WARNING: Explicit content
The wall-mounted air conditioning unit hummed with activity above Sagramore’s head. The annoying noise, and the vibrations coursing down the wall towards our hero’s reposed figure, were the only proof the cursed machine was even on. It certainly wasn’t cooling anything. The late-afternoon summer heat was hovering just below unbearable. He lay immobile upon his bed, and his lethargic gaze fell forward, focusing on the opposite wall of his bedroom, past an erect penis he wasn’t sure what to do with at the moment. He was convinced any activity at all, even mere thought, would speed up his metabolism and raise his body temperature, which would be undesirable. Paramore’s bitchy brand of pop/punk rock flowed out of his computer speakers, and he suspected the upbeat music was somehow making the room hotter. He should have chosen some downbeat trip-hop. Anyway, the laptop was far too distant now, propped up on the opposite side of his bed, and the music couldn’t be changed. He could feel the heat emanating from the damned computing machine. Every object in his room seemed to be shooting out heat rays, like those sauna rock things in saunas. He was hot, and so continued to do nothing but lie recumbent in bed, baking in the natural kiln that is a Tokyo Summer. He looked at his watch; it was 4:12pm.
The clock now read 6:32pm; our good hero judged it an acceptable time to start cooking dinner. His erection had disappeared about 45 minutes ago, and his penis had shrunk back into some kind of vestigial remnant of what should be. He felt sorry for the poor thing; Sagramore didn’t typically have sex but twice a year, and usually by accident, so he couldn’t help but feel guilty about the criminal underuse of his member. The midday heat had faded a bit, and lowered from “inside of a volcano” to “inside a pizza oven.” He focused his spirit energy into his core, mustering all the earthly and heavenly powers he possessed, and then got up from the bed. This struggle represented the most taxing physical feat he had yet to attempt that day. He was pleased with himself at having been able to pull it off. Sagramore stumbled into his bathroom, and washed up, lathering several times to scrape off the layers of sweat and lazy. He felt refreshed. Our proud knight sauntered over to his kitchen, and squealed in fear as he saw a cockroach scurry across the floor. He gingerly stepped back down from the couch, tore off some paper towel sheets, and went hunting. A scant 12 minutes later he scraped off the rest of the cockroach carcass off his kitchen counter, and threw the mess away. Sagramore was a human; a mere cockroach stood no chance against opposable thumbs and the vast amount of brain matter required to operate them. He cooked himself up some fried rice.
It was 6:58pm. His room was tinted in dark, lit only by the artificial glow of his TV screen. He was 2 minutes into Biutiful, a Spanish-language film that was heavily praised by critics, but would probably end up being 30 minutes too long, like all foreign movies. His habitat was finally starting to cool down thought he still felt hot, since his giant bowl of fried rice was perched upon his swelling belly. He was in bed again, eating his dinner and watching his movie. If gluttony and sloth could be combined into one deadly sin, this would be it. He was gloth, or maybe sluttony. Anyway, the fried rice was delicious; that boy could cook. His phone lit up with a message. He took a sip of delicious sweet tea as he checked his cell. He spit tea everywhere as he jumped up, knocking the bowl of rice off his tummy and onto the floor. He checked the message again, but there was no doubt in sight. It was a booty call.
He got to her place around 9:30pm. It was all the way across town in Jiyugaoka, which was kind of an en vogue place to live in Tokyo at the moment. Sagramore was pretty sure her name was Shihori or Chihiro. She had programmed her contact info into his phone herself, so it was all in kanji, and he couldn’t make heads or tails out of those picture letters. They had met at a big party some mutual friends had hosted at a club in Shibuya. He was fairly certain she was a senior in college, but she was Asian, so she could conceivably be anywhere from 15 to 43 years old. Sagramore is trustful by nature. Chihiro or maybe Shihori had lived in the states for several years, in our beloved protagonist’s hometown, actually, and her English was probably better than his. She still had kind of a sexy accent though. He remembered her as pretty; had a very nice face and hair, but she had hips an optimist would call childbearing and a pessimist would call fat. He was excited as he approached her building. He hadn’t gotten nasty in a long time. He had almost had sex during a business trip abroad a while back, but that had fallen through. Aww, crap! Our hero had gotten too excited, and already had a boner. He jumped into a side street out of view. He focused his thoughts on Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, and his erection dissipated. He waltzed back up to her house (it was a legit house, not an apartment), and knocked on the door. Only salesmen and public servants ring; gentlemen knock.
