by Guy Willard
After a while, Mariko whispered, “Are you feeling a little tired tonight?”
Wordlessly Fumio nodded. His penis remained limp.
“Would you like to kiss me, then?” she said.
He opened his eyes and raised himself slightly. As their lips met, Fumio realized he was kissing someone for the first time in his life—a girl he’d just met a few minutes earlier. Despite the passionate way she was kissing him, he knew she was only doing it as part of her job. Perhaps sensing his distraction, she pulled her lips away.
“Maybe this is more what you had in mind,” she said helpfully, repositioning herself so that her breasts hung above his face. Slowly she lowered a nipple toward his lips.
Obediently he began sucking on it. He felt oddly detached from the whole experience, even a little embarrassed. No doubt all the fuss his friends made over sex had built it up out of all proportion to its actual significance. Even as he fondled the naked breasts of an attractive young girl, his mind was elsewhere. What he’d seen through the peephole in his room the other night had been so much more exciting. Tatsuya….
“At last,” whispered Mariko as Fumio’s penis grew erect.
She moved around and repositioned herself so they were facing in opposite directions, with Fumio able to look straight up at her sex. He’d never seen a woman’s sex before, and was at first puzzled by its structure. Ensconced between two purplish-brown swells of flesh was a thinner pink ridge. But as Mariko spread her thighs apart, this pink ridge split open to reveal a small hole hidden underneath, a hole perfectly formed to receive a man’s erection.
Just then he felt a pleasurable warmth flowing over the tip of his penis. Glancing down, he saw that Mariko was rhythmically lapping her tongue over the crown of his glans. And now her lips closed over the entire tip and moved down to envelope his shaft, and then slid back up again, sucking all the way. She repeated this action. It felt very good.
But when he glanced up at her sex, he was dismayed by his feelings of revulsion. Was this the thing that all boys lusted after so much, the object of their most cherished fantasies? He only felt queasiness at the sight of such an alien organ. Still, it was into this sloppy-looking mess of soft flesh that Tatsuya, on the other side of Fumio’s apartment wall, loved to pump his hard erection, causing all those girls to squeal with joy. At this thought, Fumio felt his pleasure mount, so quickly that he immediately had to bite his lower lip to keep from calling out Tatsuya’s name as he climaxed.
“Oh!”
Gripping tightly at the bed sheet under him, he arched his back as he ejaculated deep into Mariko’s warm mouth. She kept still, waiting until he was done, then milked a little more out of him with her hand before reaching across to the bedside table for a box of tissues. Tugging out several sheets, she silently spat out what was in her mouth, then gazed at it.
“Oh my!” she murmured. “What a lot of cum!”
Glancing at him, she giggled in a bashful manner.
Fumio was thinking to himself: Is that it? Ten thousand yen gone, in the wink of an eye, just like that. He could have jerked himself off for free. But he tried not to let his disappointment show.
“Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “You’ve been so nice to me.”
She helped him get dressed, then put on her bathrobe and led him out to the waiting room where Harada and Kurita were already sitting on the sofa. Both of them looked a little sheepish, and all three boys avoided looking at each another. When Mori still hadn’t shown up after five more minutes, they began to joke about it.
“Boy, I wish I could have lasted as long.”
“He’s sure getting his money’s worth, isn’t he?”
“Lucky guy….”
Finally Mori arrived, accompanied by his girl. As if this were the signal, the other girls, who’d been waiting out in the corridor, all came into the waiting room to thank the boys for coming to Petit Doll. Lining up neatly, they bowed together, like maids at an inn. The man was standing just outside the entrance holding several clear-vinyl umbrellas. “It’s beginning to rain, gentlemen. Perhaps you’ll need these.” He handed one to each of them, then bowed. “Thank you for your patronage. Please come again.”
