Hotel Photographer Pt. 01
He wasn't especially big, about my size. His long arms looked almost skinny, but he had big hands that seemed determined to cup her ass and work around to her pussy. Am I being crude? We were on our best behavior then, having just met by chance on vacation. Vacation? Just a few days at an artificial paradise, resort for a change of scenery. Akemi was feeling pressured by me. We got along well as usual but I had become insecure- Akemi's life, in Japan and here, was making demands on her I saw conflicting with mine. What can I say? She'd become impatient, intent on asserting her independence, showing it to me, assuring herself she still had it. Did she mean to try out, enjoy her freedom with the freelancer Eric?
—
"At this rate, you might be here only a hundred days a year." In this country, I meant. I laughed, trying to make that possibility seem less important to me than it was.
Akemi had announced she was taking another trip to Japan. She'd just been there. She said she had to go for her art work and her family.
We went for a trip together to the Caribbean, as a consolation, I guess, to have some time alone, get away and see each other in a different context, apart from my work and hers, and from friends, who kept us busy, too much sometimes.
On the morning of our departure, I did pushups as always on the living room floor and found them harder to finish than usual. I wanted to stay in shape for Akemi. Was I weakening? No, I just hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. I'd drunk some with friends.
I was able to buckle down and get the pushups done. They only came a little harder than expected.
On our second day traveling, we met a fellow North American on a bus, a black businessman-photographer who had things in common with Akemi.
Eric his name was. He was heading back to work, he told us on the pale blue velveteen bus seats (they don't have colors like that in my city), had a contract with the hotel where we were staying, was shooting an event there that day. Wearing a green cardigan. The outfit showed off the casual nature of his employment, freedom. He could go in any clothes he wanted, didn't have to please anyone, answer to a boss. Freelance gave that, he said with a smile. "But you know there are drawbacks too."
From his golden smile you'd hardly think so. He aimed it at Akemi.
Little job security. Fringe benefits only those you made on your own. None of that seemed to bother him. He grinned, a man unassailably happy with the life he'd chosen, eager to enjoy its fruits, like Akemi's breasts in his hand. Yeah, they resembled fruits you'd find in those tropics. So supple, so taut and tart, ripe, rich like Eric claimed he was. I wondered. Guys who talk up all the good stuff they have often don't have much at all- and then they want more, they want what Akemi has, her honey pussy sliding on him, energizing, feeding his energy and ego, his image of himself roaring to life in the company of someone like Akemi.
The scene outside the window passing by. Palm trees, some views of beach, glimpses. Going inland, we saw poverty. I saw little at all. The talk inside the bus, our three seats, Akemi's across the aisle from his, had become the dominant pull on attention. Eric had of course seen all of that landscape before. It wasn't new to him as it was to Akemi and me.
Eric had a sense of humor that impressed Akemi, though she also found it crude- she liked his willingness to shock, lack of concern for propriety- that troubled her some too; her eyebrows would knit in uncertainty, but then she'd laugh again. Eric had some charisma, exerted a pull on her. I saw that and thought nothing of it, not much anyway. These things came and went.
He knew how to push the line without crossing it and offending her. He'd pull out just when it seemed he was about to go too far. Tantalizing her.
Akemi's no idiot but she's a human being, can be tantalized- as well as return the favor, if we can attach that word to what Eric was doing.
His humor: We three talked about a corrupt politician who might be pardoned by the outgoing president. The former state governor had tried to sell an open senate seat, been caught in the act and gone to prison for it.
"What's his name? I don't remember?" Akemi asked Eric.
"Me either. Gotchabitch. Something like that."
A Slavic name. It took Akemi a moment to get the joke. Then she laughed uproariously, unusually loudly for her, her voice rising, her face turning pink.
He talked about his photographic work. I guess I hoped the subject would turn to my writing, he might even offer some suggestions for broadening my audience; he seemed to have connections to the publishing world. But that was unlikely, of course. I was an amateur. He was a professional, an established lens man.
"You look no different from someone who photographs as a hobby," I said before Akemi and I left. I realized that might sound insulting, like I was suggesting a person on the job as he'd told us he was should look somehow more serious. He was younger than me, as I've said, but in fact carried himself with gravity of an older person. He took no offense at my statement.
On the street outside the hotel afterward, I said to Akemi, "I never even made a proper introduction," I said. "By the way, this is Akemi. She's my wife."
"I think it was okay," she said.
She was probably right. He'd included her in the conversation. But why hadn't I? Was I afraid of his interest? If he hadn't been interested in my writing, he probably would have been in Akemi's painting, in the woman herself. They might have struck up something, hit it off, as two professionals. Though he wasn't her type she might have responded from respected, admiration. Who knows how things go?
