, and before I knew what was happening I found myself massaging her shoulders and kneading the hard but soft-skinned muscles of her neck. Eriko relaxed and leaned back into me, and I spent several minutes exploring her body with my hands before finally resting my chin on her shoulder and then bringing my mouth to her neck. She broke the tension with a burst of meaningless laughter. We seemed about to have a conversation, but finally there was nothing to say, and soon we were locked in a tight embrace. I found myself overwhelmingly but almost impersonally excited, and Eriko pressed herself against me with undeniable force.

When it was over we resumed our earlier manner. There was no question of letting it mean anything, as the event had been essentially meaningless, two displaced individuals falling into each other’s orbits and colliding under the force of an inexplicable attraction before drifting away to a safer, reasonable distance. As if to emphasize the point, after expressing how happy she was that Maya and I were going out, Eriko made a show of talking about the future relationships she desired – was there anyone I could introduce her to? I told her I’d keep my eye out.

Needless to say, this experience put me into an unusual head space for a while, but it was only one of the factors leading to my eventual breakup with Maya. I procrastinated for weeks, paralyzed by cowardice, until one night I met her at a restaurant close to my station and managed to tell her that I didn’t think we had any future. I was still too young, and wanted to explore life more.

Maya didn’t take it well. In fact, the relationship died in stages similar to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s model of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Except instead of acceptance, it was more like anger and depression II: angrier and more depressed.

“So you’re just going to throw me away,” she said, and seemed almost on the verge of punching the glass window close to our table.

“I’m not throwing you away.”

“You are!”

I’d naively hoped to wrap things up in an “adult” manner and see her off at the station, but she followed me back to my dorm and insisted on staying the night. As she gradually came to terms with the reality of my leaving her, she struggled to project a future in which we were still somehow connected.

“I still think I can trust you,” she said. “Ten years from now when we’re married to other people, I can see our children playing together in a garden somewhere…”

I felt myself close to tears. Even then I doubted I’d ever have children, but the dreamlike image affected me deeply, and I felt utterly destroyed.

Then it was time for one final attack. It was the small hours of the morning, and we were both highly-strung. She demanded to know the real reason I was leaving her, why I wasn’t satisfied.

“Okay,” I said. “I really just want more experience. I want to fuck other girls.”

Depending on your temperament, your sympathy for me at this point – still fairly early in the book – has either been cemented or evaporated completely. In the case of the latter, I’ll say that, in my defense, I met Maya years later in a coffee shop and found her a mature, confident woman, successful at her job and happily married to a prosperous, upwardly-mobile Japanese businessman. Despite the callous way I’d treated her, she bore me no ill will and said she looked back on our relationship with fondness. I wanted desperately to believe her. With the passage of time, she now felt free to joke about the past, and she brought up an incident that had stuck in her mind.

“There was that one time I went to your dorm and saw all the clothes neatly folded on the dresser. I remember thinking there was no way you would ever have folded them that neatly or stacked them up like that. You said you’d done it yourself but I knew you were lying. It was another girl, wasn’t it? You had someone else in your room.”

I conceded that she was right; it had been another girl.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say, “It was your mother!”

The post The Birth of Japan Game: Episode 3: The Nanpa Intro appeared first on Attraction Japan.

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