Needless to say, I have now developed a mild obsession with these comics. And I’m hell-bent on learning more, to the point where when a young female student says in class that she loves comics, I wonder if there’s an appropriate way to ask her if she enjoys stories involving two guys getting it on, and if so, what the turn-on is, which positions she really likes to see them in, and by the way, can she recommend some good titles because I have a friend who’s interested.
When I first discovered yaoi comics at a manga reading room in Shinjuku, I pulled a few dozen off the bookshelf, retreated to a remote corner of the cafe, and thumbed through them greedily. Of course, I couldn’t understand what I was reading, but the pictures did help fill in quite a few gaps, if you know what I mean. Here are two college friends sucking face and getting to third base in their university library. And here is a mob boss giving one of his young charges an offer he obviously can’t refuse. Oh, and here are two long-haired warriors taking a break from all the chaos on the battlefield to vanquish each other in a cave. And they just happened to bring along their leather harnesses and candle wax. Great!
I emerged a few hours later bleary-eyed and thinking I really could have used those comics when I was thirteen.
In my research on the topic, I’ve discovered that the word
I now look at all the young ladies around me-in my classrooms, on the train, at the makeup counter-in a very different light. Are these girls, beneath their cotton tops and cardigans, behind their cherubic, innocent, immaculately painted faces, just mad for a peek at a lusty all-male hump-a-thon? Do they long to be a fly on the wall in the men’s locker room? Do they lose sleep palpitating over the divine clash of lips, cheekbones, and sinewy male flesh that fill the scenes in their precious comic books?
Your typical Japanese Joe finds it difficult to say the word “gay” without giggling, as if by uttering it he is professing to believe in mermaids. I sit on the train again and watch four young inebriated professional men stumble onto the train. They are impeccably put together, their skin polished to a fine shine, their hair sculpted in tight waves, their tailored suits pressed, their rock-solid masculinity melted by alcohol into a fluid and suggestible ambivalence. I look at the ringleader of the pack, the loudest one to whom the others obviously defer. He rubs his face languorously with his perfectly moisturized fingers, stands with his legs far apart and his crotch tilted out. He is telling a story and repeatedly putting his arm around his drunken colleague next to him to stabilize himself as he sways back and forth. I wonder if he realizes how often the young girls on the train gaze at him as he banters with his be-suited colleagues-joking, laughing, snorting, backslapping-and how more than a few of these girls really wish that the guys would just shut up, unbutton their tailored shirts to the navels, whisk their hair out of their eyes, and start making out.
I know I do.
13
“Just don’t forget,” Jimmy coos over the phone as we discuss the details of his upcoming trip to Tokyo on my dime. “You owe me.”
Normally that is no way to talk to someone who’s just spent over a thousand dollars on a plane ticket for you, but I can’t deny he has a point. I’ve been away for over a year now in one of the world’s most neon cities while he’s been back in sepia-toned Raleigh living the life of a starving artist, dealing with a cocaine-obsessed roommate, and constantly fielding questions about me from friends that he has trouble answering, like, “How’s Tim doing?” and “Is he ever coming home?” and “When is that cheap fucker gonna fly you over there?”
I do owe him. He’s been very accommodating of my oat-sowing. He deserves a vacation, and he’s going to get it. There will be temples, there will be shrines, there will be many, many Japanese pancakes.
“I know, I know. Listen, you’re coming, and we’re going to have a blast. I’m so excited!”
“No you’re not,” he deadpans.
“Yes I am!”
“Whatever. Anyway, is there anything I can bring? Do you need deodorant or magazines or anything?”
“Yeah, can you bring me a Cajun chicken biscuit from Bojangles? And some of the spicy fries? Oh, and some Pillsbury strawberry cake icing?”
“Sure.”
I can’t wait to see him holding that sweet, sweet pink frosting.
I remember fondly our last night together, the night before I left Raleigh. We’d gone for a romantic dinner at the Waffle House, the one downtown on Hillsborough Street where people go to get shot. We sat, ordered our burgers, and then I had a nervous breakdown. Have you ever cried and eaten greasy hash browns at the same time? If you ever plan to, bring extra napkins.
But though I was seriously losing my shit, my brain aflame with last-minute panic, Jimmy was holding up pretty well. When we first got together two years before, he quickly figured out that I had a bit of wanderlust in me that would eventually need to come out. (I think it might have become evident when I said, on the morning after our first night together, “I hate this fucking town; God, I can’t think of anything worse than staying here for the rest of my life!”) An army brat, he’d had his share of moving around the world, uprooting his life every few years, and was now completely uninterested in pulling up stakes again. Like me, he was desperately poor with no health insurance, but he liked being in one place. He was working on his art and enjoying his new job at a frame shop. Leaving Raleigh made no sense for him. So he’d resigned himself to the idea of my leaving. But because we’d drifted so effortlessly into each other’s lives, we both knew we wanted to stay together through my Tokyo jaunt.
So there we sat at the Waffle House, two years down the road, and I was leaving the next day. I don’t think either of us was convinced that it was realistic to try to maintain a long-distance relationship since I’d be gone for over a year. But that night we vowed to try. With the help of regular phone calls and some good porn.
As I sat sobbing and causing a scene like a toddler who hadn’t had his nap, a group of painfully upbeat teenagers in hipster garb walked in, sat down, and then one of them, presumably their leader, headed to the jukebox.
“Oh my God, Jimmy, if that skinny bitch puts on the ‘Waffle House Song’ I’ll just die!” I blubbered.
“I’ll slap her. Are you gonna eat your pickles?” Jimmy said, comforting me.
“Nmph. Tkmh,” I said, my mouth full of mucus, soggy red eyes bulging. I hadn’t touched my cheeseburger. He’d cleaned his entire plate.
There was an understanding here. He was being strong for both of us. He was holding it together because he knew I couldn’t. My system was too overwhelmed. And though his was too, he’d decided to take the reins and not allow us to sink into maudlin dramatics.
“You need to wipe your nose…God, get a napkin or something,” he said, laughing. His emotional bravery was heartbreaking.
The waitress arrived with our extra order of scattered, smothered, and covered hash browns. No doubt she cast her sympathetic eyes over us as we struggled to keep it together, our last night together, our farewell banquet of grease and butter.
“I’m gonna enter some stuff into the New American Paintings contest next month,” he said, trying to remain strong.
