It was just before winter vacation began.
On a Sunday. About 7 p.m.
I had just returned from spending the night in Hyuga with Sam.
I was tired, dreading work the next day, and longing for my vacation to begin, when the doorbell rang.
Assuming it was one of my neighbors, or one of their children, I slowly made my way to the door trying to come up with an excuse for why I couldn’t visit or play. When I opened the door, I found a young man there.
Without the normal Japanese formalities and ceremonial language associated with a visit, the young man simply and silently began to enter my front hallway. Assuming he was one of my students (who, in hindsight, would have been a student who had been held behind a few years), I gently put my hand to his chest and bluntly told him I was tired and would see him at school during the week. I then closed the door and returned to re-reading a story I was working on.
A few minutes passed and the doorbell rang again.
With a great sigh, I dragged myself to the door and opened it, once again, to find a young man standing there.
Now, I’m assuming it was the same young man.
The reason I wasn’t – nor will I ever be 100% sure is because, this time, the young man at my door was wearing sunglasses.
He was also wearing a hat.
And a mask.
He didn’t say a word, but was breathing heavily. And it wasn’t because of the three flights of stairs he had just climbed. To my great horror, I looked down to see the intruder had his penis in his hand and was masturbating.
He tried to force his way in.
I attempted to slam the door on his pathetic, little dick.
There was a struggle.
But my adrenaline overpowered the little maggot and I finally managed to push him from my apartment and lock the door. My hands and body were shaking violently as I slumped to the ground.
What the fuck just happened?
I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t know who to call.
I first tried friends who lived in neighboring towns, but couldn’t reach a soul.
Then I called Junko, who helps me at the Community Center. It was a conversation I NEVER expected to be having with her.
While I waited for Junko (who had called the Shintomi Police, as well as Oki-San and Kuranaga-san) to arrive, I sat in the corner of my apartment.
In total disbelief that it had happened.
Except this time, at a whole new, ugly level.
“What the hell is wrong with men?” I moaned as I rocked back and forth, semi-fetal.
It’s bad enough that I’ve had to be victim to it in the assorted public places I’ve had the misfortune of being in. But hell, I could usually chalk it up to bad timing – being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This, however, was altogether different.
It wasn’t a drunk in a bar.
Or a letch in a crowd.
I didn’t accidentally stumble upon it.
This was at the threshold of my home.
It was with intent.
It was with force.
I began to shudder anew as I thought about what might have happened had I not been able to shut the door between us.
What brings a person to such acts?How does a person learn such behavior?And how will this sickness manifest itself in the future if the young man doesn’t get caught and get help
Is there even help to be had?
“Oh God,” I thought with another severe shudder causing me to heave more sobs, “this friggin’ psycho might be living right next door, or just down the street from one of the little girls in the neighborhood.”
At that thought, I found myself at the toilet moments later.
As I leaned against the back of the bathroom wall wiping the bile from my mouth, I felt an immense anger for not having done more. He might have been wider, but I had the size advantage. I could have easily pushed him down the flight of cement steps just a few feet from my front door. Or at least done some major damage with a powerful kick to his exposed groin.
But all I could do was shut the ugly scene behind the door as quickly as I could.
Now HE was out there.
Junko, the police, and the others arrived on the scene and we went through what happened several times, with Junko translating what was clearly making her very, VERY uncomfortable.
So much so that I was soon questioning just what she was telling the police. Especially after I was informed that the incident wasn’t of a “sexual nature.”
Are you fucking kidding me? A masked man attempts to force his way into my apartment with his dick in his hand and it isn’t being considered a sexual assault?
What fucking century is this?
I was stunned into silence and far too emotionally wrecked to try to argue. So, I sat back and watched as one of the five policemen inspected the area where the struggle took place.
He was looking for fingerprints.
A wave of nausea passed over me again as I watched in horror as the black dust revealed fingers clenched around my front door.
Finally, after a couple of hours, and at my insistence I would be fine, I sent everyone home and was soon soaking in a hot tub.
Trying to wash away the awful feeling that I had done something to deserve it.
After not sleeping a wink, I found myself at Kaminyuta Junior High the next day hiding from everyone when I wasn’t expected to be in front of a class. Quite frankly, I was on the verge of tears at every moment and simply couldn’t hold a conversation.
I kept looking into the many innocent faces of the 11-15 year old boys I teach and couldn’t help but feel incredibly sad that some of them might turn into the mess that arrived at my door the night before.
I also continue to struggle with the idea that there’s a reason these things keep happening to me.
It can’t be a long and promiscuous sex life. For god’s sake, I was a senior in college before I lost my virginity. And in the years since, trysts have been few and far between.
I’ve never even been comfortable making eye contact with the opposite sex. Especially after the variety of degenerates who have foisted their sickness my way.
Yet this nagging feeling that I somehow deserve every perversion heaped upon me still lurks in the shadows.
Most acutely, this last one.
After all, I haven’t exactly been chaste here. I guess I figured while the going is good…
Nor have I tried to be very covert in my dalliances.
And this is a small town.
Maybe, I keep thinking over and over, I brought this on myself.
But then there’s another voice.
And it’s strong.
It says that that’s a bunch of self-loathing crap.
Deep down inside I know that I didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that.
Yet it keeps finding its way to me.And I’m forced to keep asking the same question.
I know that a couple of weeks on the beaches of Malaysia will help put this incident further to the back of my mind. And, in time, I’ll be able to laugh about it. Like I have all the others.
Maybe not so much laugh, this time, as let go.