Author's notes: This is a stroll down memory lane to a time when the world as we knew it was undergoing dynamic and radical social change. It was a time fondly remembered for we were young, life was simple, and love was carefree. I share with you recollections of a special woman and what it was like then.
The standard discloser of everyone being eighteen-years or older and fictional apply. Constructive comments and suggestions are always welcomed. Hope you enjoy the telling of this tale.
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It was the early-1970s when women's liberation and empowerment were in vogue. Across the nation, women strove to cast off inhibiting social expectations and the subjugating roles of previous generations. For Naomi who was raised in a small farming community on the Kona coast of the island of Hawaii, breaking free was more difficult than could be imagined. As the eldest daughter, her entire world was steeped in her Japanese ancestry and customs, and her very support system of family and friends was often the source that held her back and restricted her individuality.
"Do you know, Mike," Naomi once told me, "though out my entire life, every time I told my very traditional mother that I wanted to do something that was just an inkling out of the norm, she started with the admonishment, 'Good Japanese girls don't do that!' Then after I exhausted myself trying to explaining, she abruptly ended the conversation with a heavy sigh and then shaking her head, she muttered the age-old conundrum of 'What will people think?'"
To shed her cultural and familial constraints and gain the independence that she yearned for, Naomi had to leave her island of birth where it seemed that everyone knew everyone. To do this, she had one of two ways: marry and relocate off-island if she was lucky to find a husband who was so inclined; or attended the State's University on the island of Oahu. Since Naomi didn't have a boyfriend at the time and was impatient to walk on the unknown wild side of life, she chose the second means of escape.
To an eighteen-year-old from rural Hawaii, attending college was like escaping from a high-security prison. Rules about how to behave and expectations of conformity were replaced with unregulated freedom and uninhibited self-indulgence. It was a no-brainer that guys, partying, booze, pot, and sex were quickly discovered in that order, quickly filling and blurring her undergraduate years.
Along these lines, Naomi admitted that she couldn't even remember how she lost her virginity. "All I remember was that after a night of wild partying," Naomi shared when we were teasing each other about our 'first time' experiences, "I woke up naked the next morning; in bed with an equally naked guy whom I vaguely knew; with a terrible hangover; and a sore and bloody vagina that oozed with sticky cum. Sad, huh?"
That recollection was so like Naomi. Straight-forward to the point of being alarming, Naomi spoke her mind and told it as it was. It was her attempt to rid herself of her demure Japanese female image and to assert herself in keeping with the feminist movement of the day. It therefore made perfect sense that Naomi would gravitate to the School of Social Work for her master's degree since that graduate program was the university's hot bed for social causes, women's liberation, and "touchy-feely-ness."
What was surprising was that Naomi would end up working as a juvenile probation officer upon graduation. When asked about this seeming perils of her profession, she boldly espoused her expanded social consciousness, maintaining that she was contributing to the social good by helping young people who were in need or trouble. To me, Naomi's choice of a potentially dangerous career was part of her on-going effort to prove herself to others (and herself).
Much of the concern about her being a probation officer might have been attributed to Naomi being a petite four-feet-eleven. Weighing in at ninety-five-pounds dripping wet, she had a slim figure that featured a flat stomach, nice hips, tight buns, and shapely legs. Her dark brown hair was cut in a carefree pageboy and except for a touch of lipstick, she projected an 'I-am-what-I-am' image.
I, however, had to admit that the only thing that I paid attention to was Naomi's apple-sized breasts. You see, women in the early 1970s went "braless" to signify their disdain for and shedding of society-imposed constraints on women. Given her boob size, Naomi didn't need the support of a bra and proudly went about as such as a symbol of social defiance and liberation. What she didn't realize was that chauvinist men of the day (such as myself) really loved women-libbers and saw them as targets of opportunity -- at least visual ones.
My first memory of Naomi was this diminutive Asian woman rushing to meet me. Her loose gauzy peasant's blouse noticeably displayed her pointy nipple bumps that jiggled with each quick step of her wedge-clad feet. Just as Naomi reached out to shake my hand, the case files that she had been carrying slipped from her grasp to drop in the ground between us. Naomi quickly squatted to scoop up her spilled papers and in so doing, gave me one hell of a terrific view of her naked pert boobs.
