With a screaming biological clock, and me not getting any younger, TokyoWife has decreed that my principal purpose of life is now a sperm donor. Readers are advised to note that this is not the subject of a Pitting; not should it be. Vigorous attempts at willful procreation is what millions of years of evolutionary pressure has instilled within our reptilian brain.
Summer is hell in Tokyo. Or rather, hell is Tokyo in the summer, and a jury may buy my defense that it was only the 700th time the deceased had said it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. No motherfucker, it’s the heat and the humidity.
To escape the Tokyo August, we planned a quick retreat to the mountains of eastern Taiwan, and in a rare break from bad luck, the gods had smiled on us, and arranged the universe as such that her time of fertility would fall during the only week a vacation could be had.
The plan was surprisingly simple. We stay at a resort, wake up to room service and a morning romp, sleep again and romp again. Only after all new positions have been mastered would we venture forth as far as the pool, or more specifically to the bar in the pool, where Mai Tais would knock back the summer heat. Soak in the sun, drink oneself silly and retreat to the room for more duty time.
I would have no idea how long we had been here or when the six days was coming to an end. Days would run into nights, nights into days. Each day would vary not a whit in the search for the perfect wet: the pool, the bar and the bed.
Then tragedy struck. TokyoWife mentioned our plans to a dear friend, who invited herself and her husband along. A young beautiful Korean woman married to a Japanese chap; who knew what darkness hid within her heart? Cleverly, they came a day later and leave a day earlier, forcing us to hang around Taipei an extra day in the beginning and two in the end. If there is one place worse to be in August than Tokyo, it’s Taipei. Even hotter; even more humidity.
Suddenly six days of sex and sun were reduced to one hour in the pool and less procreative activity than normal weekends at home. Worse, the couple is completely gracious about everything, which makes me feel worse about resenting them.
But damn it, suddenly we are doing sightseeing. And having real conversations instead of endlessly variations of the same saccharine-sweet, gag-inducing expressions of boundless love and nauseatingly cute names, for which I would prefer to donate my entire 401k to the American Nazi Party than admit to participating in, let alone enjoy.
The only means of communicating with the surrounding world, my wife kicked into guide mode and went out of her way to ensure our guests’ good time. I love her hospitality, but selfishly wanted 100% of her for myself this week.
We’ve had a good time, and I’ve put on my happy face, but the other couple has figured out that I wasn’t completely with the picture. The last two days, they’ve been more proactive about getting out on their own, and paid for the Peking duck dinner to say thanks, so I can’t really blame them too much.
The Korean woman and my wife were graduate students together, and everyone in their group was used to doing everything together. Their trips abroad were on shoestring budgets and crammed from morning to night. I’ve been there, and done that as well, but now I want to relax and unwind.
I go back tomorrow while TokyoWife stays on to work. We chalked this one up to a lack of communication and will talk more in the planning phase next time.
