Kenji
Kenji first appeared behind the liquor-store counter, unusually tall, with feather tattoos escaping his apron and tight T-shirt. I’d been chatting him up for weeks, so Diane came to MountainMouth to check him out. We flirted in bad Japanese, Kenji drove us home and I served instant ramen. 3 days later he came to my apartment with cake and wine because I was miserable. “Sweet, sweet boy!” I wrote. Meet the tattoo boy behind the apron → Receive cake and wine →
One night, after watching All About My Mother, we went naked swimming beneath thunder and lightning. Phosphorescence sent little shooting stars through the water as we moved. On another night we foolishly rode around slightly drunk and helmetless, my head on his shoulder and my arms around him against the wind. I told him I did not usually like girls. He accepted this as casually as if I disliked vanilla ice cream. Later, I told him I wanted to kiss him. He passed out on my tatami. I decided to run with the he’s-straight line. Go skinny dipping under the lightning → Ride out and talk about sexuality → Find Kenji asleep on the tatami →
I knew what I wanted. I still cannot tell you what Kenji intended. He was physically easy with me and entirely untroubled by my being gay. We took unsuitable photos, went to Gotcha, watched films, rode motorbikes and kept returning to the beach. He bought drinks when I was broke, praised my Japanese, met Kenken, jammed with Hannah and joined my grandparents for dinner at Mountain Pirates. Take Hannah and the grandparents to dinner →
By spring 2004, we were cycling 30 minutes to the sea, swimming, lying on the beach and playing catch. I had spent months trying to work out whether Kenji wanted me. By the time I left, what mattered was that he kept turning up, with the mystery and sex appeal intact. Cycle to one last recovered beach afternoon →