This is a chapter out of my horrific memoir I’m writing about my time and misadventures in Tokyo. The title is called “J-girls.” Reader beware: I’m a horrible person and if you’re just figuring that out you haven’t been paying attention.
Kaitlin was my roommate for one year and I hated her.
I’m fairly certain she hated me too and that’s fine. Kaitlin was from, I think, Maine. She was older than me at the time, maybe 30, and was around 5’7”, thicker but not fat in the hips, and had oddly cut blond hair. like someone had given her a haircut with a butter knife. I honestly don’t know much else about her because since we loathed one another we rarely talked.
All I knew for sure about her was that she, like me but with girls, had a revolving door of Japanese and Korean men coming over. Once, while walking back from a home party Michiko had at her huge flat in Nakano, utterly shit-faced, Kaitlin blessed me with the number of men and abortions she’d had, thus far, and it was…dull.
37 men; 2 abortions.
Living the dream.
Once, I can’t remember when exactly, I stole her bottle of Champagne because there was nothing else to drink and I was incredibly broke. She got really upset and told me that was a special bottle of Champagne.
“Really? Because it was sparkling white wine, from Mexico, you dumb whore.” I managed, pretty buzzed.
“You’re such an asshole. I want that replaced. REPLACED.” She nearly screamed at me from across the dilapidated apartment.
“Go to hell.” And then realizing I had nothing else to drink.”Oh, hey Kait, can I borrow 500 yen?”
She spent a fair amount of time with Yoshinori, a Japanese guy she had met, some place, who had been a boxer at one point. I always knew when Yoshinori was over because in one of her various sloppy drunken stupors, Kaitlin had gone on and on about the impressive size, girth and length, of his dick. So, whenever I heard Kaitlin screaming and moaning and Oh-fuck-me-God-Oh-fuck-me-Yes-ing, I knew Yoshinori was in town.
Although she spent a fair amount of time with Yoshinori, that isn’t to say the two of them were exclusive, the complete opposite actually. She stumbled home with various guys, always Asian, on the regular. And this is why nothing sexual ever happened between us: We had both caught some wicked yellow fever and the white bread simply wasn’t going to work.
Kaitlin also had no problem munching the carpet, and by that I mean licking vagina. This seems to be, aside from yellow fever and similar passports, the only thing was had in common. So, I suppose that makes her “bi-sexual”. Not a big surprise, everyone seems to be at some point and to some degree, and that’s fine with me, but for some reason whenever she brought her girlfriend around, she acted like a complete and utter bitch to me. In retrospect, I get it: The petite Korean-American Kaitlin was playing with took Kaitlin a lot more seriously than Kaitlin took her. Seeing that she lived with a loud, drunk, aspiring prize-fighter who regularly had women over, could not but have helped but stoke the flames of her suspicion and jealousy. That was fine, I didn’t mind her being over, even in her bitchy moods, because seeing her cute little Korean ass moving around the flat I fantasized about the time when she’d have a bit too much to drink and Kaitlin would pass out, as she was prone to do, and then I’d let her come in my room and play with me. Me, meaning my dick; play, meaning get tea bagged. Alas, this never came to pass, however, the next best thing did.
Some Sunday, it was late in the afternoon and I was spending the day messaging people (girls) online, watching some movie while nursing some wound (injuries were omni-present as is the case when you spend your free time beating up and getting beaten up by some of the best fighters in the world) and trying to make it to four before I began drinking. I could hear those two, Kaitlin and her Korean buddy, messing around in the kitchen, and being the out going type of person I am, I decided to have a chat.
I slid open the Japanese style door to my room, and stepped out. I was wearing a black t-shirt with a dragon on it and the words HONG KONG across the bottom and some old jeans. I casually leaned against the wall outside my door, now taking in the scene: Kaitlin at the small kitchen table chopping up various veggies and her friend, bent over slightly rummaging through the fridge opposite me, looking for something. She was just wearing tight little training shorts and I was immediately erect and throbbing. Maybe this could work somehow.
“Hey, ladies…” I said, smiling, now realizing I had to pull my boner up into the waistband of my boxer-briefs immediately or they’d be getting the show, way ahead of schedule. I managed to pivot, reach and adjust, then pivot back just as the Korean turned around.
She just stared at me for a moment, then kind of rolled her eyes and turned toward Kaitlin.
“Hey, baby, do we have any Olive oil?” Do WE have?
“Yeah, we should have some on the shelves. I bought a big bottle a few weeks ago.”
Olive oil? Uh-oh.
“Hey, uh, haha…actually I think I might have finished that up.” I said, smiling, still looking at the hard body little Korean bitch. Kaitlin then, dramatically, stopped chopping up unidentifiable vegetables, and turned toward me holding the knife. Gesturing at me with the knife, like it was her index finger, she started to purge.
“All of it? You used all of it? Like, how? You don’t even cook. Eric, you don’t even cook.”
“Well, I cook pretty regularly.” I did.
