If we did everything we actually could, we would never cease to surprise ourselves.Thomas Edison
I’m on a twenty-four-hour layover in Tokyo before the flight home. The first thought was an airport hotel, pay-per-view movies, bathtub and room service. The second thought was to dance the night away in Womb’s concrete bunker like many times during my working years in Tokyo. It brought back night clubbing memories of sweaty swinging bodies, laser lights cutting through smoke screens and time standing still. Finally, the third thought went towards you, and I couldn’t help but smile. This is so absurdly decadent but still so fabulously right. It’s interesting how ambitions change us.
– Got another 24h in Tokyo. be my date, my toy and my joy?
– Okay, leaving the office at 7pm, where do we meet?
– Tokyo Dome hotel, check-in as me and wait in the room. Hugs and kisses!
Tokyo Dome Hotel, where I stayed for six months in one room, I still remember the skyscraper of dark tinted glass and black marble, the eternally bowing staff, the politely greeting elevator and the smell of neat flower arrangements. When the plane from Okinawa lands, I find the message that you have checked in as Miss Me and reply briefly that you should get ready like a proper girl, lay out dinner clothes on the bed and wait naked in the hall with something inspiring blinding your eyes. Before leaving the airport, I lock my hiking backpack in a coin-locker and buy a bottle of champagne in the duty-free shop.
With my passport, an hour or so later, I pick up an extra key card at the reception desk and take the elevator to the sixty-second floor. The glass elevator glides silently along the outside of the hotel and provides a panoramic view of the city’s nightlife. The avenues between Shibuya, Shinjuku and Ikebukuro are lit up by neon signs that rise in an anthill. Along the skyscrapers, the red helicopter warning lanterns wander slowly upwards, so the city appears to boil. My heart beats with anticipation and excitement when the key card is placed against the door with the number 6227, so the red diode turns green and the lock clicks open.
The motion-controlled hall lights come on, and you sit naked with your legs slightly apart on your knees in front of me. Over your eyes is the sash of an under kimono, which is given as a gift by many finer hotels. My fingers wander along your damp neck and whisper in your ear that you must have been sitting very still. Once behind you, I drop to my knees, put an arm around your neck and bend your head slightly upwards. You cough from the lack of air while my other hand inspects you; your milk-white freshly washed skin, your shaved arms and legs, my fingers against the brushed teeth of your mouth and my tongue tasting your throat. I feel the harsh perfume taste and my teeth bite your neck disapprovingly. You should have learned that your throat is mine to eat.
My body is in total opposition to yours; messy unshaved hair and the taste of a salty sea in my skin. My cheek is against yours, rough hands parting your legs, leaving tear marks on your inner thighs and continuing to your sex. You are violently pressed down into the carpet, my saliva runs down your face, and your body is penetrated again and again. More and more loudly, my fingers pressed far down your throat to muffle the screams. Afterwards, you sit on your knees in the bathtub where the shower water washes over us, sea salt is flushed from my skin, and coarse stubble is shaved away. You are decorated with bite marks, redness and a happy smile.
Your hair is still wet. You wait on the edge of the bed. Next to you is the black office suit, and you look down at your feet in shame. Your underwear and tights are neatly folded in your handbag together with your passport, mobile phone and keys. My hands tie the rope around your neck, knot where the collarbones meet, and the rope runs between your breasts, legs, buttocks and up through the jacket sleeve. Resting on my arm, we head out of the hotel corridor, almost invisible in the subdued light. We slide forward with the rope leading in my hand. We land in the top floor jazz bar where a cacophony of night birds murmurs to the peacock queen’s song. The night black window reflects your parted pale legs and my hand resting against your sex where our secluded table looks out over the city.