It was indeed raining quite hard. Putting up their umbrellas, the boys laughingly teased Mori about taking so long to finish, but he kept his face serious, refusing to be drawn into their banter. At Shinjuku Station the party split up, Harada and Kurita headed for the Keio Line, and Mori for the Odakyu Line. Fumio refused Mori’s invitation to have a few more drinks before going home, and went straight to the Chuo Line platform. It was quite crowded, mostly with disheveled salarymen visibly wobbling as they waited. After about three minutes, the train pulled in.
Fumio stepped inside and found a spot in the aisle where he could get a good grip on a strap. After a seemingly interminable wait, the train finally started up with a lurch, as if even the driver were drunk. Hanging onto his strap, Fumio swayed with the motions of the train, allowing himself to be buffeted about by the passengers on either side of him. His eyes were fixed on the myriad lights of the city glittering coldly beyond the train windows.
It was obviously useless to deceive himself any longer. None of his doubts had been resolved by tonight’s experience. If anything, it had only confirmed what he’d secretly guessed all along.
By the time he got off at Koenji station, the rain had let up and the air felt refreshingly clean. Fumio grimly twirled the cheap umbrella around his finger as he walked home through the empty streets. His footsteps sounded dull and muffled.
Coming upon a vending machine which sold canned coffee, he stopped and reached into his pocket for some coins, but his fingers encountered a piece of paper there. He pulled it out and saw the business card Mariko had handed to him just before they’d left her room. It bore Petit Doll’s logo and guaranteed a thousand-yen discount the next time he visited. On it she had written in pen, “I’ll be waiting for you,” followed by her signature and a heart mark. He stared at her message, recalling her expert, professional caresses. And then, with a feeling of utter hopelessness, he tore the card into tiny pieces and scattered them onto the damp pavement.
3
Fumio purposely chose an out-of-the-way bookstore in another part of town, an old-fashioned place which still had sliding glass doors. As he strolled around the shop pretending to look for a book, he noted that there were only three customers besides himself—a salaryman browsing the adult magazines, a woman in the literature section, and a high school boy engrossed in a manga. It was late, near closing time.
The proprietress was an old lady sitting behind a small wooden counter with a blanket across her knees, listening to ancient pop songs on a tiny transistor radio. On her lap drowsed a half-blind tabby cat. Fumio casually made his way toward the adult magazines in the back.
The salaryman there was nervously flipping through a Lolita photobook. Fumio picked up a men’s magazine at random and opened it, secretly searching the surrounding shelves for what he’d really come here for. To his delight, he spotted two copies of Barazoku on a shelf to his right.
Just then the proprietress announced in a quavering voice that the store would be closing shortly. The other customers quickly made their purchases and left. When Fumio saw that he was alone, he snatched a copy of Barazoku and then picked up a manga on his way to the counter. The old lady silently totaled up the prices of the magazines and bagged them, no doubt completely unaware of what Barazoku was.
As soon as Fumio got home, he turned on the light and locked the door. Getting a can of beer from the refrigerator, he quickly drank down half of it to calm his nerves. Then, sitting cross-legged on the tatami, he carefully examined his copy of Barazoku.
The front cover, a tasteful drawing of a young man in profile, looked innocuous enough, while the back cover, empty but for a small arabesque design, gave even less hints about the contents within. He opened the magazine.
At the very front were several pages of photographs o
f a young man in his early twenties—a cute boy who reminded Fumio of a certain teammate in his soccer club back home. The first picture showed him in a pair of swim trunks usually worn by boys in a high school gym class. The trunks were wet—as if he’d just stepped out of the pool—and the outline of his genitals underneath could be clearly discerned. After lingering on this photo for a while, Fumio turned the page. The boy was now standing outdoors, wearing only a baseball cap, a T-shirt, and a pair of white cotton briefs.
Fumio wondered if the boy was really homosexual, or if he’d only agreed to pose for the money. The following photos showed him in various stages of undress until finally he was completely nude. Unfortunately, though, his genitals had been blacked out with what looked like magic marker, but in such a careless manner that the viewer was left with tantalizing glimpses of certain portions. To Fumio it seemed a little silly to ink out what he could see anytime he wanted to—at a public bath, in the changing room of a gym, or even in his own mirror.
