by Jina Bacarr
Come. The Green Houses of Yoshiwara await us.
I’d taken a kuruma to the Great Gate of the licensed quarters, pausing under the swaying willow tree at the entrance before wandering through its portal. Since the arrival of foreigners in Tokio, the rules have relaxed somewhat, and bearers with handbills bragging about the quality of the food, bedding and women are common around the entrance. I prayed the exchange of money along with the execution of a proper bow would gain me entrance to a teahouse. I had no fear about my safety since swords and daggers are forbidden within the walls of Yoshiwara (I’d left my dagger at home, hidden among my intimate garments).
I pulled down the wide-brimmed, slouch hat covering my hair and shielding my eyes, then entered the foyer of the teahouse, praying no one would look too closely at me. James had fortuitously left behind enough pieces of his wardrobe for me to fashion an outfit, though his frock coat and trousers hung loosely on me. My black riding boots completed my ensemble. Contrary to what you may believe, disguising oneself to gain entrance to the pleasure quarters is not unusual. Monks often hide their faces under large baskets made of straw since they are forbidden from entering Yoshiwara under the pain of death. They hunt not for female flesh, but for the young male actors known to frequent the brothels. (I find this idea intriguing since such activities are whispered about in London social circles, where ’tis rumored certain gentlemen officers indulge in such sport with other gentlemen.)
Sexual commerce between men and women occupied my thoughts on this night, but the concierge ignored me, welcoming native men, smiling and offering them tea. I brooded over being treated as if I were invisible, but I also watched. I shall make creative use of those observations and add to this memoir what I’ve since learned about life in Yoshiwara to increase your enjoyment of the scene. For I imagine you’ve never pointed your dainty toe inside such an establishment in the Haymarket, though I swore I’d seen you enjoying yourself at the Surrey Theatre south of the Thames. In no way do I belittle your lack of knowledge of such entertainment. Women of the British upper class live for their own amusement and I merely point out that such debauchery exists both in England and Japan. Ah, but vive la différence. In London a gentleman in search of a willing pussy may procure a guidebook peppered with such language as “…the madam is recently in receipt of creamy French pastry. She insists they are fresh and expensive and nothing in her bakery stays long enough to go stale…” In Yoshiwara a customer chooses a girl from a photograph, expressing his needs and desires to the mamasan, then enjoys being pampered by the maids, who undress him and serve him lavish food and drink until the chosen courtesan appears. But what if his purse matches the braggarts who troll the alleys of Drury Lane in London? Then he chooses a girl on display in a latticed cage smoking on her long bamboo pipe and indifferent to his stare when her kimono slips off her shoulder and she displays a bare breast as he passes by.
After an hour, frustrated, I left.
I trekked down the long street with shops and teahouses on either side and a flower garden down the middle complete with bubbling fountains and stone lanterns. I couldn’t take my eyes off the lifelike wax figures of a man and woman plucking flowers in the garden, their silent gestures evoking the feeling that time had stopped here. I continued walking, the smell of incense slipping under my nose in the guise of filmy gray clouds, its ancient allure guiding me from one teahouse to the next, while the twang of the samisen filled my ears.
Then I saw him. Shintaro. Moving quickly from one teahouse to another. Dressed all in white. White silk kimono, white leather divided trousers, white belt tied around his waist, shiny black hair tied in a topknot, trimmed dark beard emphasizing his square jaw. He had an aura about him, a nobility, and I swear his bare feet wearing wooden clogs didn’t touch the road paved with men’s broken dreams. Not his. I had no doubt any woman would untie her obi for him, including me.
I followed him into the brothel.
His striking voice drew me to him, its magnetism usurping every piercing sound of the samisen, the thin wailing of the bamboo flute, the restless sighs coming from behind closed paper doors. I followed his voice past red columns entwined with golden dragons, over the matted floor, eyeing the dark blue and green brocade on the walls, looking upward at the ceiling of mauve and violet casting cool, dark shadows everywhere.
I encountered a male servant who bade me remove my boots, then motioned for me to slip through a sliding paper door into an antechamber lit by candlelight. There I found Shintaro, sipping tea and playing with the bare breast of a beautiful girl wearing a loose pale peach kimono. He twisted her nipple, making her squeal, then pulled up her kimono, exposing her shorn pussy and inserting two fingers into her. A show of defiance that he, a samurai, chose a girl after he had inspected her. You may think him arrogant and forceful, but I saw his tenderness, his discipline under the most dire circumstances, his loyalty to his clan. Unbroken, unflinching.
Never taking my eyes off him, I lowered my voice, sputtering what I hoped were the proper words in the native language, indicating I also wished to buy her services. I had no idea what I was going to do with her once I paid for the privilege of her company when it was him I wanted.
