by Lacy Danes
“Let’s get ready to rrrrrumble…” I said, twirling my Rs like a professional ring announcer.
The nude man watching me grinned, then joined me on the bed, which was square-shaped like a boxing ring with ropes and stanchions. I reached back and grabbed onto the golden ropes surrounding the bed, parting my lips in anticipation and surrendering myself to the expertise of his bare hands.
They were everywhere at once, caressing and stroking me, sliding over my thighs, then gently untying the thin silk belt holding together my short red kimono. I tightened my stomach, taut muscles straining while I pulled on the golden cords. Tingling, gripped with a hunger for his touch, I pulled harder. He sensed my need and rubbed his palms against my hard nipples, sending me into a dizzying spiral, somewhere, everywhere. I loved the feeling. I wanted more.
“Ready for the next round?” he whispered, never letting up with his hands.
“Yes…yes!” I cried out.
Kissing, fondling, massaging all over my body, this was only the beginning of the game. A game that rocked my world and sent me to new heights of sights, sounds and smells, not to mention great sex.
It was called the love hotel.
I learned about the intimacy and excitement of the love hotel on an extended business trip to Japan. It was a typical can-the-Nikkei-go-any-higher day Americans working in the Land of the Rising Sun know all too well. After a long morning of “yen highs and dollar lows,” Steve, a tall, ruggedly handsome American co-worker I’d met on my first day in Tokyo, suggested we go out to lunch.
Why not? I needed a break. Working for a big advertising company handling talent for Japanese commercials wasn’t all glam. Did you see Lost in Translation? Then you know what I mean. I was the liaison between the actor who wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-in-his-skivvies-on-American-TV-but-in-Japan-anything-goes and the Japanese director with the hard-on for every blond ingenue I sent his way.
Speaking of hard-ons…
I noticed Steve eyeing my rear when he thought I wasn’t looking. I returned the favor. The man had a set of buns that made my sex-o-meter soar up higher than the Nikkei. Here was a man who knew women admired him, and understood all too well the raw lust in my eyes. I welcomed him being the object of my imaginings, and by the time he brushed up against my breasts and promptly uttered, “Excuse me,” my body was yearning with the most delicious hunger, my pussy wet and ready, begging for satisfaction.
Arm in arm, we headed out to lunch, leaving the office behind. It had been a difficult morning; the Japanese director was upset because he hadn’t been advised of a change in the shooting schedule to accommodate the lead actor’s request to go deep-sea fishing in Thailand. His long, straight black hair flying around his face, his eyes blazing behind his dark glasses, he had ranted on for an hour, frightening the young OL or Office Lady who worked for me.
Enter Steve, calming him down and giving me pointers on how to deal with him. Standing close to me, his hot breath on my neck making me shiver with a pleasant tremor that extended down to my pink-polished toes, he had explained the director was behaving in a manner expected of him to save face, similar to the way Japanese workers scurried around the office, always in a hurry even if they weren’t. Giving the appearance of urgency, he said, was an important tradition in a Japanese office.
Steve was a veteran adman, having lived in Japan for several years, and he knew how to handle the difficulties of the job. But what impressed me more was that he took the time to help me. I’d always considered what I did in my job an art—coordinating the production, being on location during the shoot, then following through with postproduction. Steve helped me take it one step further by showing me how to break down the barriers I’d faced since coming to Japan. I respected him, but I was also wildly attracted to him. Did he feel the same way about me? Although he was gaijin, foreigner, as I was, he followed the ways of the Japanese. Taking his time, not acting on impulse, conferring with the team before making a decision. Did he also follow their ways in the art of love?
Was he unattainable?
I was determined to find out.
Light perspiration dampened my white, sheer silk blouse and a sweet smell wafted up from between my legs. I took a sniff and a scent of another kind made my heart beat faster. A pleasant musky smell, the scent of a man, so unlike the rose menthol odor all the rage among the men in my Tokyo office. It came from a gum that made them smell like roses after they chewed it. Seemed Japanese women preferred men who smelled like an indoor flower garden. I, on the other hand, favored raw male pheromones to rev up my libido. And Steve’s did the job to the max.
