When the cherry blossoms bloom

More than three years ago, filled with patriotic grievances and the heartfelt blessings of my classmates before my departure to "avenge the Nanjing Massacre," I set foot on Japanese soil, beginning my three-year study abroad experience. Upon arriving in Japan, the language barrier caused numerous inconveniences, leaving me feeling lonely. The language barrier also made me prone to physical and verbal altercations when trying to meet local women, which was quite unseemly. I even considered hiding my true self and becoming a well-behaved student. However, things took a dramatic turn after I was admitted to a local university's graduate program

. I had my first sexual experience in my second year of university. Being young and vigorous, I had no intention of stopping, and from then on, I was constantly engaged in sexual activity. My first year in Japan became a sexually devoid period. Fortunately, I was busy with exams during that year and had no time for such matters. Once the exams were over and enrollment was settled, my mood improved, and my thoughts, which had been focused on my studies, began to stir. Whenever I saw a pure and beautiful Japanese girl on the street, my penis would almost burst forth, a rather embarrassing situation. Japanese women, besides being open-minded thanks to the Westernization policies since the Meiji Restoration, also possessed a uniquely gender-specific way of speaking, making the girls' voices sweet and alluring. Influenced by this, I made a vow in my heart: "I must, in my lifetime, find a Japanese girl and 'sleep with her for one night' (a phrase from *The Second Collection of Amazing Stories*)!" This vow was my second since I aspired to be president in the third grade of elementary school. In June of 1994, at the turn of spring and summer, local community groups organized an international exchange fair mainly for international students. Taiwanese students were also invited to set up their own booth. I was in charge of the Taiwanese student booth. Besides oyster noodles, a Taiwanese snack, the Taiwanese students' stall also featured my own specialty pastries. That day, we were busy working under the blazing sun in our makeshift tent. The number of Japanese residents at the fair was much higher than we had expected. From the crowd, a pleasant voice rang out: "So cute! Who made this cake?" Drawn by the voice, I looked up from my stall. A Japanese girl, who looked to be in her early twenties, was holding a small handbag and staring incredulously at my cake. The other international students helping out quickly introduced me to her in Japanese: "Kousan! Kousan! (My Japanese name)!" "This is our specially hired chef!" The girl looked me over and smiled. "I didn't expect a guy to make it."

I nodded shyly. The girl's gaze returned to the cake. The girl wore a long dress, had an oval face, and straight, shoulder-length black hair. Her eyes, fixed on the cake, were large and bright. She was a typical Japanese girl. She gently picked up a small piece of cake with her right hand, held it in her left, and slowly and deliberately put it into her mouth. A smile returned to her face.

It was June, and the Kanto region's sun was already stirring. I abandoned my stall business and chatted with the girl under the shade of a tree. Hirakushi Masae, 24 years old, had graduated from a junior college in Tokyo. She was actually quite an expert in cooking. I kept saying to her in Japanese, "I'm making a fool of myself!" We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to start calling each other the next day to "spar."

From that day on, the calls went from once a week to once every three days, and eventually to almost daily. The topics ranged from cooking methods to discussing everything under the sun. My understanding of her gradually deepened. She was an only child from a well-off family, owning several houses in Kawasaki City. My father was diagnosed with cancer this year and is currently in a hospital ward. Her anxiety about her father's condition was ever-present in our conversations.

"Let's pray together! Perhaps we can call your father back from the brink of death," I comforted her in a letter. Our

first date was in September. She traveled from her home in Yokohama to my school, about 100 kilometers away. "If you don't come to see me, I'll come to see you," were the first words she said to me after getting off the long-distance bus. I drove her to a nearby supermarket to shop, as we had agreed the night before to cook with her and watch her cook. After bringing the ingredients home, we divided the work, first washing the vegetables, and then she took the lead, preparing the food.

Wearing a scarf, she skillfully and quickly cut the food on the cutting board. I watched her back as we chatted happily. "Kousan, is there any difference in how Chinese dishes are cut?" She suddenly seemed to realize something and turned to ask me. I pointed to the cleaver in her hand and smiled, saying, "At least the knife is different." As I spoke, I noticed some food scraps on her watch face. I reached out and wiped them away, my fingertips sliding onto her palm. This action brought an unexpected half-second of silence.