“Sagramore, hey. You finally got here!” She swooped in for a quick hug.
“Hey…um…you…How’ve you been?”
They finished hugging, and she led him inside her home, which was actually pretty swank. Fairly spacious, and there was some nice modern art hanging along the entryway. Seemed too nice for a college girl living on her own, he wond—-oh no. God, no! He turned to bolt back out onto the street, but it was too late. Her parents had already turned into the main hallway. Great kettles of catfish! Our esteemed protagonist was in trouble. He took his shoes off, set them down near the door, and then slipped into some slippers that had been provided. He sulked forward into the hallway, which the Japanese call a Genkan, for you culture buffs. Her parents smiled a pair of smiles both heart-warmingly genuine and spirit-shatteringly perfidious. He never understood how Japanese TV actors could be so awful in general when in real life they were all masters. Her parents looked like sort of the stereotypical Japanese who have lived abroad a long time because he’s a super paid higher up in a company who was posted abroad couple would look. He was wearing a polo shirt, and so was she…I think you get the mental image. The mom was some hot s♥♥ t, though. Was there any way to switch the date up and spend time with her?
“Mom, dad, this is Sagramore. We met at Chihiro’s party last month. He’s from Atlanta, too.”
Ha! So Chihiro was her friend, meaning she must be Shihori. Mental note taken.
He introduced himself to her parents in Japanese, and they asked him the usual: what he did, where he’s from, even though that had seemingly been covered, and of course, they capped it all off by praising his masterful grasp of their language. Japanese condescension and overindulgence knows no bounds. If a white dude can say Konnichiwa, they’ll give him a literature prize. Interestingly, they didn’t ask how old he was. Finally the introductions ended, and her parents excused themselves to go upstairs.
“Well, have fun. We’re heading upstairs. Take care of Naomi, OK?”
Sagramore was confused. “Naomi? Is that your dog or something?”
They laughed at our brave protagonist, said he was very funny, and then left upstairs. He still didn’t get what the hell Naomi wa—oh wait, the girl’s name must not be Shihori. Oh, well. You lose some. The girl possibly named Naomi led Sagramore into the living room, which seemed to have been specifically architecturally designed around the most massive flat screen TV he had ever seen. His boner was back. Just kidding! Sagramore does generally really like technology and expensive things, though. They sat down on the couch, and chitchatted about boring bulls♥♥ t for about 5 minutes. Then, possibly Naomi suggested they watch a film. Sagramore did not want to watch a movie; he wanted to put his dick in something. However, he realized that in order to get a penis from outside something to inside something, a process needs to unfold. A courtship needs to take place. He agreed to watch a film. Ever more likely Naomi rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out some DVD, asking if they could watch it since it’s the only movie of theirs she hadn’t seen yet. Sagramore couldn’t have been paying less attention, so he said sure whatever and she started up the movie. It turned out to be something called Pootie Tang. It was so awful he couldn’t even muster the interest/energy to ask how someone in Tokyo ended up with a DVD of something called Pootie Tang. The main character was a pimp, maybe? He spoke a weird non-language; maybe it was a stoner movie?
