Sensei."
Right after I close the washing machine door, Iwamoto peeks his head inside the bathroom. It almost gives me a heart attack. Had he appeared a few seconds earlier, the smell of my semen may have been detected by his nostrils.
Iwamoto yawns. His hair is all tousled-up. He looks cute. I wonder if he will let me stroke his head.
"Oh, laundry? You're late, I was wondering what's going on."
Iwamoto's morning face doesn't look expressive, but he is not grumpy like me. He goes straight back to the kitchen.
"Let's eat."
Iwamoto starts wolfing down his breakfast with a sleepy face.
"Sensei, do you think you could hang my clothes up too?"
The weather is fine, a perfect day to wash. I'll still have plenty of time to relax even after washing.
"Sure. You'll be the one folding the clothes then."
"Got it. See you later!"
"See you later!"
My eyes are trailing Iwamoto as I sit on the couch in front of the TV. The sound of the door closing is heard, followed by footsteps that soon disappeared down the corridor. Ever since I realized my obsession towards Iwamoto, I've been terrified. I have never been in love before, but I know this. No matter what I think, this isn't just "liking" a friend.
Thinking back, ever since I met Iwamoto, I have been driven by strong feelings that don't make the slightest sense. And yet, being with Iwamoto is not unpleasant. It is beyond pleasant. Pleasant is too simple a word to describe it. I don't even know why I didn't notice it before.
Maybe because love is inevitable. I have lived my whole life without romantic feelings or sexual desire. It was a complex and painful experience for me. It feels like a heavy cross to bear. I fall in love for the first time in my life. Spring has come. I should have been happy.
But the first thing I feel realizing this love is guilt.
Unconsciously, I had taken advantage of Iwamoto's misfortune. I tricked him into living in the same house with me. Knowing that Iwamoto is an MFUU who can get pregnant with another man, I couldn't accept the fact that he had to live with his male colleagues. I wanted to have him all to myself. I know it was ugly, but I still can't fully grasp the true nature of my possessiveness.
It is painful to know that I have fallen in love with Iwamoto, but that pain is the only color in my tasteless life. It is like a piece of beautiful music. A kind of dangerous pleasure, a drug that you would want to try again and again no matter the price. When Iwamoto let me touch him. I adored his powerful jaw, his slightly raised cheekbones, his wrinkled and laughing nose, his red cheeks, his dark eyelashes. All of those had made my heart flutter. Which at that moment instantly made me grateful for having been born into the world.
He listened to my poor, ridiculous stories, didn't seem to think I was stupid, and even laughed with me in a low, pleasant voice. Made me feel appreciated. Those are should be enough, right? What else do I want?
But now, I am disgusted at my ridiculous frustration.
From the day I met Iwamoto, I had been bewildered by my own strange, sticky desire to touch him. The second time, I was even more puzzled, and now even though the puzzlement is almost gone, I still want to touch him irresistibly. I even have a blatant dream about him today. I ejaculated.
I am afraid of Iwamoto's next menstruation. I wonder if I can rub his waist with a nonchalant look on my face. Will I end up running to the bathroom at the sight of his belly button? During the short morning hours today, I don't even know how many times I've been admiring him. To his body odor, to his stretched clothes across his pectoral muscles, to his tousled-up hair.
I feel like a dog in heat.
Worse than that.
I may pounce Iwamoto out of the blue. I don't want that. I don't want to do something he will not like. That is unacceptable.
There is a bigger reason for my guilt. It is because of the weakness and lowliness that are deeply rooted in me as a human being. Compared to this, my lust is actually not a big problem. The reason I fell in love with Iwamoto must have been because he relies on me. I am weak. And I have always been treated as a weak person. I am a man who has never been superior to others. But then Iwamoto came. A good-looking and strong guy like him suddenly depended himself on me. He looked at me and noticed me. I was beyond happy. I had been at the bottom of the heap as a human being, and I felt as if I had finally joined the ranks of decent people.
In short, I was drowned in the comfort of superiority I was experiencing for the first time.
My mother used to say. "To support others, you must first be able to stand firmly on your own two feet. Become a person who can take care of yourself so you can support others when they need you."
I want to be like that.
I had lived my whole life wishing for that.
But I can't.
I may make good money, eat well, and have my own house. But inside, I am rotten. Inside my mind, there is a dark, narrow, cold and damp room no one can manage to pass. The construction is weak. When someone enters it, the floor will collapse, and so does that someone. I've been too embarrassed to let someone in.
Should I just become a villain? Block Iwamoto's escape route, coddle him, and eventually tie him up in debt. He is honest and good-natured guy. He is loyal and compassionate. He may not fully trust me, but he does not think of me as a cunning person.
However, I am glad I am not stupid enough not to notice my ugliness. I am not so thick-skinned to let Iwamoto go along with this selfish obsession. I want Iwamoto to smile. I want him to be happy. I don't want him to see my dark passions, and I don't want him to be frightened of me. I want him to be healthy, because he is a really kind and respectful man. He should not be around a maggot like me.
In the afternoon, I get into the car in a bad mood. The glare of the morning sun is annoying. When I turn on the air conditioner of the small domestic car I had been driving for six years, I realize it smells musty. When I started living with Iwamoto, I thought I could escape from the small room where I was all alone. I was greatly mistaken. It doesn't matter where I live or who I live with. My soul is still as cowardly as ever, locked up in this stinky little car.
I look up and see some laundry hanging out to dry on the balcony of the fourth-floor room where Iwamoto and I live. They are full of life, brightly colored, and somehow out of place and beautiful. But them too, disappear from the corner of my eye when I step on the gas pedal of my car.
I probably should not live with anyone anymore.