He laughed, then said something to the girl that made her giggle. She bowed and indicated I should also inspect her. Me? Hesitating, I leaned closer and I could smell her sweat, like rose oil and straw, and a sweet fragrance I couldn’t identify. Strange, but her body tempted me in a way I hadn’t imagined, an expansion of my narrow world flowering.
I pulled my hat down lower as if to give me courage, then I began to tease her naked breasts, stroking and pinching her small hard nipples, her flesh warm and soft in my hands, knowing Shintaro was watching me. That, dear lady reader, made me squeeze my legs together and groan with need. I continued, touching her and watching him, fascinated with the deep contrast between this samurai and what I could see in the low-lit room, as if everything but him consisted of moody brushstrokes splashed against the glaring white of his kimono. He was more than flesh and blood, a mysterious coming together of muscle and form so physically perfect, I had to keep looking at him.
I caught him staring at me, his eyes searching mine, questioning me. Did he see through my disguise? Then he said something to the girl. She lay down on the white silken futon and spread her legs so I could see every inner crevice and crease of her pussy, the folds glistening with moistness, a sweet-smelling scent similar to my own overwhelming me, its familiar fragrance setting off a different response in me. I wanted to see what I couldn’t see when I inserted the dildo inside me. So curious was I, I sat down upon my knees and inserted my fingers into her, probing her until I felt a hard bud, shaped like a tiny acorn it was, throbbing and wet. I stoked her clit gently at first, than harder, harder until she twitched against my fingers, moaning over and over…I kept my fingers inside her, delight shivering through me to be privy to such a sight, her clit hard like a sainted stone it was, and me gawking at the very thing that gave me so much pleasure quivering before my eyes. I gasped so loudly when her pussy gripped my fingers in a sudden spasm it was almost a cry, my lips trembling, my shoulders shaking. Shintaro put his strong hands firmly on my arms, holding me, speaking to me, telling me to slow down, then he said something I didn’t understand nor did I care, the warmth of his breath on my bare neck sending a shudder of excitement through me, his tenderness of touch bringing a mistiness to my eyes. I had waited so long for this moment…so long I became lost in his touch, dreaming of more…I had but to linger a moment and he absorbed me completely.
When he spoke, the parameters of the scene shifted, taking on an improvisational, even spontaneous, spirit. As if he welcomed my presence as a gift from the gods and he wasn’t going to turn his back on them. I should have run from the brothel, but that’s not how it was with Shintaro. I can look back now and understand the restlessness about him, the wildness that claimed us both that night, for I came to Yoshiwara looking for him and if I’ve shocked you, so I have. I’d
heard fragments of conversation at court that samurai had been meeting secretly at brothels in the pleasure quarters. A plan formed in my mind as fertile as a field of blooming shamrocks when earlier this evening I dressed in men’s clothes then slipped out of the house when it was dark and I was certain the man James had following me had left his post.
Whatever the consequences, I cared not. My need for my samurai was ruled by my intense hunger for him, my fantasies, my dreams. Only one man could tame that hunger and satisfy the bedeviled itch in my pussy.
Shintaro.
Two maids removed his clothes while the courtesan changed her kimono and called for a young geisha to play the samisen. Simouyé. I recall her with great clarity because of her sophistication for one so young, her back straight, her bearing elegant and refined. Shintaro smiled at her and a twinge of jealousy coursed through me as if he knew her intimately. I found out later I was wrong, since geisha do not sleep with their customers.
Standing between the two maids, Shintaro seemed impossibly tall and suggestive less of a man than of a mythical breed of warrior. Jagged scars studded his nude torso, the pigment of time healing them, giving them the distinction of a lighter tone in certain places on his chest, his thighs, as if each cut from the sword inscribed an element of his character on his warrior’s body. And his cock. Broad, hard, wicked. The way he stood, hands on his hips, feet spread apart, I could see how proud he was to show off both his scars and his magnificent cock. How could I resist him when he spoke to me? Refuse the young maids intent to peel off my disguise, giggling, hiding their mouths with their hands, bowing? Each word from his lips was a swirl of curling resonance smothering my resistance with the promise of what I wanted, needed.
Him.