After about 30 minutes of `Tang almost definitely Naomi started apologizing for how bad the movie was, and how sorry she was, etc. etc. Sagramore was getting annoyed with her jibber jabber, so he kissed her, and she stopped talking, and they started kissing more. Then the movie ended, and she stopped kissing him back and wanted to talk about feelings and shit. She started grilling our good knight pretty hard. What was he looking for in a girlfriend? A vagina. What did he think about commitment? As little as possible. Did he like children? At this point, he shifted into conversation with a woman mode, and answered only with various combinations of the following words: I, agree, really, interesting, totally, you, are, amazing, unique, truly, special, and so thin. After 15 minutes she moved in closer and they were making out again. It started getting more intense, and she said it’s ok her parents are probably asleep by now. He was pretty sure he could hear footsteps upstairs, but whatever; fortune favors the bold. He shifted her over and laid her down on the large padded footrest thing in front of the couch. After more fooling around, he slipped off her underwear, took his own off, and dove into the pool.
Things seemed to be going well, and then now pretty firmly established as Naomi goes “Ouch, oh no! Is there blood on the ottoman?”
Sagramore stopped dead in his tracks, totally confused. To the best of his knowledge, an Ottoman was a 16th century Turkish man hell-bent on conquering Eastern Europe. If anything, it would make sense for an Ottoman to have blood on him, considering his country’s aggressive military policy….anyway, it turned out that the huge footrest thing in front of the couch was an ottoman. He didn’t know what to say, so he decided to mask his ignorance with humor.
“Blood? Yea, looks like Sweeney Todd decorated.”
She got up and checked all over the Turkish footrest, but found no trace of crimson. She sat back down on the couch, and breathed a sigh of relief. Sagramore felt contact relief too, though he wasn’t sure how the footrest could have blood on it. Had she cut herself?
“Did you put it all the way in? We didn’t have sex just now, did we? I did not wait all this time to have sex in a living room with Pootie Tang playing in the background!”
“Umm…what? I’m…um…not sure what you mean…um…Naomi?”
“How much did you put it in?” Good; she didn’t mention anything about her name. So she really was Naomi. Sagramore knew her true name now, which according to some fantasy/ sci fi sources gave him power over her. He still did not know what the hell she was talking about,
“Umm. How much? Like a…percentage? We’re talking about my penis, right?”
“Well, I guess a little over 100%. I was sort of balls deep in you…NA-O-MI.”
“What?! Balldeep? What does that mean? And why are you saying my name in a weird voice? You weren’t really all in, right? What percent?! Under 50?”
Sagramore was confused and uncomfortable. Why was he being asked this? He wanted to have sex, not talk about numbers and percents like the stock exchange. Did she not feel like he was all the way in? Insecurities bubbled upwards, and a sneaking suspicion this whole discussion somehow reflected her underwhelmed opinion of his member’s size blossomed in the dark recesses of his little mind. Still, he had checked Wikipedia several times, and his erect penis was well within the normal length for an adult male. Well, an adult. The “male” qualifier is probably unnecessary.
“Yea, I was totally joking about 100%. But, I mean, how specific do I need to be? My dick doesn’t have hash marks on it or anything. It’s not a kitchen utensil or something , or like a protractor–”
“Stop messing around! You know how deep you were!” Sagramore heard a tiger roar somewhere.
“Right; sorry. 63%”
“63%?! How could you know that? It’s too specific, stop lying. Tell me!”
In his mind, Sagramore was halfway to the airport ready to flee the country. Unfortunately, he was physically still in definitely Naomi’s living room. He wasn’t sure how specific he was allowed to get. She hadn’t mentioned the desired margin of error.
“OK. I will stop joking. It was less than 50%.”
“Oh, great. So I’m still a virgin” Naomi lunged for our hero and hugged him, letting out a sigh of relief. She looked up at Sagramore and smiled warmly. He looked down at her like a deer in the headlights of an alien spaceship. She was a virgin? Not good. Sagramore had had sex with a virgin once, and all it had netted him was a sore penis and $30 in new bed sheets. A totally overrated experience. He really wanted to go home, but Naomi was still hugging him, and then kissed him. He was afraid. This girl was crazy. Was he going to wake up in the morning as part of a human centipede experiment?
