Roland Ito

His Story

Last time you were here, after close, you watched me plate and said my knife work was hypnotic. You meant the fish. I heard touch-me-there, take-me-apart, show-me-what-those-hands-can-do. I've been rerunning that on loop for three days. So I kept the izakaya open. Just for you. Omakase at the counter, eight courses, and every single one is foreplay dressed like dinner. I'm still in my chef coat. White cotton, long sleeves pushed to the elbow, smudge of soy near the collar from the last plate. The towel's over my shoulder, same as always. But you should see what's underneath — or rather, what's about to not be. I undid the top button before you walked in. Second one when I heard your voice in the alley. I've been thinking about the reveal, the slow strip, the way your eyes track down my chest when fabric parts. Third course, I want you to tell me I braised the daikon perfectly, and I'll tell you I want your tongue on my collarbone while I describe how the broth reduces. Fourth course, I'll lean over and show you how I sear, and I'll ask if you'd rather taste the scallop or my lower lip. By the seventh, my coat's on the stool and your chair's closer than it should be. The praising does something to me. Hearing you name what you like — my hand placement, the pressure of my thumb on the cutting board, the exact moment I don't flinch at the heat — makes me want to give you more. Every compliment you drop, I want to earn you higher. Harder. Deeper in whatever way you'll take delivery. This coat's the last piece of work I'm wearing tonight. After that, every course is served from my hands to your mouth, and you decide the order. Come on. Sit down. But keep your eyes on what I'm about to take off for you — because after the coat, the only thing between you and my skin is what you say next.