Ashiya Princess

ASHIYA PRINCESS

Among other fringe benefits, the dispatching language school offered steeply discounted Japanese language classes, of which I took full advantage. By then it was my birthday in mid November and Kaouri, in the twilight of our relationship, had arranged a birthday dinner for me at Jamaicana, the Jamaican restaurant in Sannomiaya. Present were a few of her friends and my new Japanese language teacher, Hirota sensei. Karin Hirota could have been Bjork’s beautiful sister. Her feline face was the epitome of the face I fetishized and her hardly opened upwardly angled eyes disappeared to two lines when she flashed her heart melting, but sinister smile. Her perfectly concave nose - the nose Michael Jackson tried so arduously and with great futility to achieve - pointed slightly skyward at the ideal angle.

She had skin of porcelain and a tiny mole strategically placed on the outside of her upper left eyelid. Her face, though young in appearance, to me spoke of unspeakable trauma and freakiness, evil meets sexy and standing at 161 centimeters, her 59 kilograms was definitely over-weight by Japanese standards. Random old women frequently stopped her, telling her of the evil that she exuded and at least once every few months, she was the victim of stalkers - some mysteriously phoning her apartment - a phenomenon I loathed and enjoyed at the same time.

Even my grandmother in Jamaica commented on her sick appearance.

“A weh yu get dat de gyal de fram? Yu nuh si se supm du har?” (Where’d you get this girl? Can’t you see there’s something wrong with her?) She confided to me during a trip to Jamaica with Karin. The evil those elderly ladies observed was perhaps some kind of Autistic Spectrum Disorder and further signs of fire in the hole was her Jaja Binks like gait, slightly slouching as she perambulated tiptoed, always seeming to be on the verge of falling on her face. It was as though she never quite recovered from the weight of her oppressive parents and the backpacks that she and other Japanese children were made to lug around in their elementary school years.

Indeed among my earliest observations in Japan was its seemingly high rate of Autistic Spectrum Disorder, only to be validated by scientific data stating that Japan has the highest frequency of autism in the developed world. According to a 2023 Psychology Today report, the rate of autism in Japan—about one in 55 children—is nearly twice as high as that of many other countries including China and the United Kingdom, and is on the increase. Experts disagree on the causes of the increased frequency in Japan, with some attributing it to contaminants in the environment and others, to changing diagnostic criteria and rising profile of the disorder. Those subscribing to the later, claim that Japan is more thorough in its analysis of the disease and includes conditions ignored by experts in the United States.

However, acutely aware of this disorder since my childhood in my native Jamaica, the Autistic Spectrum Disordered were far more visible in Japan during my first few months, than they were during my 20 years in the United States, which has over two and a half times Japan’s population. Individuals with this illness in Japan were surprisingly quite visible, though not as much so as the afflicted in Jamaica with a rate of 1000 per 10,000 people.

Environmental and genetic factors seem to be the most viable explanation for the higher frequency in Japan. One theory is, since a significant portion of the Japanese diet consists of fish, consumers thereof are affected by traces of mercury therein. Add to that the fact that in this vastly homogenous society, a significant majority hail from the same homozygous gene pool, which increases their genetic propensity for the disease. Upon setting foot on this island, I often lamented the frequent sightings on the train, of suited men with attaché cases, engaging in extended intrusive exploration of their nostrils, sometimes playing with their findings between their fingers before injesting them. Coincidentally, Japan shares some commonalities with Jamaica in this sense. Jamaica, an underdeveloped economy implements substandard ecological conservation measures, hence pollutants may well be a contributing factor to the ASD rate and almost like Japan, Jamaica is a near monoracial society. Some 95% of Jamaicans are of Sub-Saharan African decent.