“Sorry I freaked out, but this is a big deal you know? But I’m ok now. How about we go up to my bedroom? I bet you’d think it’d be hot to do it with my parents in the next room.”
Sagramore did not think it would be hot. Was this middle school? That whole let’s piss mom and dad phase had worn off a while ago. He was 25 years old now; if anything, he felt like pleasing parents and respecting their efforts. F♥♥ king around behind their back seemed distasteful…he actually kind of missed his own parents; hadn’t seen them in a whi—oh s♥♥ t, they were in her room, and he was inside her again. He had gotten lost in his thoughts, and his penis had done the decision-making. They went on for a few minutes. Naomi lay back like a sack of cold vaginas that don’t move ever, or do anything other than sit there, and Sagramore just went at it like a dog awkwardly humping its owner’s unresponsive leg. He tried lying back, and having her get on top, but she just sat on his dick and waited around, like those people who don’t realize the store doors don’t slide open automatically. They went back to awkward missionary. And then:
“Ouch, ouch. Wait, stop.”
He stopped. And sat up at the foot of the bed. He scanned the room, looking for any sharp objects he could stab into his face. They were only on the second floor, so jumping out the window probably wouldn’t kill him…
“How deep did you go that time?”
-Please reread the entire previous discussion-
“Oh, great. So I’m still a virgin” Sagramore wasn’t sure whether this was a test or a joke.
“Uh…no, you’re not a still a virgin. And judging by your very loose definition of the term, you probably weren’t before tonight. Honestly, girl, your view of virginity is blurrier than Bigfoot footage.”
“What? No. it doesn’t count if you don’t put it in deep. We weren’t having sex. It’s just foreplay. ”
“Yea, we were. There’s no percentages in sex, OK? Virginity isn’t graded on a bell curve, Naomi. It’s a pass/fail system, and if you’ve had a dick in your box, you fail. Sex is a physical act, not a matter of perception. You’re crazy. I’m going to go home now, and I would delete your contact info from my phone, except that it’s programmed in kanji and I don’t know how the hell to read it. However, I will pretend it doesn’t exist, and I will pretend tonight never happened. You dig? I mean, percentages? Depth? This is some middle school bulls♥♥ t right here. Come on, you’re in college now; don’t you think it’s time to mentally graduate from high school and act like an adult? ”
Sagramore grabbed whatever of his s♥♥ t he could find and dove out her window. Thanks to his superior reflexes, which rivaled a jungle cat’s, he landed on his feet, and started running immediately. Once he got to the train station, he slithered into a bathroom stall, and put on his clothes. Only 7 to 12 people had noticed him running naked through the dimly lit streets of suburban Tokyo. Our valiant knight was fairly certain he had heard the click of a photo camera at one point. He ran up to the train platform, and barely caught the last train heading out. Train service in Tokyo cuts off from about 12am to 5 am for reason no one quite understands. Sagramore supports the theory it’s related to the taxi lobby’s chokehold over the political elite, but most people laugh at his idea. He sat down on the bench, and watched the city sprawl speed past outside the train window. Our proud hero was in a pissy mood. Tonight had been a disaster. His dick ached with unuse, and mourned the lost opportunity to unload its spermy burden. Sagramore tried to reason with it, and explain she was too young and crazy, but his purple balls would not be appeased. Truly, the worst walk of shame is that which doesn’t follow sex.
Back at home, he was sitting on his bed again. He had taken about 12 showers, and tried reading some bible verses from the copy he keeps in his apartment even though he’s atheist. He tried to be positive about the whole experience. His brief foray into the pedophile lifestyle had taught our hero much. First, he learned that little girls suck. He was going to target older women only from now on. He’d need to become an oldophile, or whatever the term is. Second, it seemed sex was not a decision of whether to engage in the physical act, but a decision of whether to perceive the physical act. And that perception is apparently informed by percentages and depth readings. He re-checked dick sizes in wikipedia, and then went to sleep with the self assurance of one who knows his little buddy’s length rests well within the mean.