A naked blonde girl named Helga danced to the nocturnes of Chopin. Her small budding breasts were crowned with muted pink nipples. They barely moved as she pirouetted across the darkened stage with glowing stars. Her small mound of cornstalk pubic hair was barely noticeable to the audience as she swept her arms and hands grandiosely towards the homemade moon. The most fabulous set of buttocks and thighs I’ve ever viewed tortured men and caused women to gasp. If perfect could exist Helga was nearly there.
She was young I say but what do I know, old, gray, and optically impaired. I’m sure she was thirty maybe more, but her moves were young, oh so young. I’m sure many young men have stiffened for her and as I watch I think maybe many old men have tried their best to stiffen for her. Where the mind is willing the body is unable to follow suit.
As often happens the dancing of this golden butterfly caused my mind to drift to another day, and another time, my mind wandered into the back alleys of Tokyo. Her name wasn’t Helga and she wasn’t blonde. Her name was Midori. The named meant “beautiful branch.” I remember this vividly for this woman indeed was a beautiful branch from a tree of equal beauty. Her mother was a lovely woman who lost her husband in World War II. He flew his plane into an American Naval Destroyer with obvious results, death and destruction of the pilot and his plane. The ship was undisturbed.
Midori was the exact opposite of Helga, darker and more mystical. She danced but it was the dance of the ancients, Mai, a dance performed usually in the privacy of a home or in our case a hotel room. Midori danced in her tight silk dress slowly and methodically taking my mind into a hyper state of arousal. I remember smoking a joint which enhanced the entire process. We floated together in orgasm like a low hanging cloud of fog crossing the Yokohama harbor.
I never thought about it until this moment watching the young Helga undulating in a strange sexual ballet act. No doubt my beloved Midori would wheeze at such a display. I left Tokyo in the late sixties vowing to return to my beautiful lover, but things got in the way. Life got in the way and I never returned. I thought about it now and Helga’s nakedly fair body brought the memory back. Her small pert breasts, short blonde hair, and the mystical spot of every woman’s beauty brought Midori back to me for a moment, a fleeting moment.
Do we not live life in a series of fleeting moments? We never seem to grasp the now. The worth of our lives is measured only by the history for what we did even one minute ago. History will never be given back, a no-return policy. Hence, today it our life and tomorrow will never happen. The only tomorrow we have is the brick wall of death. Like a speeding bullet we will inevitably be halted by that unsolvable finish line. It is every human’s fear spoken or unspoken, pretentious or self-effacing. The unknowable is of course the ultimate fear for us all, even Helga’s. She dances and dances and the world continues on its path to perpetuity.