It was the way he touched her, that kept her coming back. Slow, deliberate and with complete authority over her body. She also knew her gruff Korean father would die to find the 일제 강점기 was continuing between his daughter’s legs. A “j*p” her father would call him , and she would cringe as she would when ever he spit the word. Despite creating two bi racial children with a black woman, he thought of anything remotely Japanese being accepted by a Korean was treacherous.
Her lover was more than 30 years her senior. A professor at a university that her well to do suburban friends made fun of her for applying to.Yasuhito Higa, a Yale educated scholar in subjects that bored her to tears. She had met him at the school’s open house, the attraction was far from instant. He was pale ,lanky, balding, and almost bird like. Most girls her age would reject the type of man who owned a sensible amount of everything. A Marxist. A man on whom the concept of fashion was completely lost.
She had rejected his university and him at first. After her second year rotting away at a state school she found herself warming up to the idea of both. She found an excuse to open communication with him again in a school assignment. Phone calls , turned into lunch dates, and somewhere in between discussing the folly of capitalism and spinelessness of Democrats, his kind smile, and gentle laugh made her look past his features. She began to imagine the handsome man he must have been when he was her own age.
Lying in his bed , naked the thin summer sheets doing nothing to shield her from the cool gust of spring breeze. She feels giant next to him now, moments ago he was larger than the world. An all encompassing entity she could not stop or question. Stretching her limbs ….