In what sense not her type? He acted a little like he was better than us. Maybe she forgave it, saw it as a defense, guessed that as a black person and maybe not the strongest person he needed that.
We'd agreed to meet up with Eric again later- things happened fast on a four-day vacation; you never knew what might unfold; I didn't want to seem overly cautious or unfriendly so assented to the plan though, frankly, I was feeling worried about things hurtling off in the wrong direction. But Eric was avid and so was Akemi. The tentative date was for dinner- not in the hotel restaurant; Eric would take us out to a local place he knew that was much better. "Brick oven pizza you've gotta try." We were going to nail down the arrangements in the hotel lobby- Eric would go there on his break from his photo shoot- but we missed each other.
"That's okay," Akemi said to me. "I'll email him."
How did she have his email address?
He dropped by our hotel room unexpected, came right in. Akemi had just taken her shower, was in a towel open in back. He took a seat on the bed looking at us. Akemi sat in a chair facing him. I stood behind her. He could see her legs. She adjusted them. He looked surprised, hadn't seen her legs bare before, couldn't take his eyes away, didn't really try; they kept returning, to her legs and her face. I rubbed Akemi's back.
"So how are you?" I asked, making my voice strong.
"I'm good. And you guys?" It was not clear this would end.
He'd said he did commercial photography to support himself but was an artist (thus the connection to Akemi) and wanted to photograph Akemi for a wedding advertisement. Our mixed marriage had given him the idea. But he didn't mention including me in the production.
He had a strong physique, an affable manner, a mustache, was in his late thirties. Pushing forty, maybe he saw his life as an adventurer nearing its apex and wanted to make the most of the time he had left, wanted to make my Japanese wife Akemi.
I saw him and her on the rocking chair in our living room at home, modern thing, her on top bouncing on him. No doubt he saw something similar, though of course he didn't know the layout of our apartment, had never been there (he too was American, as I've said). What did Akemi see?
I felt bad about doubting her that way, thinking in those crude terms unworthy of her. She knew, of course, and seemed not to mind. Men were men, she said.
The ceiling light in the entrance part of our hotel room was out and she brought it to Eric's attention. She said it wasn't important but he could get and install a replacement bulb since he worked at the hotel and had access to equipment. There was a storage room on our hall. He went and returned with the bulb.
The socket ceiling was too high for him to reach. He had to use a step ladder. As Akemi and I watched, he complained about the height, the precariousness of the footing.
"I hope I don't have to go to the top rung, he said, ascending the step ladder warily, making a slightly comic performance of it, maybe to show he wasn't really afraid.
He handled the errand with a facility that looked practiced. I wondered if he actually worked as a photographer at the hotel or did maintenance work.
Akemi seemed to entertain no such doubts about him.
That night, I'm not proud to say, I dominated her on the hotel bed. My jealousy delighted her. She "took it from behind." Her ass up in the air, in my hands, she laughed in delight at the feeling I gave and she returned. Was she also thinking of the photographer then, of posing for him too, for his camera and his cock?
I dreamed about the gang Akemi, Thomas and I had encountered at the party months earlier. In the dream, they got into the party and tracked us down, circled us in an enclosed space, really had us at their mercy. Things looked dire, but somehow we were able to escape, just barely, get away from them. We came back to my place, where we felt elated to be free, gloated about having outwitted the bad guys.
But we were celebrating too soon. The gang showed up at my apartment late at night. They must have gotten the address somehow, tracked us there. They were hell-bent. A knock came at the front door. I never even imagined it might be them and foolishly opened the door without checking first who was there. They pushed forward, one in particular dead set on entering and wreaking mayhem- maybe they felt particularly angry, vengeful because we'd slipped from their grasp at the party- they felt they been made fools of.
I was able to close the door, push them back, but not all the way, couldn't engage the lock. Holding the door shut as far as I could with my foot and the weight of my body, I instructed Akemi to go call 911. She didn't understand at first because of the language boundary and I had to explain. "Just tell them we've been attacked. They'll know the address." Conveying that would have been most difficult, complicated for Akemi, and it was fortunate she wouldn't have to. I told Thomas at the same time to go to the front window, open it and yell out to the street "Help!" He did. I was in charge then, giving instructions.
Meanwhile, I in turn began shouting "Help!" at the top of my lungs through the space leading to the hall by the partially open door. That appeal would only reach people in our building, of course, but I thought it was worth making all the same. One or another might hear and come to our aid, take some action.
Akemi woke me and said I had been yelling in my sleep.
"I had such a funny dream," I said and told her about it.
"Was I shouting 'help'?" I asked.
"No. You were just shouting," Akemi said.
I went to use the bathroom and laughed on my way there. Akemi must have thought me very strange. My high spirits likely owed to relief that the thing had only been a dream.
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