This is a rather long read, covering several separate occasions when Chie and I met. If you're all right with that, I hope you can forgive a wordy caution here. It has to be categorised as Loving Wives - that is the whole point of this memoir - but be warned: there is a scat tag because we did go there, especially at the end; also a fair bit of watersports (and anal sex). This does not become a fetish-category story merely because niche practices make their appearance; a fetish is a thing fairly central to someone's pleasure. Readers who dislike any of those activities had better just click away, I'm afraid.
Still here? Pace yourselves, gentlemen. Ladies, settle in. Enjoy!
My wife and I have a cotton printed photograph, the size of a beach towel, hanging on one wall of a spare bedroom in our house. It shows a middle-aged couple sitting side-by-side, but looking at each other, at an outdoor café table with some kind of citrus tree behind them; it's a little fuzzy but I recognise them and know their names. They are a couple I knew before I got married to Kyoko -- in fact I met them not long after Kyoko and I broke up for the first time, and it was years before she and I got back together, again and for good. Their love for each other is evident as they look into each other's eyes; this is a couple whose partnership is forever. We keep the picture partly for that simple romance, which any guest in that room can appreciate; but also because it reminds us that no couple should be embarrassed by any kinks, or secrets from the outside world, that are part of their bond. Their names are Henry Taniguchi and his wife Chie -- you pronounce it Chee-eh, like the sound in the middle of 'witchy energy'.
When I lived in the Tokyo suburbs, they lived near the centre. But I went at least a couple of times a month to a second-hand bookshop with English stock near Ebisu station, and I would then drop in at an independent café round the corner. That shop was an hour's journey for me; I liked to sit quietly and enjoy one of my purchases before the return trip. One late-autumn afternoon I was there when a woman caught my eye: a woman older than I was, forty perhaps but trim and pretty, who had just sat down two tables away. She was with her husband, but he was facing almost the same way I was so I couldn't see his face at all. I seemed to have noticed them there before, I thought, as I let her see my gaze travel down her figure and up again. She was wearing a tight thinly-striped T-shirt under a light unbuttoned cardigan, and long white sharply-pressed trousers, and her hair was in a long ponytail.
I read a little, saw out of the corner of my eye that she had leant forward, and heard her say a few words. Gradually my attention returned to my book, but a minute later I was interrupted. 'Hey, I'm really sorry to bother you. My name is Henry; I wonder if my wife and I could join you for a while?'
It was the husband. He looked Japanese to me, dressed quite smartly in a polo shirt and black trousers, but was speaking idiomatic American English with no discernible accent. The woman was still in her chair, but watching us with a small, neutral smile. In general, Japanese people are about as likely as Brits like me to strike up a friendly conversation with a stranger, so this was already weird; but if he was American it was less so. This didn't look like a woman who'd been offended at my ogling her and sent her hubby to punch me; one other possibility could be someone hoping to arrange private English lessons but this guy was obviously a native speaker, so not that either...
It took me perhaps three seconds to decide this probably wasn't aggression or a nuisance, although it was something odd. I stood up. 'Of course. I'm Nigel. Glad to meet you.'
We shook hands, and he invited his wife over with a tiny nod. 'This is my wife, Chie.'
I began to extend my hand to her too, but caught myself just in time not to look stupid as the woman was bowing. '
Dozo, yoroshiku o-negai shimasu
,' she said in polite greeting.
I bowed back, repeated the same formula, and -- hang on. A woman in Japan often puts both hands together for a bow, one over the other somewhere in front of her waist or crotch. As Chie did so, just for a moment I thought I saw her lower hand press hard, in between her legs.
We sat down. Henry talked eloquently; Chie spoke so little that I could hardly tell how well she understood English. I introduced myself briefly. Chie complimented me on my Japanese, although I had scarcely used any, which made me feel better as although I had some culture and serious literature in the pile of books I had bought earlier, I had picked an old detective story to start with and didn't feel that I looked particularly sophisticated. Henry turned out to be from Hawaii, with mostly Japanese heritage as far as I could tell; he was a vice-president in a small Tokyo printing firm. Chie was a born-and-bred Tokyoite.
I tried very hard not to indicate, by even the slightest movement of my eyes, that occasional shuffling movements of her finger in her lap were distracting me.
As we were finishing our coffees, Henry turned the conversation to art. Did I know the National Museum in Ueno? Did I like ukiyo-e paintings; did I have a favourite ukiyo-e artist? Yes, yes, and not really. I didn't want to assume a false knowledge of painting, but everyone likes ukiyo-e; otherwise T-shirts, mugs, calendars and key-rings in tourist traps wouldn't be plastered with them. I knew the names of a few of the most famous artists. Did I take my girlfriend to places like that? Well, I broke up with my last steady girl a few months ago, might have been there together once. Great, would I like to come and have a cup of tea with them and see some of their collection? 'Also, my wife is a bit shy, but at home she'll relax a bit. You can get to know each other.'
I was paying close attention now.
'That will be very nice,' I said, inclining my head politely in Chie's direction.
'She knows a lot about ukiyo-e too. She's very intelligent. I'm so proud of her. Not only for that reason, of course, ha-ha!'
Henry looked at his wife as he chuckled, seeming noticeably more nervous than when he had first approached. I had a sense of trickery and subterfuge in the air; somehow, though, it didn't feel like when a pickpocket sits next to you in a metro carriage, or a so-called art student in Beijing takes you to a 'gallery' with 'bargains'. It felt more as though I was being set a riddle. There would be more hints, perhaps, if I played along.
We drove to their apartment building. Henry opened the passenger-side back door of his car for Chie, but instead of closing it so I could sit in the front he waited for Chie to slide over, and gestured me to join her. I sat down with my bag of books on my lap. Chie ignored me until Henry was starting the engine, then leant over and picked the bag up and said, 'Let's put this there, you can relax and be comfortable,' moving it to the empty front passenger seat. Putting her other hand on my thigh, rather than the seat between us, as she leant over, seemed only slightly strange. But she left it there.
I had a natural continuation anyway, saving me the bother of reacting to that. 'You speak English too! I thought perhaps you only spoke Japanese. That's great; my Japanese isn't very fluent.'
'Chie lived in the US for a --' Henry began.
'
Omae wa unten da yo!