He sensed my hunger and smiled. “You smell good,” he said, taking a whiff of my hair.
“So do you.”
He grinned, then gave a playful tug on my long strands. “We’ll continue this discussion at lunch, if you’re game.”
“I am. By the way,” I said, baiting him with a verbal hook, “I’ve noticed the Japanese are great game players.” I referred to their obsession with video games and pachinko, a noisy pinball game. I pushed out my breasts, then wet my lips with my tongue. “I’m curious to find out what kind of player you are.”
“Don’t worry,” he teased. “You will.”
I smiled, aware that the mere suggestion of becoming intimate with him ignited a flicker of pleasure low in my belly.
Once outside in the cool air, I tried to quell the slow fire building within me, but the closeness of Steve’s body pressed up against mine made my temperature rise. We stood huddled together under my umbrella to keep out of the rain. A soft, steady, dewy rain that rolled off my umbrella and fell at my feet like silky, liquid petals.
The rain didn’t stop the Japanese from crowding the streets, I noticed, though it wasn’t all salarymen and OLs rushing out for a quick lunch. I saw Goth girls in their black garb vamping through rain puddles with their huge black and white polka-dotted umbrellas, as well as tough-looking guys with auburn-dyed hair wearing square-toed boots and long black jackets that extended down over their hips. I drew in my breath when I observed a beautiful woman in a mauve kimono with delicate white blossoms embroidered on her obi or sash, text messaging on her cell phone as she got into a limo. A geisha? I wondered. Her presence reminded me I was living in a land of make-believe, where nothing was what it seemed.
Though I found Tokyo intoxicating, it made my head spin as I tried to traverse my way through a world so foreign, a world where anything goes: from pulsing neon lights everywhere to heated toilet seats to the vivid colors of Kabuki and men playing women’s roles.
I also had to deal with Japanese co-workers who nodded their heads and said, “Hai, yes,” when what they really meant was, “I understand.” A polite way of saying “no.” Showing what they called tatemae, face, instead of honne, their real feelings. The Japanese have a saying, “Face is more powerful than money.” To the Japanese, yes. For me, trying to live and work in a culture I didn’t understand was making me lonely.
Very lonely.
And Steve was just the magic pill I needed. I could already taste him on my tongue. Hot and salty. I imagined my lips and tongue working along his shaft, sucking on him, around the head, my tongue diving into the little hole on top, before bringing him to a climax as pleasure overtook him. My daydream made me hot and wet, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted Steve.
I hungered for his strong body and firm touch, his arms holding me, his cock driving again and again into my tight pussy. I’d been too long without sex, busy with twelve-hour days casting actors, consulting with legal regarding the contracts, getting the proper filming permits, checking with post to make sure they’d have the spot sweetened with music in time to give to the client on the pre-arranged date. Hectic, exhausting work with no time for play. A lunch date was exactly what I needed to rev up my energy.
Tired and wet, we sat down on stools in a tiny shop and ordered a typical Japanese lunch of soba noodles. While we ate the noodles with chopsticks, I made eve
ry attempt to keep my mind on business as we discussed tomorrow’s shooting schedule for a genki, energy drink, commercial. When I asked Steve his opinion about the location of the shoot, he smiled.
“The Tsukiji fish market is my favorite place in Tokyo,” he said, slurping his soup, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth. “Slick, wet, and it smells of the sea.”
Smiling, I nodded. The sexual innuendo of his answer wasn’t lost on me. Open at 5:00 a.m., the famous fish market was abuzz with flatbed carts zooming from one end to the other with their wayward drivers shouting everyone out of the way as they skidded across floors slippery with chunks of ice. Meanwhile, sharp-eyed restaurateurs elbowed each other through the narrow walkways lined with fresh seafood, vying for the best pick. A colorful place to showcase the product.
“Ever find a mermaid among the bluefin tuna?” I asked, referring to the local fish used in sashimi.