The last photo showed the boy wearing only a pair of black mesh briefs…but with his penis and balls clearly visible through the large interstices of the mesh fabric. Apparently this lovely sight did not violate any censorship laws.
The next series of photos showed two men—a middle-aged one and a younger one, both of them naked in each other’s arms, kissing and having sex. But though they were posed in a variety of sexual positions, none of the photos revealed a single glimpse of their genitals. Their anuses, though, were allowed to be shown in detailed close-ups.
The rest of the magazine was divided into various sections. The first was devoted to numerous letters of a confessional type, usually describing first-time homosexual experiences. And then there were articles dealing with fashion and gay lifestyles in other countries. Following these were short stories, manga, and a serialized novel, all with gay themes.
The largest part of the magazine was devoted to a section in the middle called Rose Communications. This was a listing of men who wanted to meet other men, and was divided into geographic sections, from Hokkaido in the north, all the way down to Okinawa. The entries—about three hundred in all—were numbered, each containing a short description of the applicant, with his height, weight, and age. The men usually specified whether they wanted to meet a “younger brother” or an “older brother.” Some indicated that they didn’t want any bald men or girlish men (apparently known as “sisters.”)
Fumio read one of the entries at random, trying to picture the man who’d written it: “No. 47, Funabashi City. Mr. Lonely, 171-57-28. I am a 28-year-old civil servant, though people say I look young for my age. I enjoy sports and driving. I’m seeking an older brother who will be kind to me. I desire a serious relationship, beginning with friendship. Nearby prefecture preferred. No sisters, please. Send photo and telephone number. I will reply!”
If a reader wanted to respond, all he had to do was send a letter along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope in care of the magazine indicating the entry number he was interested in. The staff of the magazine forwarded this letter to the recipient’s address, which they kept on file for two months. In this way, each party’s privacy was protected. A standard application form was enclosed within the magazine for sending in entries. On the application form was printed the following advice: “Please reply to every letter you receive. Do not use insulting language; think about the other person’s feelings. We do not look at the contents of any letters; your secrecy is completely guaranteed. Pseudonyms are okay, but please tell your real height, weight, and age. No letters from readers under 18. No advertisements, no soliciting.”
As Fumio read on, he discovered applicants who sought international boyfriends—these entries were written in English. And there were still others—both men and women—interested in seeking marriage partners. Apparently these were people being pressured by their parents to marry, and they wanted a spouse who would help them fulfill their filial obligations while leaving them free to pursue their own sexual needs.
The last third of the magazine was given over to advertisements for bars, massage parlors, video shops, escort services, and bathhouses, all gay in orientation. Most of them were located in Tokyo, especially in the 2-chome district of Shinjuku, but there were some in such outlying places as Sendai, Kanazawa, and Okayama. Curious, Fumio checked to see if Yamagata had any gay bars, and to his surprise, discovered one in Yamagata City, the prefecture’s capital.
He reached for the pack of Mild Sevens at his feet, tapped out a cigarette and put it between his lips. His fingers, he noted with surprise, were trembling slightly. Shutting the magazine, he picked up the lighter and lit his cigarette, slowly leaning back until he was lying on the floor gazing up at the ceiling. His whole body felt charged with a mysterious secret energy. Deep in his belly a giddy fluttering made him slightly nauseous.
At last he had a guidebook to help him get in touch with that invisible race of men he’d unknowingly been seeking all along—the Rose Tribe, who lived camouflaged within Japanese society, with their own set of customs, fashions, and even language. He was not alone.
He sat up and opened the magazine to the advertisements again. A lot of them were devoted to various kinds of telephone services: sex tapes, message banks, dial Q2’s, and tele-clubs. The blurb accompanying one of the sex tape services read: “Don’t dial in unless you have a box of tissues handy!”