“You make rice and then open two cans of tuna fish and dump it in the rice and then stir it up with some salt and pepper. That’s what you cook. I have never seen you cook anything else. Ever. So, how did you use all that olive oil? Jesus…” Knife blade pointing and gesturing. The damn sexy Korean stared right at me scowling, arms crossed across her titts. I was beginning to get annoyed and my horniness was increasing.
“Yeah so, well, I use olive oil in the dish.” That was true.
“Dish? It’s not a fucking dish. It’s rice and canned tuna. Jesus. You always use my stuff and don’t replace it. You always do this. What the fuck? You always use all my stuff and it’s really annoying, Eric.”
OK, this was becoming ridiculous. All her stuff?
“Kaitlin, yes, I finished the olive oil. Soooo sooorrryyyy. I can go get you another one. Right now. What else have I used of yours? What?”
Her voice got quite. Then nearly a whisper…
“The Champagne my friend gave me for my birthd…”
“It was sparkling white wine…”
“…day and you never replaced it even though I asked you to and I told you how impor…”
“It was from fucking MEXICO.” Now, I was motioning back at her with knife hand gestures and was standing up straight.
She was now yelling.
“It was MY Champagne and YOU stole it and YOU never replaced it ERIC!”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I moaned. Then I turned, went back into my room, grabbed my wallet and turned again and walked throw the flat toward the door passing between the lesbo Twinkie and Kaitlin.
“I’ll go get some more olive oil. Jesus. Kaitlin, do you hear me? I’m going to get it and if I see a bottle of fucking spick sparkle juice I’ll replace that as well. Comprehende?”
I was pulling on my shoes at the front door and just as I walked out I heard the Korean say “You should totally kick him out.”
When I came back the kimchi was no place to be seen, maybe in Kaitlin’s room, and I took my shoes off, walked in and dropped the shopping back with the olive oil in it on the chopping board over Kaitlin’s shoulder with a crash. I then walked into my room and slid the door closed.
I sat in my room, kind of half-heartily masturbating, alternating between Japanese internet porn and imagining the things I would love to do to the Korean hard body as I began to smell the cooking.
It smelled good.
Obviously Thai, the curry smells mingled with the aroma of the onions and other vegetables, no meat because Kaitlin was a vegetarian. It smelled good. I was hungry.
I got up, put my gear away and then slid my door open and walked into the kitchen.
“Smells good. What are you cooking?”
I got no answer.
“Did you use the olive oil? Did it help?”
Nothing. Silence. A pot softly boiling away.
“Well, anyway it smells good.” I looked at her back, she was standing by the stove stirring her curry. I reached in the fridge and grabbed a tall Asahi beer. I rolled my eyes, then walked back into my room.
Over the next hour I drank two more tall boys, the 500 milliliter cans, and I heard Kaitlin and the Twinkie chatting about the intricacies, Jesus, of making vegetarian Thai curry and corn cakes. They were also drinking wine, giggling and whispering. I caught a lot of “He is such a…” and “How does he ever get laid?” and “I would never….”
My agitation began to mount. Then, a plan hatched in my mind. A good plan.
I slowly slid my door open a fraction and peaked out, they were gone. I stood up and carefully opened the door and tip-toed across the narrow apartment till I could see Kaitlin’s bedroom door closed and could hear them watching TV inside. I went to the stove and carefully lifted the lid on the curry; it smelled absolutely amazing. Very slowly and carefully I got a bowl from the shelf and I ladled a good amount into the bowl. I then opened the small oven and removed two of the twenty or so corn cakes and put them in the bowl. Then, I turned to tip-toe back to my room, but stopped suddenly, realizing two things.
First. I opened the little fridge carefully and got another 500ml/40 ounce tall boy out and put it in my back pocket. Then, I squared up with the stove.
What happened next simply occurred. I hadn’t known I was gonna do this and even while I had grabbed the beer the idea had not yet manifested in my consciousness but it was there now and events played out in real time.
I unzipped my jeans and pulled my dick out. I then began to urinate into the curry. 1500 milliliter’s of Asahi dry filled up a good amount of the space left in the pot. The relief from this evacuation coupled with the giddy excitement imagining one or both of them walking out and catching me was a unique juxtaposition. I then carefully stirred it up and replaced the lid. I then turned around, picked up my bowl of curry and tip-toed back into my room, sliding the door closed.
I opened the beer and enjoyed it with the curry, which was slightly spicy and full of veggies and tofu. It all contrasted well with the slight sweetness of the corn cakes. I was thoroughly satisfied if not slightly bummed out that getting seconds wasn’t an option. Then I heard her door open and they came into the kitchen, giggling, clearly a little drunk from the wine, and I heard the clinking and clanking of bowls and spoons, the pot lid coming off and the Korean saying “Oh god, Kaity, it smells so amazing!”
“Well, it’s taken me a long time to get the recipe just right. But it’s one of my best now.”
I bet it is, K-a-i-t-y. I bet it is. But you’ll never make a batch quite like that again.
Not only did they both finish the curry, I know this because they both had seconds, and the little tight ass Korean had thirds. That was better than any punishment I could dish out with my monster, as far as I was concerned.