He grinned. I loved his smile. “Not yet. But there’s always a first time.” Then he was all business, sketching the layout of the market on his napkin and showing me how his Japanese crew would set up the shot. “We’ll sit the pretty model in a rickshaw carting a three-hundred-pound tuna, then shoot the actor sipping the energy drink as he pulls the two-wheeled conveyance.”
“Sitting on top of the tuna?” I asked, studying Steve’s drawing showing the rickshaw hooked up to a truck off camera to give the illusion the actor pumped with caffeine and vitamins was pulling it.
“You’d rather be on the bottom?” he asked.
“No, I mean, I…she…” I said, stuttering. A flush of heat came over me, a sensation that made me feel awkward, knowing he could probably read my sexy thoughts. He knew we’d hired a popular Asian actress to do the spot with the American actor, but I didn’t mind him teasing me. In fact, I rather liked it. Recovering my composure, I said, “That sounds perfect.”
“Yes, perfect.” I looked up at his absent tone. His eyes were riveted on the pointy outline of my nipples molded against the transparency of my rain-soaked, white blouse. The look on his face made me shake with excitement. His comment restored my confidence and made me daring.
So, he wanted to play.
With a naughty twinkle in my eye, I picked up a noodle with my chopsticks and dropped it between my breasts. His eyes never leaving mine, Steve picked up the noodle with the tip of his chopsticks and ate it. I wiped the perspiration from my bottom lip. The soup was hot, but I was hotter.
“Do you always take what you want?” I asked.
“Always. Though I also enjoy following the customs of Yoshiwara when I want to impress a woman.”
“Yoshiwara?” I repeated, trying to grab another noodle with my chopsticks. “What’s that?”
“The old pleasure quarters.” Steve explained that prostitution had been legal in Japan until the 1950s. “The ladies who inhabited the brothel had a hierarchy, a caste system,” he continued, “where the most expensive courtesan had the luxury of choosing whether or not she wished to entertain a customer.”
“Even if he was paying?” I splashed my chopsticks around in my soup. Damn, all the noodles were too short for an encore performance.
“Yes,” Steve said, noting my flailing chopsticks splattering broth down my cleavage. Was that a twinkle in his eye I saw, as if he enjoyed my frustration? “A man had to impress her with his style. He made many visits to the brothel, and even then he couldn’t be sure he would make love to her.”
“What did they do during these visits?” I had to ask.
“He’d drink with her or give her poems. If he was successful in his quest, he’d share a pipe with her.”
From the corner of my eye I saw him squeeze his wooden chopsticks so hard he broke them in two. I lowered my eyes and chewed on the end of my thumb before asking in a low voice I hoped was dark and husky, “What kind of pipe?”
“Long and hard,” he said without missing a beat.
“Mmm…” I licked my lips. My eyes never leaving his, I imprinted my pink lipstick on my napkin then set it down beside him. Grinning, he poked his chopstick through my paper lips then simulated pushing it in and out of my mouth.
I choked, anticipation making me breathe harder. “What happened next?”
“The courtesan disrobed behind a screen, removing her kimono, her numerous undergarments, and her sash—cords snapping, silk rustling—driving the man crazy with erotic sounds as her garments came off, one at a time.”
“Sounds intriguing,” I said, choosing my next words with care. “Like the sound of a zipper going down in the dark.”
He smiled, but not before scanning my blouse and skirt.
Looking for zippers? my eyes asked him.
He matched my stare, his dark eyes challenging me. I lowered my gaze. I wasn’t ready to let him know how much I wanted him. Not yet.
I slurped up the last of the juicy noodle soup as I’d seen my co-workers do, then I was careful to arrange the chopsticks across the bowl in the proper manner to avoid offending the shop owner. Smiling, Steve complimented me on my ability to pick up Japanese traditions so quickly.
“I love Japan,” I said, “and everything about it. The cherry blossoms, the temples, the geisha—”
“Did you know geisha don’t wear panties?” he asked.