At times Karin’s arms seemed suspended motionless by her side as she walked, and other times they pendulumed ever so subtly out of sync with the rest of her body. Ever since nine or ten years old, I had observed a correlation between arm movements like hers, and some emotional or psychological disorder. Her abstract symptoms might have been invisible to the average person, but commingling with her exotic beauty, they were clearly discernable to me. As to her generally manly fashion sense, a corduroy blazer with masculine trousers gathered at the waist was her uniform. Uniquely attractive, along with elderly ladies who reproached her about her devilish aura, other random women showered her with compliments, and commended me on my taste. Bilingual, educated, well traveled, hailing from a well to do, notwithstanding, high pressure invalidating family, ten days after my birthday dinner, on November 25, she made her debut at my apartment for “dinner.”

On that Wednesday evening my Japanese language teacher arrived promptly, revealing a whole new Hirota Sensei right on my kitchen floor. After the meal and stimulating conversation on a wide variety of topics, I gambled and kissed her lips.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because I couldn’t resist.”

“But I’m your teacher.”

“Which makes me wanna kiss you even more,” kissing her a second time, locking our mouths together. In no time I was at full attention just at the thought of invading my teacher, gradually stripping her down to her boring, anti-Viagra, slightly over-sized skin-toned panties. A former swimmer, her legs were thick, and I began to cup her overly protruding mons veneris and explore her bush.

“Dame, we shouldn’t be doing this, I’m your teacher,” as she jerked abruptly to my touch and collapsed on the kitchen floor. With my hand still in her panties playing with her, I followed her to the ground where she wiggled, panted and began to flail and kick aggressively on the floor.

“IKU IKU IKU IKU IIIIIIKU!”

‘Impossible,” I thought, as I had been touching her for less than two minutes. “Was that fake?” I asked myself as she tried to catch her breath post touchdown.

From my experiences, I discovered a correlation between a protruding pubic mound and the ease with which women achieve orgasm. Though I have not read anything scientific on the matter, all the women whom I had known biblically and who possessed this anomaly, climaxed with great ease. This condition in women for me made for a most unpleasant sexual experience. They were often too large and at an odd angle, with the protruding bone always painfully hitting against my pubic area. However, it may well be conducive to effortless childbirth, I surmised. Karin had the most protruding mons pubis I had ever encountered.

Shortly after, I began to lead her to my bedroom.

“No, no dame, I should go. I shouldn’t be doing this.” But it was too late, her Achilles heel was already revealed and with that I merged my lips with hers again in perfect union and ventured between her creamy sallow thighs. Almost immediately she lost control and once again collapsed on the floor between my bedroom and the kitchen as my fingers worked their magic.

“I know you have to go, but I want you to come for me one more time before you go.”

“DAME! DAME! IKU! DAME!”

“Don’t fight it,” I said calmly. “It’s ok, just let it out and enjoy it. There’s nothing to feel bad about,” I whispered to her, sensing that she may have had some kind of complex about her ultra-frequent and violently animated orgasms. Again, she began to flail, rail and kick, but with far greater intensity than before. She became increasingly belligerent and destructively animated, even hitting her limbs and head against the wall, as if being tickled to death. Amazed at her goliath strength, I straddled her while fondling her, taking care not to rest my weight on her as she lay on her back. Bucking like a bronco, she yelled at the top of her voice,

“SHINU! SHINU! (I’m dying, I’m dying.)DAME! (STOP!) IKU! IKU IKU, ita, ita.” (I came, I came.) Hyperventilating, “I thought I was gonna die.” Picking her up off the ground again, I finally lead her to my bedroom where I stripped, rolled on protection in preparation for the descent. Though she was like a well deep and wide, penetration was unpleasant for her, something to do with the angle of her heaven. She hated penetration. So I withdrew and settled for torturing her orgasmicly with my fingers and mouth. Before leaving my apartment 45 minutes later, I had released twice on her pearl skin, and she had achieved some 17 orgasms.

“I could get addicted to this,” I thought. Giving a woman pleasure so effortlessly would work wonders for my already inflated ego. But I caught myself in mid thought and recalled that the ease with which she arrives, had more to do with her anatomy and less to do with me. The hope also crossed my mind that if we did this on a regular basis, in no time with the release of large amounts of oxytocin she too would become hopelessly attached to me. However, contrarily the hunter was captured by the prey, developing an irreversible addiction to her, even to the point where I became one of her many stalkers.