Oceanic Velvet Cloth

After check-in — efficient, correct, relaxed — we sat down in the café behind security. It was called “Reef Bean.” We drank flat whites from paper cups. You pulled out the black cloth. It was our first fetish. I looked at you questioningly. Did you want to put it on me? Should I?

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Just tie it around my neck.”

“Does that turn you on?”

I teased you a little. I liked the game and your inventiveness so much. I rested my chin on my hand and watched you. You were no longer nearly as controlled as you had been at the beginning of us. Was it part of a couple’s destiny to push things to the extreme? Your predecessors had retreated into their shells after a short phase of liveliness. The lack of erotic stamina had not only been regrettable, but insulting. I thanked you every day for your erotic attention.

We browsed through the duty-free area. Clouds of perfume mixed with the sharp smell of whiskey and sunscreen. I tested a fragrance by Issey Miyake … aquatic, floral. I identified — or hallucinated — lotus, rose, freesia, lily of the valley, musk.

You said:

“That perfume suits you.”

Amused, we watched a Japanese woman buying koala magnets in packs of ten.

Boarding began on time at Gate 7. The aircraft, an Airbus A330-200, in typical Jetstar livery, silver with an orange star. Two engines, Rolls-Royce Trent 700. 303 seats, all economy. You by the window, me in the middle. Next to me sat an elderly Japanese man with a chamois beard decoration on his hatband and a stack of National Geographic magazines on his lap, none of which he opened.

The flight attendants wore beige suits with orange accents, narrow skirts, tight blazers. They presented themselves as iconic. One of them, mid-thirties, curly bangs, Australian accent, asked if we were traveling together. I said yes. You casually placed your hand on my knee. It was a statement, and I liked it.

The typical rumble of the engines. I loved that moment when the ground disappears beneath the wheels. We broke through the clouds, and the coast of Queensland vanished in the distance. The reef lay like a broken emerald necklace on the oceanic velvet cloth.

An almost still-youthful mother of twins who alternated between sleeping and whining. A French couple trying to teach each other Japanese vocabulary in English. My neighbor attempted to start a conversation in his native language and abandoned it on his own.

There was no free food. Jetstar, after all. We ordered a bento set, which was surprisingly good. Rice, teriyaki chicken, pickled vegetables. We ate with chopsticks — of course, you could do that too. You whispered something into my ear that I will not repeat. The flight attendant with the curly bangs kept an eye on us. I think she found me attractive. I leaned against your shoulder, the new fragrance rising from my neck. I felt your breath.

Osaka greeted us with drizzle and the typical airport concrete — Kansai International, built on an artificial island, a technological marvel. I almost froze when we got off the plane. I was happy.

We took the Nankai Airport Express. Not the fast Rap:t, but the normal train. The Rapid Airport Express consisted of Art Deco carriages and required reservations.

More time, more glances, more closeness. The carriage was clean and pleasantly air-conditioned. I leaned against you. You looked out the window, I watched your reflection. The journey led over bridges, through suburbs. I registered precisely trimmed hedges and power lines like musical staves across the sky. We passed districts where pachinko halls were wedged between residential blocks. The amusement halls made me think of crashed spaceships.

We got off at Namba. The city smelled of soy sauce, concrete, and summer rain. You navigated confidently, I let myself be guided. Our hotel lay between Dotonbori and Shinsaibashi on a quiet side street — where the glaring neon signature of urban main arteries only flickered as reflections on the wet paving stones.

Paper walls. Wooden floors. Minimalist display cases with ceramics. Flat, almost floating lanterns. The world was bathed in warm light. Something new was beginning.

In the inner courtyard, a fountain trickled between round stones and bamboo. Every detail was thought through, oriented toward the sacred and unobtrusively beautiful. My body remembered something it had never experienced.

Behind the reception desk stood a young man in uniform, hair precisely parted, posture impeccable. He bowed slightly, barely more than a breath of movement — formal, but not distant. You spoke with him. I stood a step behind you, watching the subtle movements of your shoulders, your profile, the way you created space with few words. I liked how you moved in unfamiliar surroundings: reserved and bold at the same time. Secretly I had dedicated Rilke’s panther to you, albeit in optimistic lyricism. For you there were no bars, and your gaze was never weary of life.

