Jeremy.
The name tingles me still, in a weird way. While Hiyama had been a clear cut example of traditional Japanese sexual sadism, another character in my life confuses me still. Jeremy was a tall white boy.
As American as American can be.
Some years ago, in eighth grade, he was six feet tall, a lanky(and later I would find out) sinewy build to him. He had pretty blue eyes, dark brown hair; handsome in this off handed, forgettable way.
He came to my little dungeon in the winter of freshman year. Apparently, his father was a BDSM den master, a friend of Hiyama's. He walked in on an unremarkable evening. I was immediately embarrassed when D brought him downstairs. I didn't look him in the face. Not at first. He gripped my arms from behind, betraying his young age. He had already taken off his coat; I felt his bare abs touching my back. I exhaled a bit, scared. Then he started talking.
"My Dad told me about you. You are always so quiet, so in your own head at school that I didn't want to believe him. But I looked in your eyes and there's sexiness dripping from your every movement, your every word, every time you look at someone." Slowly he caressed my arms.
I can't really describe the feelings he gave me; it felt like I could scarcely breathe. A poignant mix of grit from sleeping with a stranger to being sexually intrigued beyond my own admission. He breathed feathery wisps of hair away from my neck.
He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my face back to meet his. It was a gentle tug, I inhaled sharply but I also remember looking forward to our interaction, or rather just curious about what this young man possessed that made me enjoy something so ingrained with hate from me.