"Kousan, what do you think of me as a friend?" She broke the silence, her smile fading. I thought for a moment, not intending to answer her directly, and wrapped my arm around her from behind.

"Kotae ni natteiru?" (Is this my answer?) I asked mischievously.

She didn't speak, leaning against my chest, her hands holding my arm, her eyes closed thoughtfully, then she opened them again.

"Kousan, it seems my father's condition isn't improving. These past few days, I've gradually come to see you as my only source of comfort. I have to swallow my pride to come here today, but I won't regret it."

I sat down with her on the tatami mat in the room. The setting sun streamed in through the French windows, casting long shadows that folded several times in the six-tatami-mat room. I got up, drew the curtains, and then sat cross-legged beside her. She looked at me face to face. I reached out and encircled her neck, then leaned in for a deep kiss. Her breathing became erratic. My hands moved to her shoulders inside her blouse, then removed her bra strap. She noticed my initial movements. "I didn't come here to have sex," she said, half-seriously. "I know. I'll be careful," I replied. My hands, already inside her blouse, continued to work on removing her bra. "Let me take a shower first," she said. I nodded.

She straightened her clothes slightly, asked me for a towel, and went into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel. I pulled her into bed, tore off her towel, and took off my own clothes, leaving us both naked. My tongue lightly swept from her neck down, my hands cupping her breasts, and I began to suckle her nipples. "Kimochi ii! (So good!)" she murmured softly.

I pressed my advantage, my tongue probing her vulva, the tip teasing her clitoris, her juices flowing freely. Her legs stiffened and relaxed intermittently, the sounds from her throat almost like a soft song.

"You can go in now," she said, feigning

intimacy. "I told you, I'll know my limits," I reiterated defiantly. "But you've already gone this far..." she said with a wry smile. I thrust my stiff penis against her, sliding effortlessly into her warm, wet vagina. After a few thrusts, she said, "Can you let me be on top?" I agreed, and we switched positions, our lovemaking resuming. She cried out, "Oh!" "Does it hurt?" I asked anxiously. She shook her head, "It feels good!" Her hips swayed like she was riding a horse, her cervix pressing against my glans. After nearly twenty minutes of intense lovemaking, she finally let out her last cry, and I ejaculated without hesitation.

That night, my arm was under her head, and we both fell into a deep sleep.

*** *** *** *** ***

This was our first date. Neither of us knew beforehand that it would end up being a night longer than a day. When I woke up in the morning, she was still lying in my arms. I couldn't help but gently stroke her hair, just to make sure this wasn't a dream. If it was a dream, I would hate myself for waking up so quickly.

She opened her eyes, almost at the same time my hand touched her hair. It seems she didn't sleep well either.

"I love you," I blurted out involuntarily. She didn't answer, her face pressed against my chest, occasionally glancing up at me before burying herself back in my chest. After a long while, she finally spoke. "Really?"

Ah, from June to September, those three words were stuck in my throat, impossible to spit out or swallow. Did you still doubt me? -- If possible, I wanted to tell her everything I was thinking, but unfortunately, my Japanese wasn't good enough at the time, and the gap between what I thought and what I said was still too great.

"Really," I answered her simply but forcefully. She smiled charmingly, and we embraced, sharing another long kiss. Then, she proactively explored my crotch, pulled down my pajama bottoms, gently took out my penis, and put it in her mouth, teasing it with her tongue. "This is a five-thousand-year-old Chinese organ, are you satisfied?" This was my first dirty joke to her. She understood my humor and couldn't help but laugh, saying, "Your personality and your jokes don't match at all!"

[Video sharing: 18-year-old female student's self-portrait during sex | Taking advantage of a big-breasted girl's deep sleep, slowly "processing" her! | Girls drinking special orange juice | Video provided by airplane av (dfjav.com)]

After her provocation, we started another game. We still used her favorite woman-on-top position. The morning sun was already knocking on the window through the curtains; but the people inside were still deeply engrossed in their game.

We had breakfast together at a restaurant near our accommodation, and then I saw her off on the long-distance bus to Tokyo.

We were now boyfriend and girlfriend. From a girlfriend's perspective, she was a good girlfriend. Besides, the advantage of having a Japanese girlfriend is that it opens up another window to your life in Japan. She would tell you which street in Harajuku was the most bustling; she would point out where the Mitsukoshi Department Store in Ginza was; she would help you negotiate with the Japanese government; she would teach you Japanese that you couldn't learn in class. Of course, her coquettishness during sex was also typical of Japanese women.