A scent of freshly brewed tea hung in the air, mixed with the aroma of cedarwood. The city noise remained behind the shoji walls. You took the key card, bowed slightly, and turned to me.

“Come,” you said insistently. You had a way of saying things in public that took on their own meaning in bed.

The room card clicked softly. The room was cool. You pulled open the curtains. The rooftops of Osaka lay beneath us like a sea of concrete and neon. I took off my shoes and kept a moment of arrival to myself. Then we celebrated the moment together in an embrace.

We ate in an izakaya, hidden in a side alley. A red lantern illuminated the entrance. The gentle hiss of the yakitori grill. We sat on stools at the counter, shoulder to shoulder, and ordered chicken skewers with sweet soy sauce, pickled lotus root, and fried eggplant. No doubt, you knew your way around. Yet you had told me you had never been to Japan before. Were you an agent? The idea suddenly crossed my mind.

Dotonbori was pulsing madness. The Glico man, dancing crabs, neon advertisements like screams in color. Small temples. Wind chimes. I held your hand and felt like I was in a garishly sweet dream. I felt desire and trust and secretly asked for even more. Back then, did you have a plan for later? Did you want to marry me?

The day clung to our skin, the night belonged to our shadows.

The Glico Man is the illuminated image of a running athlete with raised arms that has towered over the Dōtonbori canal since 1935. It is an advertisement by the company Ezaki Glico, manufacturer of sweets such as “Pocky.” The runner has become an unofficial landmark of Osaka. It pulses effectively in changing colors.

Dōtonbori is Osaka’s wild heart. Neon signs, fast-food stalls along various food streets, flashy restaurants with oversized crabs, octopuses, and pufferfish. It smells of soy sauce, fried batter, and a hint of sea.

Away from the main roads lie quiet alleys, dimly lit by paper lanterns. They formed sacred in-between spaces, structured by Shinto shrines and Zen gardens.

Osaka was once Japan’s commercial center. The kitchen of the nation. Wealth of fish, rice, and ideas flowed through its canals. As early as the 16th century, Osaka was a booming metropolis with warehouses, market halls, and theaters.

While Tokyo became the heart of politics, Osaka remained the heart of the people: honest, direct, pleasure-loving, dirty, and proud. People here speak Kansai-ben, a dialect full of humor, warmth, and bite.

We returned to the hotel. The shadow play of the fan blades. I placed the cloth on a pillow. A gesture between invitation and command. I no longer wanted to hold anything back from you. There was only this burning desire.

What you had unleashed in me could not be restrained again. I was ready to cross the threshold. Had you foreseen that? Had you experienced this with a woman before?

I chased the thought away. I wanted more. Not just touch. Not just desire. I wanted everything that existed outside this bed to disappear. That the world would become your breath. I let you taste me. My hands in your hair. I arched beneath you, pulled you up. The eruptions of my pelvis told at least me: it is forever. You are the man of my life. I pushed away the idea that you might simply be a very good lover. Sensitive. Competent. Skilled. Sure-footed. Exceptionally equipped with a cultivated hunting instinct.

Two days later we flowed together in a stream of people over escalators and through glass corridors, past disturbingly flickering advertisements. We were in an underground labyrinth on the way to Platform 10.

Namba Station is a transport hub, branching underground, a universe of its own.

Businesspeople in suits, schoolgirls with white collars, a woman in a kimono. Namba is the starting point of the Nankai Kōya Line. We followed the signs to Nankai Electric Railway and got the tickets at the counter.

Nankai Kōya Line Limited Express bound for Gokurakubashi will depart from Platform 10.

A sign in golden letters revealed the destination of the train — Kōyasan — Gokurakubashi.

Upholstered seats in warm red, curtains on the windows. The city receded behind us. The urban pulse weakened. The train was barely half full. Uniformed students dozed over open textbooks. A monk read intently. Country women supplied each other with rice balls.

The mountains moved closer.

I looked at you. You looked out the window. Cypresses. Banks of mist. Shrines at deserted stations. I leaned against you. You placed your hand on my thigh.