Part Two
Several days passed quickly.
“A journey through love and youth made by soldiers taking a stand against a giant, evil organization …” This was the story that I scribbled, as it seemed apropos. In the beginning, it went surprisingly well. The words came fluidly. I was struck by my own literary talent.
Unfortunately, I had encountered a large problem already: The story I was writing was supposed to be an erotic game scenario—and as an erotic game scenario, it needed erotic scenes. In short, to write an erotic story, I had to fully describe lewd scenes. I had to write love scenes thoroughly. It was painful. It was tragic that I, at twenty-two years of age, had to write a wanna-be erotic story. It was too painful.
I had been locked up in my room for three days.
My work was becoming extremely difficult. My scenarios weren’t even moving along at a line an hour. The vocabulary … I have no vocabulary. My brain simply wasn’t equipped with the particular metaphors used in erotic fiction. I had no idea what to do. It took forever just to choose a single word.
More than anything, it was mortifying. What in the world was I thinking, writing such embarrassing sentences? There’s a limit even to escapism. I’d blush, sitting alone in my dark room. My heart would race, I’d break into a cold sweat, my fingers would stop on the keyboard as I typed…. I couldn’t take it any longer. I didn’t want to write erotic scenarios.
Man, I was sick of it. Really, truly sick of it.
I screwed up all my courage, though, and built sentences with the entire focus of my being because I feared that the second I stopped writing the erotic game, the real problems I desperately was trying to ignore would come back in full force. I would have to look straight at the painful truth, and that would be no good. It would, in fact, be bad.
That’s why I used the France Shoin[23] books I had bought as examples as I focused on writing the scenarios. Look for the right vocabulary! Find the metaphor! It was a tiring ordeal. I’d write and delete … Write and delete. My brain was about to unhinge.
“The man unzips his pants and drops his jeans to his knees.”
“Ah, ah, oh no!”
“Sister, sister, sister!”
“And her soft breasts …”
“… beating off…”
No good. Delete.
“Swollen.”
No. Delete.
“It rose high in a manly way.”
Wrong! Delete, delete!
“Piercing the sky.”
Are you kidding?! Delete, delete, delete!
“Soaking wet.”
Wrong!
“Salmon pink.”
I said, ‘wrong!’
“Shining wetly.”
No!
“Stuck wetly to the lower abdomen.”
Stop it!
“Slimy.”
No more!
“Heartbeat.”
I can’t take any more!
“The labia.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Shell pink.”
I said, ‘what’s wrong with me?’
“Milky white.”
What’s wrong with me…?
“Small breasts …”
“… fresh and young …”
“… sweating …”
“… harder …”
“N-no!”
“… sweet sigh …”
“… rubbing up against her …”
“… slightly pointed …”
Other words came to me: “grope” … “undulation” … “insertion” … “hips” … “from her lips” … “grinding” … “sweet” … “like a kitten” … “female body” … “tensed” …
What’s wrong with me…?
“Swollen” … “to the crotch” … “cute” … “urgent” … “hardened” … “light pink” … “want to see” … “okay, it’s fine” … “completely naked” … “nothing left covering her” … “an oval-shaped stain” … “mound” … “slit” …
No more.
“Right below the belly button” … “the private parts” … “make your chest pound” …
I’m done for.
“Swollen” … “breathing quietly” … “simple” … “the bush” … “overflowing honey” … “with her pointer finger” … “it’s almost like you wet yourself” … “impatiently” … “indecent” … “of the membrane” …
What about my life…?
“Swollen” … “piston” … “vulgar” … “crack” …
I can’t see my future.
“Swollen” … “sticky sound” … “wet” … “hot” … “mire” … “plunge in” … “foreskin” … “soft flesh” … “blushing just a little” … “licentious” …
It’s better if I just die.
“Swollen” … “swollen” … “piercing the sky” … “rising high.”
“Swollen” … “swollen” … “swollen” … “swollen” … “swollen!”
AHHHHHH!
I scratched my head.
Delete all, delete all, delete all…
Using a France Shoin book as a model was a mistake from the start. When fiction becomes the reference for fiction, it’s natural that the descriptions get stranger and stranger. I felt like I was going crazy.
I’m okay. Calm down.
Taking a deep breath to soothe myself, I decided to start over from the beginning, using my own real experiences for reference. If I did that, I should be able to draw realistic erotic scenes based on my own nonfiction experiences.
Real experiences, real experiences…
When it came to real-life experiences I could use in an erotic game; I had no choice but to think far back into the past. I needed to remember that distant time, five years earlier … that fun time from five years ago … my high school years.
I closed my eyes and thought back. Doing so, I soon realized that those memories would move in an emotionally difficult direction. I hurriedly opened my eyes and tried to stop thinking about it. However, the vector of my thoughts, once given a direction, could no longer be stopped.
My bright, optimistic high school years … my refreshing youth.
“High school” suggests slightly bitter romances, and society generally agrees with this conventional wisdom. I, too, had been in a romance; every day had been filled with excitement, like in a love simulation game. For example, I had liked that older girl in my literary club.
As might be expected from someone in the literary club, she was quite an avid reader. Because of that, she was a huge idiot. She once read The Complete Manual of Suicide in front of me.
I had thought, You should stop because that kind of behavior is unbecoming. You’re cute, so why can’t you just act normally?
The girl hadn’t shown any sign of noticing at all.
“Why are you reading that book?” I asked her, feeling I had no choice.
Laughing self-consciously, she answered, “Don’t you think that suicide seems kind of cool?” At the time, she’d just had a terrible breakup with her boyfriend, and she seemed depressed over it.
“Hey, Satou. What do you think of people who commit suicide?” She’d asked me.
“I guess it’s all right, isn’t it? If people want to commit suicide, I guess they ought to be free to do so. It’s probably not right for others to judge.”
“Hm.” She didn’t seem impressed by my boring answer; as though deflated, she dropped her eyes once more to the book on her lap.
After school, on another day, just when I had gotten sick of playing cards with her, she said, “Hey.”
“What?”
“Satou, after all this time, if I died or something, would you be sad?” No matter how I’ve tried, I cannot remember how I answered that sudden question. All I remember clearly is that several days later, she came to school with white bandages wrapped around her slender wrists.