Whenever I didn't have classes, I would head straight to Yokohama; and every time I went to Yokohama, I would stay for several days without returning home—this had become the norm. My classmates, including my Japanese classmates, all envied my good fortune, saying that I had the most comfortable life in Japan.

However, things weren't always so smooth.

Looking back, my journey with her seemed to have been without any setbacks. From meeting to becoming boyfriend and girlfriend, it was almost as fast as lightning. In our relationship, I had long since forgotten about nationality. "If you go back to your country, I want to go with you," she had said to me more than once.

Walking with her on the shopping streets of Harajuku, while she was browsing the goods in the shops, I deliberately walked to a corner across the street and gazed at her figure from afar. My God, she was so beautiful. I like her. Amidst this bustling crowd, if I had to choose again, the answer would still be the same.

The problem that had existed since I met her resurfaced, and was even more serious: Jiang Hui's father was critically ill. Starting in November, she had to rush back to her home in Kawasaki from her Yokohama residence. We didn't see each other for a whole month. During that month, we communicated by phone and letter. Her mother, who lived in Kawasaki, also knew of my existence. She was firmly opposed to her daughter's relationship with a foreigner. If she received a letter from me, she would coldly tell Jiang Hui, "Your 'kousan' has written."

Jiang Hui would never come back to Taiwan with me. With her father gone, only her mother was left at home, and I couldn't bear to put her in such a difficult situation. On

December 24th, the eve of Christmas, she overcame all difficulties to meet me in Yokohama, our first meeting in over a month. She showed me photos of her father and photos of herself and her father together. A highly educated intellectual, a Waseda University graduate, and a supporter of the left-wing movement who sympathized with the lower and middle classes. "What a precious soul. It would be such a pity if anything happened to her!" I said regretfully.

Stroking her face, I noticed with alarm that she had lost weight; her light Christmas makeup couldn't hide her gaunt face. "Do you cry often?" I asked. She put the photo album aside and buried her head in my arms, hugging me tightly. "Kousan, let's not talk about sad things tonight, okay?"

I nodded. We watched a videotape together. For an hour, she stared at the television screen, barely glancing at me. Perhaps to "assert my dominance," I took the initiative to caress her body. She seemed mentally prepared, automatically removing her clothes one by one… The television screen continued playing content completely unrelated to the atmosphere in the room. The fluorescent light shone on our bodies, and that night, we reached climax faster than usual. After a tender moment, she finally couldn't hold back and began to sob. Looking at her, I instinctively knew what she wanted to say. "After tonight, let's not see each other again," she slowly uttered after a long silence. The meaning was both implied and unspoken.

"Jya, soushirou (Okay, that's settled!)" My reply almost came out. She paused slightly.

"Aren't you going to ask me why?" She looked at me, tears streaming down her face again. "I need to stay in Kawasaki to take care of Dad. You're in Ibaraki, I don't know when we'll see each other again; you have so many options at school, do you really think our relationship can last?"

"Those are secondary, aren't they?" I interrupted her, then continued, "Your mother's opposition is the main reason, isn't it?" I stated my guess directly.

"Don't think about it so much," she said, leaving no further explanation, tears streaming down her face.

I could hardly wait until dawn. At her repeated pleas, I reluctantly stayed in her room. The next day, I tidied my clothes, kissed her cheek, and left without looking back.

Since university, I considered myself a seasoned veteran in matters of the heart, but this separation felt like a knife cutting through my heart! When I got home, I heard her choked voice on the phone, and I could no longer pretend to be nonchalant; I burst into tears… We met once after Jiang Hui's father passed away. I didn't see her again until I left Japan. Last year, I started my first job and was sent to Japan on a business trip in May, where I reunited with her. She already had a boyfriend. "Even now, my current boyfriend is still jealous of what we had," she said with a bitter smile.

*** *** *** *** ***

Postscript: Sex without love cannot be called love. Apart from humans, no other animal in nature can elevate this basic process of procreation to the level of sexual pleasure, simply because love plays a crucial role in the process of sex. Xiaoxiaosheng writes short articles based on his personal experiences, following in the footsteps of Zhang Jingsheng's great work "Xingdong" from the early years of the Republic of China. He hopes that these articles will resonate with readers!

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