But then it hit me. Shit. Money. For the room.
I could just leave the whole bill for him to pay. But I knew that was no good. I didn’t want him coming after me for my half. I pulled three one thousand yen notes from my wallet, opened the door, and tossed them in. They fluttered to the floor near Sano’s shoes.
“What?” he sputtered. “Hey, wait! Where are you going? Aiko! You can’t do this!” But I could. I turned my back on his bare-assed self, his dinky prick, the whole disgusting scene, and closed the door. The last thing I saw was my three thousand yen, scattered there next to him like a cruel sacrifice. Then I ran. From his gross face shot. From his overrated “technique.” From this stupid mess. From my stupid self.
Though the last was the hardest. No matter how much I tried.
Other girls must have done it with Sano before me, but when I started to consider what they could have liked about all that pawing and grunting, I realized I’d been had. The whole thing was a scam—a trap meant to end with the face shot that the others maybe hadn’t managed to avoid.
I imagined how shocked they’d been. Which was probably why they’d never said a word about it, just told me he was good and I should give him a try if I had the chance. And I’d fallen for it like a complete idiot—Complete Idiot Number…?
So, then, will I shut up about the face shot too? And tell some other girl he’s good, that she should give him a try if she has the chance? That his dick’s really small but his technique’s fantastic? No, I will not. It might be fun to imagine somebody annoying like Reiko or Shoko getting it in the face, but I’d never tell them they should do it with Sano. My self-respect may have taken a beating, but it wasn’t that far gone.
Truth is I don’t want anybody to know I did it with him. I’d rather forget it ever happened. Or better yet, if I could, I’d rather make it so it really hadn’t ever happened.
But that fucker is going to talk tomorrow at school. So I guess I have to fight back, make him look like the idiot he is, tell everybody he tried to come on my face but I managed to dodge and give him a good kick for his trouble.
Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just let him make a fool of himself—anyway, no matter what I do the guys are going to imagine me starring in a face shot like the ones in their videos. I can’t stand thinking about it. Can’t stand them thinking about it. Sano naked, fucking with me. Back door, me on top. Shit.
Maybe I’ll skip school tomorrow.
But then they’ll think I have something to hide, and it’ll only be worse. No, I’ll go. I don’t like running away from trouble…at least that’s what I tell myself. But isn’t that exactly what I was doing? Running away? Running. Running. That’s how I ended up at a hotel having meaningless sex with Sano in the first place.
The real idiot…is me.
The world is full of losers, and lots of them probably end up sleeping with someone they don’t like. And some of them probably get cum on their faces. My brother said more people rent adult movies than any other kind, so there are plenty of guys like Sano who learned everything they know about sex from porn; and if all of them are trying to come on some poor girl’s face, there must be lots of victims out there. All those assholes trying to shoot their nasty jiz—pyu, pyu, pyu—right on your face. Totally tragic.
Of course, I came within inches of totally tragic myself. And in the end, what’s the difference? No matter how much I pity myself, it doesn’t do me any good. I made my bed, so to speak, and I have to lie in it. Having other people pity me isn’t going to save me, either. There’s really no one out there who’d be interested in saving me anyway.
So I have to do it myself.
But how?
First step: stop pitying myself.
When my brother isn’t spouting statistics on porn rentals, he’s been known to say that self-pity is a total drag—you sit around feeling sorry for yourself and never get anywhere. “I can’t stand narcissists, like Miki Imai,” he says. “They go around saying how much they love themselves, but in the end they’re only talking to themselves. Anybody who talks about himself all the time is a douchebag in my book.” Of course, he’s never even met Miki Imai, much less talked to her. But that’s what he says. Anyway.
So I’ve decided to stop talking about myself so much.
Okay. So what to do instead?
First off, how about getting cleaned up? Get rid of this gross Sano filth. A bath! It’s only fifteen minutes from Shinjuku to Chofu on the express, but it never seemed so long.
I finally made it home and took a shower. But somehow I still didn’t feel clean, so I ran a hot bath and got in for a soak. As soon as I did, I remembered the bubble-bath ball I bought at the Body Shop, so I climbed out, wrapped myself up in a towel, and went upstairs to get it from my room. When I got back, I tossed it in the tub—and just about gagged on the stink: lavender. Usually, I can’t stand bubble baths or lavender, but when I get depressed, there’s nothing like something a little exotic…at least that’s what I’ve decided lately as part of my “self-therapy.” Pretend a bit. It seems to work. Today I’m Kerstin, one of my very favorite people. I’m
