The West and Japan

Professor Paul Warham, who insisted I call him Warham, just Warham; any other person in his place should have preferred Paul as their designated designation but he chose to be addressed by WAR-ham.

Well, Professor Warham was the only person I could look up to. He had the esteemed experience of studying abroad in Japan for a couple of years. When he was given the opportunity to try the education system provided by the Asian continent, he chose to study in Japan, among Japanese people and Japanese culture. Once, during our wee hour conversation, he put forth his little wish to experience the Indian education system as well. But he had let his urges be consumed by Japanese literature and finally settled down to become a zoology (in which he did his doctorate) professor where he currently lives, which is nowhere near Japan.

During his stay in Japan, he picked up their literature and then he went on to do a deep dive into the minds of some tortured souls who decided the world should or would read their deranged and morbid thoughts. And he loved them. He read their deranged and morbid thoughts and loved talking about their deranged and morbid thoughts. And I loved him.

His teachings about animals at the university were always humble. He personified those microbes as if they were not "IT". He would say, Aren't you guys happy that a worm managed to live fifty thousand years frozen in the glaciers? Imagine "him" slowing down this bodily process. Imagine "him" not being able to reproduce--the only thing "he" could do. Imagine "him" finally freeing "himself" but imagine "his" anguish when scientists caught "him" and would probably never let "him" enjoy the freedom "he" found fifty thousand years later. And his own face would droop in anguish, feeling it on behalf of that worm.

It was funny because every single knucklehead in his class would admire his speeches and actually enjoy talking about how malicious microbes found safety in our guts, completely overlooking the fact they were actually feeding on us and eventually would kill us. Students under him would almost romanticize vomiting and having diarrhea, at the thought of the microbe flourishing.

It was pathetic but that's what living in Japan and reading their authors had taught him. His words, not mine.

After a tiring day of studying slides after slides of amoeba and Paramecium species, I got to pack my tote bag, feeling lethargic with all the romantic talk that went down that day. I noticed the professor; he was noticing me. I stepped down, clutching my tote bag at my waist and his gaze followed my movements.

I stopped before him, fished out a paperback from my bag and handed it to him. It was a short collection of dainty stories about how Japanese authors felt alien in their own country after spending time in the West. It was a heavily annotated book with footnotes and side notes everywhere. It was not marked from the literary point of view but from an amateur's raw perspective. That prospective happened to be of Professor Warham.

"Did you like it?" he asked, always anxious about how I would judge one of his favorite pieces of literature.

I was in no place to understand what he ever wanted me to understand but what I did get was his desperation to prove something to me. As if I were to see a piece of him somewhere in this book or foresee something very vital about him. I knew he would be far better off giving his piece of treasure to any woman of his age or with a similar background but I placed the book in his hand and looked him in the eye.

"Let's discuss it," I said, knowing very well that I wasn't worthy of holding up his precise and subtle desires.

That night, we were at his place. I dropped my tote bag the moment his hand made contact with my waist. He pulled into a warm, pitiful embrace. Just like his favorite authors, he too was pitiful and in pain. In some phantom pain that only he could feel and no doctor would ever diagnose.

I started by holding his face and placing minute kisses on his jaw. I lingered there a little bit before he freed me from the embrace and allowed me to kiss the other side of this jaw. I kissed his chin and all this while, he had his eyes shut, breathing deeply and steadily as if I were taking away his phantom pain with my kisses.

I let go of his face, stood in front of him and started to undress. It was a nothing, just a top, my jeans and a mis-matched pair of underwear. Initially, I would put effort into putting together an outfit for him but he coaxed me into wearing whatever I could find nearest to me and not bothering myself one bit. He said it was like catching something off-guard and vulnerable. He liked it. It felt like home to him.

I held his face again and kissed his lips this time. With it, I told him he is home with me, within me.

He picked me up, my naked cunt rubbed against the button of his suit coat. I smiled, thinking that button would be coated with my juice. I rubbed my pelvis ever so slightly on that button, feeling it pinch my clitoral area. I felt oddly humane doing something that brought me this perverted pleasure. He pushed me up against the wall, pressing his tummy against me. Unbeknownst to that button, he smooched me, our teeth clashing in between, saliva dripping down our chins, and our lips not feeling sufficient.

Still against the wall and hoisting me up with one hand, he let his other hand reach down to my core. With his thumb that grappled with that button, he stroked my clit. He ran close circles with occasional pressing and side-to-side motion. Eventually, he pushed his way into my cunt. His thumb rubbed closer to my upper wall, arousing me and urging me to hold onto him with my dear life. I was squirming like a small insect who got its one leg crushed or one wing plucked. And my core started to make the wet, slippery sound, inspiring him to penetrate me deeper.

He turned us around and plopped me on the bed. I took in his thumb and sucked in it while he got down on me. He knelt on the floor with his mouth and my vagina facing off at the edge of the bed. He circled his arms around my thighs and buried his nose and mouth between them. It felt pretty innate with how gloriously he ate me. His nose prodded at my clit and his tongue lapping on my hole. Occasionally, his lips would suck on my bud when there was too much friction and then safely return the job back to the nose. His fingers would pluck at my nipples but his eyes would always be closed and he would be in a deep meditative trance, devoting himself to me. All of it because I read his favorite books from time to time.

He would hear me cry out of joy but he would open his eyes only when he was satisfied and I was famished.

Afterwards, his meditative state would break off, and I would feel the beast within him rising, determined to treat me roughly.

He stood up and flipped me over. I got on my knees and pressed my face into the mattress. With his palm flat on my back, he penetrated me. He thwacked my insides and placed many lingering kisses on my butt-cheeks. We went on like that for a while, breaking my back and squeezing my cheeks, after which he took me sideways.

I placed my right leg on his shoulder and had my left leg folded on the bed. I propped myself with my hand and head, at times stealing glances at him. Except for my eyes, he would look at my body and love me everywhere. He would kiss the soles of my feet. He would run his mouth all over my body, even smothering his face momentarily in my armpits.

Towards the end of our lovemaking, he climbed on the bed, placed me gently on his pillow and looked me in the eye. He kissed my face and neck and dawdled a bit on my small breasts before penetrating me once again in classic missionary. I got to grab his shoulder. He visibly sighed when my fingers squeezed his tense muscles and pressed his forehead against mine. I hugged him and tried matching my breathing with his.

While basking in the post-coital bliss, I pressed my ear against his naked chest.

"The more precise and subtle a human being's awareness," he began. "the less he can presume to take on any profession, however humble. First, he must starve, he must freeze, he must numb the precision of his mind, and he must be blinded by his own selfish desires. At the very least, he must ignore the teachings of the ancient sages. Oh, you who sing of how hard it is to make a living! How I envy you!" He stopped, as if suddenly realizing I was there and listening to him.

I asked him, "What did you want to be if not a professor?"

He said, "There is nothing for me to do in this world. Please think of me as mad or crippled, and do not press me to live up to normal worldly expectations."