I stared at him, but said nothing. I wasn’t about to ask him how he knew what geisha wore under their kimonos, but that didn’t stop him from slipping his hand under the counter and running his fingers up and down the inside of my thigh. Was he wondering if I wore panties? I’d heard about the no-pan kissa, bottomless coffee shops, popular in Japan but I hadn’t seen them. I let out a soft moan as he stroked my skin, then tugged on my panties as I hoped he would, though he didn’t push his fingers underneath my cotton crotch. I sighed, wishing I had gone commando.
I stared glumly at the empty soup bowl. What was I going to do? Have sex with him under the table? Yet it wasn’t just sex I wanted, but something more. He exuded competence and trustworthiness, something I’d noticed was also characteristic of Japanese workers, something I admired. I felt such a closeness to him. Maybe it was the romance of the rain, the pleasant odors of steaming soup, the fatigue of overwork, even that feeling of camaraderie that overtakes you when you’re far away from home and you meet a fellow countryman. Whatever it was, his touch was magic. And I wanted him.
But it wasn’t possible. Not when we had such an important shoot tomorrow morning. No doubt I’d be working in the office until at least midnight, then I had an early morning call. No time for a date, even if he asked me. Or as I’d heard the Japanese say many times during a meeting when they didn’t want to agree with you, “That would be difficult….”
Yearning to let go, my whole body screaming for him, I was grateful when Steve removed his hand from under my skirt and changed the subject. We discussed the shoot tomorrow and how he had talked the energy drink client into going beyond pairing up the Japander, what we called well-known foreign actors who did commercials in Japan, with cartoon characters. The beautiful Chinese actress would be a welcome change, compared to the talking ham the actor had shared a bed with in the last spot.
“Speaking of bed,” Steve said, again turning on that twinkle in his eye I was beginning to know so well. “We could move our afternoon meeting from the boardroom into the bedroom,” he suggested, squeezing my leg.
“What did you say?” I asked, squirming in my seat, aching for him to slide his hand back up my thigh and push his fingers under my panties. He didn’t, frustrating me more.
“We could go to a hotel.” Straight face, no snickering, though I noticed his dark eyes crawling slowly over me.
I couldn’t stop looking at him, though my emotions, no, dammit, my raging libido made me too unsettled to speak. Was he crazy? We couldn’t go to my hotel—I shared a room with another girl from the office—and he bunked in the company-paid bachelors’ dormitory. No women allowed past the welcome mat.
“The only cheap hotels in Tokyo are capsule
hotels,” I said, casting him a questioning glance. Overnight plastic cubicles stacked on top of each other. Men only, as a rule, sans tattoos to dissuade the local yakuza, mobsters, from using their facilities.
What about tattooed Westerners? I wondered, rocking my buttocks back and forth on the hard wooden bench as if to rub off the fleur-de-lis tattoo on my left buttock. I’d taken the plunge on my last trip to Hong Kong and visited a tattoo parlor. I giggled, curious how Steve would react if he saw it. The capsule hotels were completely private, but so small you could only lie on your back. Interesting, but too confining for what I had in mind. I’d been eyeing the brown-ribbed cowhide belt Steve wore around his trim waist, and couldn’t stop imagining the kiss of leather on my bare ass. I wasn’t into S and M, but too many late nights watching Japanese game shows featuring playful bondage and half-naked men wielding black latex whips had made me curious. If not horny.
Seeing my turned-on expression, he laughed. “C’mon, I’m going to show you the Japan most tourists never see.” He grabbed my hand, pulled me out of the noodle shop and across the street to his parked car, talking as we went. “We’re going up the hill to a rabuho.”
“Did you say rabbit hole?” I asked. “As in Alice peering through the looking glass?” I bounced that off my list of well-known Tokyo watering holes and came up empty. What manga fantasy was he into? The only rabbit I was on a first-name basis with had a rotating shaft with plastic pearls inside that made a snap-crackle-and-pop sound when I used it. Attached to the shaft was a little bunny, whose ears flicked and vibrated my clit with orgiastic delight.
“No, that’s Japanese for love hotel.”
“Love hotel?”
“Yes, though they’re often called boutique or fashion hotels. Back in the days of old Japan, they were called deai chaya, tea houses, where lovers went for a tryst.”