He picked up the phone and dialed its number. A woman’s taped voice informed him of the charges: ten yen per twelve seconds. Then, after three rings, the line was connected. Over the sounds of an indoor pool—splashing and echoing shouts—a young boy’s voice began narrating: “My name is Seiji and I’m a second-year university student in the swimming club. Every day after classes, I come to the school’s pool to practice....”
One day, he continued, he was taking a shower after practice when an upper classman on whom he had a crush came in and began showering right next to him. Seiji found himself becoming aroused, so he turned to the wall to hide his erection. The upper classman, puzzled by Seiji’s sudden shyness, gruffly lectured him about getting over his unmanly feelings of modesty. When Seiji reluctantly turned around to face him, the other boy, far from showing any disgust at the sight of the erection, came over to him. Amid the steam rising up around them, they began touching each another.
“As my excitement became more intense, I found myself slipping down to my knees....”
Fumio, worried about how much this was costing him, glanced at the clock and saw that three minutes had elapsed. Guessing that the tape would only get around to describing explicit sex after much more time had passed, he hung up.
He then tried a different telephone service called Fruit Parlor, a so-called message bank where you could record a message which would be replayed continuously throughout the day on an endless tape. Again, after a woman’s taped voice informed him of the charges, she continued in a machine-like monotone: “For Banana dial, or boy-to-girl messages, press 2 on your push-button telephone. For Peach dial, or girl-to-boy messages, press 3 on your push-button telephone. For Strawberry dial, or girl-to-girl messages, press 4 on your push-button telephone. For Cherry dial, or boy-to-boy messages, press 5 on your push-button telephone. To fast forward to the next message, press the asterisk dial. To access a message box, press—”
Fumio pressed 5 and waited for the connection. After a brief pause, a boy’s voice came on:
“Hello. My name is Toru and I’m a college student. I’m 20 years old, 175 centimeters in height and 65 kilos in weight. People tell me I’m above average in looks. I’m looking for a friend who will share my interests in music and travel. I don’t want someone who’s only after sex. If you are sincere and are seeking a long-term relationship, call my message box. That’s Box number 45. I’ll be waiting for you.”
The next message came on immediately afterwards. “Hi. I’m a 28-year-old salaryman who’s looking for a good time. I take good care of my body and am used to being complimented on i
t. My penis is 19 centimeters long, and it’s hard right now. If you want to do something about it, let’s get together tonight. I’m looking for some fun, with no strings attached. So, if you are young—aged 18 to 22—and want to meet someone who knows how to make you feel good, call my box. That’s Box number 19. I can guarantee you some real satisfaction. You won’t be disappointed. Don’t forget: Box 19.”
The next message had music in the background: “Hello again. I’m Tsutomu, from Box 82. Will Satoshi, who called my message box yesterday please return your call? The last part of your message was not clear and I couldn’t catch your telephone number. I’m interested in what you have to say. And incidentally, to all you crank callers out there, don’t leave your messages in my box. Why don’t you find another way to get your kicks? Again, Satoshi, I’ll be waiting for your call. I’ll be at home this afternoon until five o’clock. Thank you.”
Fumio listened to a few more messages before hanging up. He was amazed at the number of boys who were looking for same-sex relationships. And because this service was somewhat costly—the price being calculated by ten-second increments—they surely had to be serious about their intentions.
He next tried a tele-club. He knew that most tele-clubs were aimed at heterosexuals: a man would pay a fee to sit for an hour in a cubicle and wait for women to call in. The telephone was connected to a party line, and the first man to pick it up on the ring got a chance to talk with the woman. Apparently prostitutes sometimes used these tele-clubs to find clients, but it was said that the majority of calls were from normal women seeking sexual adventure.
The tele-clubs advertised in Barazoku were of course for homosexuals. Fumio decided it was worth a try. He dialed the number for one of them and the phone at the other end was immediately picked up.
“Hello?” The boy’s voice sounded a little out of breath, as if he had been waiting eagerly for this call.