The image of her perky upturned tits was indelibly seared into my brain. Any thoughts of being gentlemanly and not ogling at her stiff pencil-eraser nipples that jutted from peaked areola instantly flew out of my head. The way I looked at it (and Naomi) was that if she was willing to show, I was definitely willing to look. I knew right then and there that that this would be the start of a stimulating professional, if not personal, relationship.
You see when I met Naomi, I was the head of a private non-profit social agency that dealt with troubled youth and was located at the juncture of several outlying rural districts. As things turn out, many of teenagers who took part in my social and alternative educational programs were Naomi's charges. Because she had a long drive from her city office, I graciously let her use my place to meet with her charges and their families, write up her reports, and in general, take a break. As it turned out, Naomi ended up hanging out quite a bit at my agency and with me before heading back to the city.
As for me, I'm a Chinese guy who is okay-looking and can best be described by the oxymoron of a "workaholic couch-potato." I spent much of my time (and life) at my agency which was a converted two-story, multi-roomed house. For my office, I had taken over the master bedroom in the back corner of the first floor. The room was big enough to comfortably fit a desk and chair, and two folding chairs on the other side of the desk. Off to the side was a love seat that most people didn't know was really a fold-out bed. This was handy when I had an early morning or late night agency activity. In addition, what looked like a closet door actually led to the room's small bathroom with a shower, sink, toilet, and small linen closet.
Naomi was quick to discover my office telephone (the only link with the outside since we didn't have cell phones back in those days) and manual typewriter (we didn't have desk top computers, printers, or the Internet too) for her reports which she could use whenever I wasn't using them. In return, Naomi kept bribing me with pastries and lunches which as a bachelor who had to fend for himself, I wasn't about to refuse.
However, when my "private accommodations" were discovered, Naomi, being Naomi, invited herself into first being allowed to use my toilet, and then my shower (when she had a date after work but not enough time to go home). Without even asking, Naomi took it upon herself to cleaning the bathroom (hey, no complaints from me) and added small things to my office like a radio and curtains to the window that made the room more "homey." Somehow my office gradually became as much Naomi's as mine.
However, despite our working relationship, Naomi and I weren't romantically attracted to each other in the beginning. On her part, Naomi was drawn to tall, lanky, blond, blue-eyed haoles (whites, as us locals call them), the surfer-dude-types who were transplants from the mainland (the continental US); had a hang-loose attitude; and were into beer, pot, and sex. These guys were the tangible symbols of rebellion, an ultimate expression of her free will to choose, and everything her parents abhorred. Unfortunately, her so-called lovers had no problem banging a willing Japanese women's libber, and then dropping her like a hot potato when she protested their callus use and lack of respect.
As for me, I was into Hawaiian women with their casual attitude about life and men. My brown-skinned beauties had a flirtatious way about them that intrigued my Oriental nature to no end. Unfortunately, the ones that I dated and bedded were into having children which was something that I wasn't into at the time, and had large extended families that included some of whom my agency served. Most of my ladies barely made it through high school, but not many were interested in getting ahead in life. As a result, while sex was good, there often wasn't much intellectual arousal. Deep down inside, I knew that I was looking for something more in a woman. The only problem was that I did quite know who at the time.
What I didn't know was that Naomi found me interesting over the course of time because I was the only guy in her life who didn't get riled at her outspokenness. I was the perfect foil for Naomi's women's liberation rants since in the Chinese culture, women were often domineering and quite outspoken. My knack of listening when she needed to vent; laughing at her when she got on her soap-box; or going toe-to-toe in arguments made me more and more indispensable to Naomi. When coupled with my lay-back personality, Naomi found herself increasingly intrigued with me.
I, on the other hand, liked Naomi's feistiness and her intellectual stimulation when it came to social role challenges such as the sexual revolution. However, I'd be lying if I didn't say that what really attracted me to Naomi were those mouthwatering viewings of Naomi's braless pert tits. I knew that she was careful around others especially her wards, their families, and my staff, but around me, Naomi was extremely casual about flashing me her small boobies. There they were whenever she was seated at my typewriter or leaning over to jot down a note while talking on the telephone. With each sighting of her tits, my interest in Naomi grew.
The turning point in our relationship was a Christmas potluck dinner at my agency for my staff and key supporters. I asked Naomi if she wanted to come and when she asked what she could bring, I said that she didn't have to bring anything.
