forget that I was only one of several men with whom she spent her time.
This is not to imply that she never behaved in an admirable fashion. There were nights, for example, when a group of us actors would arrive at a popular night spot, and Elizabeth would smooth things over with the frowning doorman who was not accustomed to having Japanese patrons. There was also the evening of the Red Cross fundraiser, which was hosted by a group of society women who didn’t normally care to mix with picture people, but who’d invited Elizabeth because of her role as a nurse in a recent film. “Mrs. Grace told me it would be social suicide to bring you,” said Elizabeth sweetly, as she introduced me to the president of the local chapter. “She said that you’d embarrass yourself since you might not know how to eat with a knife and fork. This is the same woman who was kind enough to inform me that I really shouldn’t spend time with you at all. So you see, Jun, you really are quite an unsavory character, and I’ll bet you weren’t even aware of it!”
In retrospect, I see that Elizabeth enjoyed these confrontations. She herself would have been unwelcome in such fashionable circles if she had not been a Hollywood star, and she liked to do things that challenged the norms of Los Angeles’ social elite. But while she would dine with me, dance with me, charm doormen on my behalf, she still resisted me romantically. And the more she held back from me, the more fervently I made love to other women, either to punish her or to redirect my longing. It didn’t work, however; it never really worked. For even when I was in the company of other young women—indeed, even as they lay naked and quivering in my bed—I thought of no one but Elizabeth Banks.
One of the more memorable events of that period was the annual awards banquet hosted by Moving Image Magazine . Every year, the magazine presented prizes in various categories as selected by their readers. I had attended this function the two previous years with Hanako Minatoya. But this year, because of the success of Sleight of Hand , it seemed appropriate that Elizabeth and I attend together. We’d originally planned to go with several friends from the Normandy Players—the arrangements for such functions were not as tightly controlled as they would be just a year or two later—but when the logistics became too complicated, I proposed to Elizabeth that I just pick her up myself. I dressed in my best tuxedo and had my driver take me over to her house. And when I saw her in the doorway, I was immediately glad—and also proud—that I would be her escort. She looked beautiful. She wore a long black gown that emphasized the lovely contours of her body. The diamonds around her neck drew attention to the fragile collarbone, and her hair was tied up in intricate curls. When I stood beside the car and clasped my hands over my heart, she laughed. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, glancing at me slyly. On the drive downtown, I held her hand, so thrilled by her proximity and the reception of our work that I thought my heart would burst.
When we arrived at the grand new Tiffany Hotel, I expected to be received as we had been at our premiere— the red carpet, the fiashing cameras, the clamoring fans. But when I helped Elizabeth out of the car, the people all looked at us oddly. No one rushed over to greet us as we approached the front entrance, and despite the large crowd, it was eerily quiet. Then finally, near the doorway, a young man approached. “Why, welcome, Miss Banks, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “I’m Stephen Ward, from Moving Image . Please come inside.”
Entering the dining room, we were met with the same curious silence—someone’s face would light up when they saw Elizabeth or me, and then cloud over when they saw who we were with. The director Brett Roy walked up as we headed toward the front and clapped me rather hard on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Jun.
This is not to imply that she never behaved in an admirable fashion. There were nights, for example, when a group of us actors would arrive at a popular night spot, and Elizabeth would smooth things over with the frowning doorman who was not accustomed to having Japanese patrons. There was also the evening of the Red Cross fundraiser, which was hosted by a group of society women who didn’t normally care to mix with picture people, but who’d invited Elizabeth because of her role as a nurse in a recent film. “Mrs. Grace told me it would be social suicide to bring you,” said Elizabeth sweetly, as she introduced me to the president of the local chapter. “She said that you’d embarrass yourself since you might not know how to eat with a knife and fork. This is the same woman who was kind enough to inform me that I really shouldn’t spend time with you at all. So you see, Jun, you really are quite an unsavory character, and I’ll bet you weren’t even aware of it!”
In retrospect, I see that Elizabeth enjoyed these confrontations. She herself would have been unwelcome in such fashionable circles if she had not been a Hollywood star, and she liked to do things that challenged the norms of Los Angeles’ social elite. But while she would dine with me, dance with me, charm doormen on my behalf, she still resisted me romantically. And the more she held back from me, the more fervently I made love to other women, either to punish her or to redirect my longing. It didn’t work, however; it never really worked. For even when I was in the company of other young women—indeed, even as they lay naked and quivering in my bed—I thought of no one but Elizabeth Banks.
One of the more memorable events of that period was the annual awards banquet hosted by Moving Image Magazine . Every year, the magazine presented prizes in various categories as selected by their readers. I had attended this function the two previous years with Hanako Minatoya. But this year, because of the success of Sleight of Hand , it seemed appropriate that Elizabeth and I attend together. We’d originally planned to go with several friends from the Normandy Players—the arrangements for such functions were not as tightly controlled as they would be just a year or two later—but when the logistics became too complicated, I proposed to Elizabeth that I just pick her up myself. I dressed in my best tuxedo and had my driver take me over to her house. And when I saw her in the doorway, I was immediately glad—and also proud—that I would be her escort. She looked beautiful. She wore a long black gown that emphasized the lovely contours of her body. The diamonds around her neck drew attention to the fragile collarbone, and her hair was tied up in intricate curls. When I stood beside the car and clasped my hands over my heart, she laughed. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, glancing at me slyly. On the drive downtown, I held her hand, so thrilled by her proximity and the reception of our work that I thought my heart would burst.
When we arrived at the grand new Tiffany Hotel, I expected to be received as we had been at our premiere— the red carpet, the fiashing cameras, the clamoring fans. But when I helped Elizabeth out of the car, the people all looked at us oddly. No one rushed over to greet us as we approached the front entrance, and despite the large crowd, it was eerily quiet. Then finally, near the doorway, a young man approached. “Why, welcome, Miss Banks, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “I’m Stephen Ward, from Moving Image . Please come inside.”
Entering the dining room, we were met with the same curious silence—someone’s face would light up when they saw Elizabeth or me, and then cloud over when they saw who we were with. The director Brett Roy walked up as we headed toward the front and clapped me rather hard on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Jun.
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