The Middle-Aged Japanese Woman Who Wouldn’t Fuck Me

“How old are you?” I asked within ten minutes of my first actual conversation with Y—. I’m just an asshole like that, asking personal questions prematurely and sometimes abruptly. The practice started as part of my self-esteem training, a way to prove to myself that others’ opinions of me didn’t matter. Now, I use it as a social tactic to subversively establish dominance by demonstrating that I don’t give a fuck.

She feared this question. Her age was her least favorite topic of conversation, and she would have rather I asked about her most traumatic life experience, assuming that experience was not someone else asking her age. I sensed this, and perhaps that’s why I asked in the first place.

“I forgot,” she said, and punctuated it with a smile.

“わかります,” I said, which (I hope) means, “I understand.” Then I smiled too, showing her that I comprehended our new secret code.

Y — worked at this bar I wrote at. I had a regular drink and a regular seat, and if the staff spoke better English they would have greeted me by name. Instead, I got enthusiastic smiles and my drink presented to me without asking.

Of all the bartenders, Y — had the most enthusiastic smile. After a few preliminary five-second conversations exercising my bare-bones Japanese, one night she came and sat down next to me.

I pegged her as middle-aged on first glance, but it didn’t matter because she was still a vision. She took good care of herself (on a permanent diet, I learned later), with a tight body and active fashion sense. Even her natural good looks were persistent. Glancing between her beauty queen smile and low-cut shirt, it was easy to forget her age.

Awhile into that first conversation, she mentioned she was married. With the aid of my translator app, I asked her why she was flirting with me. Predictably, she played innocent.

I followed with my reliable go-to when women in relationships flirt with me: “Are you happy together?” She said she was. I told her I was going to ask her out for drinks, but not if she were happily married. She touched my arm, smiled that smile, and said we could still go out anyway.

Looking at her hand, I noticed that she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring.

Later that night, at my non-writing bar, I told my Japanese friends about her and inquired about extra-marital affairs in this “foreign” culture.

“Her husband’s probably some rich businessman who goes to Nakasu all the time.” Nakasu is a small island in the center of Fukuoka known for its prostitution, blow-job bars, and sexy massages. In my head, I nicknamed it “Whore Island” after the line from Anchorman.

That they were a couple familiar with cheating on each other was all the encouragement I needed.

Weeks later she texted me, asking about my absence at the bar, so I dropped by specifically to pay her a visit. Her first question, before asking where I’ve been, was what I was doing that night.

“I don’t know. Going around to bars, I guess. What about you?”

“I’m going to bars with you.” There was that smile again.

When she got off work, we walked together to my non-writing bar. Along the way, her eyes locked on to every pretty girl we passed, much like a lecher. Youthful and buoyant as they all were, Y — ’s gaze wasn’t spiteful or jealous, but rather one of admiration. This coincided with earlier, when she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the bikini girls bouncing around the TV.

My date was well-received at the bar. My friends, reformed (and not-so-reformed) womanizers, patted me on the back and congratulated me on my catch. This made me uncomfortable, as it diminished the moral high-ground I like to think I have over them. Still, she was a good-looking girl; even the douche-bag who interrupted our date to hit on her in front of me thought so.

Over drinks, Y — spoke frequently about youth and beauty. She had an immortal spirit, a person who’s years and mentality never quite coincided. Her hobbies, in her words, were drinking and snowboarding. She told her stories as if they happened a few weeks ago, but in reality they were decades old.

Our flirting intensified with each drink. Reading the cues, I asked her about her Tyra Banks phone background, positioning our talk for more sexual subject matters to follow.

“I like her face,” she said. After some additional prodding, she admitted, “I don’t like how Japanese girls look. Their eyes are like this…” Then she pulled her eyes into slits the way my grandfather used to. I laughed at the irony.

After the fourth or fifth drink, our eye contact grew longer. We entered the earliest stages of foreplay.

“Oh, you give massages?” I said. “Can you give me one?” Her touch was firm and skillful.

“Oh, you work out?” she said. “Let me feel your muscles.” She reached out and grabbed my abs, which I flexed not a second too late.

We were ready to leave two drinks ago. She took me to another bar, but it was too crowded. I couldn’t wait any longer, so I started kissing her neck in the elevator. She enjoyed it just fine, but when I tried to kiss her lips, she shielded her mouth with her hand.

I should have realized then. Maybe I did, but just ignored it. In any case, my drunk determination superseded my good sense, and I invited her to Karaoke.

From what I understand — which is in no way a credible source — in Japan, couples go to Karaoke to make-out. The privacy of a dark room within an innocent facade is the proper intermediary the shy Japanese culture needs between a fun night of drinking and the bedroom. So when she agreed to come, I took it as a good sign, along with the touching, massages, and prolonged eye contact.

On the couch in our very own Karaoke room, she laid in my lap as if we were a teenage couple on a picnic. She ordered even more drinks, and I smiled maliciously.

Y — and I sang Karaoke and intermittently I kissed her neck. Still, every time I tried to kiss her lips, she stopped me.

This went on for over an hour.

Despite my increasing drunkenness, I could no longer justify the situation in a way that worked for me. Once again I had flirted myself into a corner, and — as is my nature — I found the best course of action to bring the problem to light.

“Why won’t you let me kiss you?”

This question, somehow, came as a surprise to her. “I can’t explain in English,” she said, but a moment later she did just that, using proper English grammar and syntax:

“I’m married.”

I asked her why she came out with me in the first place, but honestly I forgot her answer. It was bullshit and the actual words were irrelevant. What I remember is the Eureka moment of comprehension in which the reality of the entire night slapped me upside the head.

She wanted the thrill.

She wanted to feel young again.

Still, she used me, and I was not happy. “Okay, we need to go.” In an instant we were both dead sober as we collected our belongings and left the room. She offered to pay for the Karaoke, and I didn’t utter a word of protest. Her husband was paying for it anyway.

We stepped outside as the sun was rising. I was looking forward to a long, reflective walk home alone, where I would either feel sorry for myself or process the experience and learn from it. I wouldn’t get the chance to decide, though, because Y — threw open the door to a cab and I got in without thinking.

The cab drove in silence and no one — not me, or her, or the driver — knew what to say.

Hitting early morning traffic, the car came to a halt in the middle of a bridge. With my apartment not too far away, I decided enough was enough and announced my departure.

As I escaped the cab, Y — reached out to me before I closed the door. I didn’t know if she was trying to touch my hand, or high-five me, or maybe it was just a primitive instinct to grab me and keep me with her for fear of losing me. Her face was riddled with that special breed of guilt unique to only the Japanese. I shut the door between us.

For a second before turning my back on her, I looked at her one last time. The morning sun invaded every crack and wrinkle on her face, highlighting 40+ years of worries, insecurities, broken dreams, and regrets. Without mercy, it revealed every pound of makeup she painstakingly applied daily to hide herself from the world. Maybe it was the lighting, or maybe it was the spite, but I no longer found her attractive.

In the moment, she just looked so old.