The Most Beautiful Lie in the World (Adult Content)

Submitted by Lorem Ipsum.

I met this Japanese girl once called Yin.

And she suffered from the weirdest superstition about place names I’ve ever heard of.

She said she never travelled to anywhere either beginning or ending in the letter “o”. Not if she could possibly help it.

Doubly unlucky were those places that both began and ended with the vowel she dreaded so. Ohio and Orlando, Florida, being just two of the many examples she next listed.

I could have offered up Oslo, in Norway, too, but it felt wrong of me to be abetting Yin in her strange alphabet-a-phobia.

She explained in Japanese culture the zero is considered very inauspicious. And, as on paper o’s and zeroes look perfectly alike, the former were to be avoided as diligently as the latter.

I nodded sagely, while hunting within her inscrutable eyes for hidden laughter.

“When I look at a map, I am immediately struck by certain no-go zones,” she informed me wistfully, as we waited at the old Greyhound coach terminal in the city. Two strangers with a common destination.

Later, as we rode together on the narrow bench seat at the back of the bus, headed for out of town, Yin confided in me that her father had originally heralded from Obihiro, in the north of Japan, whereas her mother came from Ofunato further down south.

Following which, Yin next took great pains in explaining that her mother’s place of origin, in fact, offered its inhabitants no fun at all whatsoever, despite what its name might have otherwise suggested.

“But what of Orinoco, my favourite Womble? What of him?” I asked of her somewhat randomly.

Her answer? No, she’d never heard of him. Nor had she heard of any of the other geographically-named scavengers of Wimbledon Common he shared a burrow with, either. I sang the Wombles theme song, for her, just because it’s practically impossible not to once brought to mind, “making good use of things that we find, the things that the everyday folks leave behind”.

Coughing into my fist, I turned to watch the fields of wheat slip past the window I sat propped up against.

I supposed aloud that Yoko Ono hadn’t necessarily been the best thing to happen to the Beatles, ultimately. “After all,” I said, “poor old John didn’t meet with the best of ends, did he?”

“Exactly,” Yin had sighed. “It wasn’t through any kind of fault of Yoko’s, though, you must understand. All those o’s stacked up together so unluckily in one name. Catastrophic…”

With her delicate movements and slender neck, she suddenly made me think of an ice carving of a swan I’d once seen topple over and smash, when I had worked as a drinks waiter at a big race-day carnival a few years earlier.

The light, meanwhile, within the cabin of the bus began to diffuse, as the day lengthened into a shadowy half-dusk.

Feeling like I’d just swallowed a handful of sawdust, I instinctively knew the time had come for me to finally make my play. Me, this missing zero fallen off the balance sheet of life. A margin dweller. As worthless as spare change in the pocket of some faceless, corpulent industrialist. What the hell did I have to offer this vision of exotic oriental beauty? This neurotic goddess with her bizarre o-avoid-ophobia?

Well, I offered her this. My own version of the most beautiful lie in the world.

“I have an a-a-aversion of my own,” I stuttered, unsure of quite what I was going to say, before adding, “But I’m usually too embarrassed to mention it to anyone.”

I felt Yin focus her entire body awareness to a single point, as she strained to hear what I was going to say next.

“I have a fear of butterflies,” I lied. “It isn’t very masculine, I know. But I’ve feared them ever since childhood. I think it’s their antennae I can’t stand. They completely creep me out.”

“This is very funny,” giggled Yin coyly, bringing her fingers up to her mouth so as to hide her pretty smile from me.

“Okay, like I already said,” I objected. “I know it’s not all that manly…”

“No, you do not understand. I am not laughing at you. I laugh because I have a…a tattoo of your fear on my body.”

An awkward lull in our conversation ensued. And I wondered whether I should maybe retract what I had said.

As I struggled with my conscience, the chugging of the diesel engine working away beneath us helped to fill the uneasy silence.

It must have looked like I was dozing off, because some time later I heard Yin whisper something in my ear.

“What?” I asked, more gruffly than I intended.

“If you are not too tired, I will let you touch it…” she repeated, softly. “If you think it would help you? My tattoo.”

My mind kind of imploded the way an old-style television screen does when you throw a house brick at it.

“Here on the bus?” I managed to say, after the longest pause.

“No, here, up front, just below the waistband of my skirt,” Yin said.

It slowly dawned on me what she was actually suggesting.

“You can think of it as immersion therapy. It will all be very scientific,” she explained. “But don’t worry, my butterfly won’t bite. Plus, because it is so dark you won’t even have to see it.”

My heart thudded in my chest.

Without further comment, Yin reached over and guided my burning fingers down the front of her loosened skirt.

Holding my index finger firmly in her right hand, she then traced the outline of a butterfly on the soft, smooth skin directly beneath the elastic of her panties.

Maddeningly, each time she traced the butterfly she would stop so as to leave my fingertip resting on the mound of downy flesh mere millimeters above her sex. I thought I might die, I went so long without breathing.

I’m sure I heard her groan, immediately prior to when she next spoke.

“I am a virgin. And this is very important to me. I wish to save myself for my husband, you see.”

“Oh, of course, forgive me,” I managed to blurt out. Turning back towards the window.

“No,” she explained, “you misunderstand me, it is no problem if I am to be pleasured. Only I cannot return the favor…”

My synapses melted slightly from the strain of working out what I was being offered.

Growing impatient, Yin took matters into her own hands, by again guiding my fingers down past her warm belly towards her crotch. Needing no additional encouragement, I rubbed quickly at the moist folds of skin she pressed my fingertips up against.

Seconds later, her back arched where she sat, as a deep sigh escaped her lips.

“Oh, Ontario…Ontarioooooo, OntariOOOOOO!” she moaned.

Afterwards she slept with her head against my shoulder, as I watched the road through the front windscreen. She smelled like cinnamon.

The next morning when the bus pulled into the depot, we exchanged contact details. More out of common courtesy than out of a genuine commitment to keep in touch.

And, you know, to this day, I still can’t tell you if she actually had a tattoo or not. Although I did, however, get a postcard from her about six months later. Just the one. She told me how she was getting married and was now living in a city north of the border, in Canada, if you can believe it…

She finished by writing the following: “Sorry if I left you with more wood than a lumberyard. But I can only hope I have helped you overcome your fear of butterflies in the process. Your traveling buddy, Yin.”

I laughed myself to tears as I stuck her postcard to the fridge door, while trying to decide which one of us had been the biggest liar.

About Charles Yallowitz

Charles E. Yallowitz was born, raised, and educated in New York. Then he spent a few years in Florida, realized his fear of alligators, and moved back to the Empire State. When he isn't working hard on his epic fantasy stories, Charles can be found cooking or going on whatever adventure his son has planned for the day. 'Legends of Windemere' is his first series, but it certainly won't be his last.

3 comments on “The Most Beautiful Lie in the World (Adult Content)

  1. Beautifully written and captivating story. I can just imagine such a trip. Of course that all it would be an imagination.

  2. Cool read! Good story telling, I really enjoyed it!

  3. Gorgeous little story. Very sexy.

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