Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2

For that reason alone, he rarely went to Spinelli’s. And, deeply addicted to habit, he hated altering his routine. Strange, unwelcome things often happened to him when he broke routine. Which may be why on that day, having gone to Spinelli’s for his cappuccino, he had that “episode.” While manoeuvering the cup so that he could draw a good swallow of coffee along with the thick clouds of foam, he happened to look over and noticed her. She was pretty, of course, but so were many of the other girls sitting there, or walking by, some much prettier. But his eyes locked on this one. Wait a minute, wasn’t she …? No, that wasn’t her, but … suddenly, it came back to him, at least a part of it. That one time. The two of them

together, and fantastic sex.

He couldn’t remember her name, or where he had met her, even where they had gone to make love … well, have sex. It couldn’t really have been love. It was more like … Like?

No, none of that came back to him; but the lovemaking was indelibly printed on his brain. As he gazed at her across the room, he recalled that so pale body, every lovely contour: the smallish but well-shaped breasts, the low sweep of her back proceeding up in a gentle slope to her buttocks, the dark wedge of hair between her thighs.

Just as he started considering that it might have been simply a dream that this girl had turned up in-maybe he had once seen her on the street or in a mall and his flash craving for her returned in a dream-she looked up. The expression on her face, stun and bitterness together, told him it was not just a dream; she had been there, wherever it was. His eyes and brow scrunched up, as if to ask her where they knew each other from. But she instantly turned away, looked around for another table and, not finding one in the crowded cafe, simply pivoted her chair so her back was to him.

He kept staring, however, and on seeing her back, that other key detail suddenly flashed. Yes, how could he have ever forgotten that? The phoenix tattoo, double-headed, there on the small of her back, on the left side. Hypnotic. In such vibrant colours it seemed to be dancing slowly in its flames, even as she lay absolutely still. And it had an identical twin on the crown of her right breast.

Yes, the two tattoos. The thing was, they weren’t just adornments: they played such an important role in their lovemaking. By just pressing them, he could make her instantly aroused, or intensify the pleasure. On that day-or evening, or whenever-when they had been together, he would lean forward during the coupling and kiss the tattoo on her breast while gently pressing the other on her back. She’d start to climax, and he would press harder on the one tattoo while kissing the breast tattoo more intensely. She would come, screaming, digging the blunt side of her fingers into his neck, then drag them down his back, pull at his hair with her teeth, maybe bite his neck or ear as he lifted his head from her breast.

All of this he could remember so acutely. Yet nothing else.

She was waiting for someone, a friend apparently, and that second girl arrived within minutes. She must have told this friend about the episode, because after a short, heads-lowered exchange, the friend looked up and floated him a dirty look. Hell, he must have done something terrible at the time-but he hadn’t the slightest inkling of what it was.

He couldn’t keep from staring over at them, so he edged his chair sideways, in the other direction, and tried to busy himself. But this whole thing was beginning to gnaw further inside him, upsetting the carefully arranged furniture of habit and planning. Nothing like this had ever happened to him, that some details of such an incident remained so vivid-he could see, hear, even taste them right there-and that he completely forgot other details at least as important.

He pulled out a notebook, found a clean page and started sketching the tattoo. As he drew, he recalled how just kissing the tattoo on her lower back had brought her to fierce arousal, how her legs would thrash and her butt gyrate as he kissed her there again and again, his lips and tongue pressing into her pliant flesh.

He pulled out a red pen to add more colour, more “activity” to his drawing. He only had the black and the red, while the tattoos themselves flaunted other rich colours: ochre, green, gold, purple … one he couldn’t even name. But he was able to come up with a good facsimile, considering his meagre materials. He smiled: yeah, not at all bad. Maybe he should have listened to less practical people and gone into graphic art instead of law. He would certainly not have made as much money as he did now, but he might actually be happier.