There’s a story I came across years ago, and I’ll try to put it to you in plain English.
There was an old couple, somewhere in their early forties somewhere in japan during the middle nineteen fifties. The husband in this matter was a frustrated sort. You see, he had never seen his wife fully naked, as she was a bashful woman, which, I understand was quite common during that time, in that place. This burned him so much, giving his commitment to her and the years they had spent, that he had concocted a plan; sort of a subconscious desire that had made its way into his conscious behavior. He raved about this desire of his to see her in full throughout the pages of his diary, in great length and detail, and then left the diary around on the kitchen table with the key strewn not a foot away in hopes that it would peak her curiosities and she would intrude on his secret thoughts.
It did not work.
These feeble attempts went on for months.
Finally, he confided in a friend. The friend figured he ought to have a party; he should get her drunk, invite a group of friends over, get her stirred up with music and passion, lift her out of the every day rabble of the day-to-day and then, in a fit of frenzied passion, she would lift her skirt for him.
Naturally, of course, he thought it a good idea,
Days later, the party went on. Friends, friends of friends and family all showed up, decked out in their best, eating fine and swilling down drink like they rarely did. Off in the corner was the wife with a cup of bourbon in her hand, (after all, it was the middle fifties in japan, and American culture was the latest wave.) She swilled it down and her glass was refilled time and again. She swayed and flirted, bending foreword with her kimono swaying loose, laughing and mingling with the guests as the ebbed and flowed throughout the vestibule. He watched at a distance as his ploy hatched on.
At one point she thought it best to retire. She went up the stairs and drew a hot bath, letting the hot tap run unopposed for minutes over minutes. She slipped the silk kimono off her soft white skin and submerged.
There came a moment, downstairs, during the hustle & bustle of everflowing guests and stories and introductions where our one and curious husband noticed that his wife had not been in the mix for quite some time.
He went upstairs.
He slid open the door to find her there; strewn lazily in the depth of the bath, burnt red by the still flowing tap as the water line crept up her breast. He hit the tap off and stood, watching over her.
Here, ladies and gentlemen, is where the twist occurs. You see, it has been our husband’s desire to get a fat, bright glimpse of his bride in full for years on years. But what you haven’t heard yet is his lady’s desire. In her diary, right next to it’s key is pages over pages on how she wants nothing more for him to tear that kimono off her back and forcefully fuck her in a mammal fit of passion like the man he never was.
He looked over her, stirring inside.
She sat, with the appearance of a drunkenly unconscious victim, yet all along, knowingly awake, waiting for him to make his move.
He stirred, twisting his lip in his fingers, weighing the morals of it all.
Finally, in a flash, he heaves her out of the tub with both arms, flings her onto the bed and begins lapping feverishly at her teats with a hunger two decades starved.
And all the while, she keeps her lids shut, holding her secret contained. And, through the little keyhole, adjacent to the bed, their ten-year-old son looks on with disbelief.
Greg McKenzie is a Toronto Native, musician, world traveler and film maker. He began with journals, escalated himself into the world of screenwriting and has settled into the habit of writing long form and short stories. He is 25 years old.