The moment the maid pulled off my hat and my blond hair tumbled down my back in long waves, I detected a prevailing sense of both alienation and freedom, anger and passion. Shintaro grabbed his cock, startled, grunting, muttering words so quickly I couldn’t grasp them. He’d never seen my hair loose, its golden color heightened I imagine by the riotous lighting coming from the burning candles and oil lamps behind me. His reaction frightened me, impassioned me, left me aching to understand what he was saying, Why was he acting like this? As if he didn’t know me until he saw my hair. I would have my answer later at the samurai village, but for now this mood I felt down to my bones was less palpable than the apprehension surging through me. A spicy incense smoldering in a bronze andon overwhelmed me, its fragrance sweetly pungent like sex, while the soulful notes from the samisen filled my ears and small white hands with translucent nails plucked at my coat, vest, untying my black cravat, unhooking the braces holding up my trousers, unbuttoning my shirt…the palms of their hands soft, curious, removing my clothes, touching me, until I stood nude under the dim light. I felt no embarrassment, only desire. I didn’t resist when the maid removed a warm, moist cloth from a closed woven basket and washed me as if creating a unique harmony between my body and Shintaro’s as the other maid washed his chest, loins and cock with gentle strokes. I wished I were the cloth, pressing against him, licking the salt from his skin, wrapping my lips around his cock, my belly growing tight and hot. I moaned deep in my throat when the maid drew the coarse fibers over my hard nipples, taunting me, then lower, the warm cloth moving over my buttocks, in my anal hole and through my legs and into my pussy.
I looked into Shintaro’s eyes, approving, wanting, and my skin burned, then in the next instant I shivered, the promise of a red silk kimono offered to me to cover my nakedness heightening my desire for this insanity to continue. I questioned if my samurai would show toward me an extension of his reverence for the traditional rituals of Yoshiwara, yet knowing his warrior status dictated he lived life by his own code. I wondered what naughty games he played…
Bowing, the maids slipped flowing red silk kimonos over us, but left them untied so we could gaze upon each other’s nude polished bodies, our hunger for each other so ripe, our desire so strong, the tension between us was maddening. I wasn’t afraid. I could do nothing but surrender to him.
What happened next, dear lady reader, is one of the best-kept secrets in Yoshiwara, a tale never told until now, the players in this drama following the native tradition of denying or ignoring anything uncomfortable or unpleasant, but I shall personalize the event as it unfolded. I swear ’tis true: on this evening, this powerful samurai, that rare man with the resolve to do anything to uphold his moral code, a man with the courage to do battle with the corrupt officials at the Imperial Court, ordered the gorgeous courtesan to leave—along with her two maids, the geisha and male servant—and not to return until morning.
We were alone.
The night I’d been dreaming of began.
We drank sake in small porcelain cups, me filling his cup, then him filling mine, both of us interacting in a rich, sensuous and cerebral ritual that was but a prelude to what happened next. I pray you will forgive me for the lack of words between us—we barely spoke, our need for each other so evident in our eyes. Intense longing swelled within me, but we didn’t kiss, since such playfulness was considered the tool of the courtesan. I sipped the warm rice wine, relaxing as he stroked me with a rare degree of concentration and sensitivity to my needs, taking time to play with my nipples, a moment so sensuous I thought I could never put a cup to my lips again without his fingers pinching my brown buds. Rolling his thumbs over my hard peaks then pulling on them, making me squirm, and manipulating them with the same care I would later discover he showed toward testing the sharpness of his blade.
I remained still when he massaged my earlobes then my breasts with an oil I recognized as jasmine, its lightness and delicate fragrance luring my senses with a promise yet to come. He rubbed it between my legs and around my throbbing pussy lips, delighting in teasing me, then he poured oil into my cupped palm, indicating I should drip oil on the head of his cock. I nodded then carefully rubbed it on the sensitive underside, then he pulled me closer, whispering to me. I followed where his eyes told me to go on his broad chest, his thighs, his cock, our bodies heating up as we teased each other, emitting sweat scented with a veiled fragrance.
The air dragged heavy with our body heat, his mood softening, mine becoming feverish. Throats parched, I poured more sake for him and he brought it to his lips, watching me. He drank greedily, the wine drizzling down the sides of his mouth, then he eyed me across the cup, waiting for me to drink the wine he poured for me. Teasing, wanting, I, too, drank quickly, eager to see what would happen next, when he surprised me by snapping open a large gold fan. Playful, laughing, fanning himself as samurai do in a society where the art of being cool is genderless. I leaned in closer, offering my breasts for his touch. His eyes widened, then he rubbed my nipples with the fan, stinging them in a pleasant manner. I threw my head back, moaning, enjoying the sensation, wanting more. Giddy from the effects of the sake, I grabbed his fan and danced around him, slapping it across my buttocks, then rippling it over my pussy and teasing him mercilessly until he could bear no more. Speaking to me in a firm tone, he bade me lie down upon the silky white futon while he placed a pillow covered with shimmering gold silk under my head, its coolness soothing my flaming cheeks.
The real pleasure came when he parted my thighs and leaned over me, taking his time to observe me with a quality about him that transcended warrior and Occidental, but with a poetic sensitivity of the man himself. I jumped when he pulled on the light-colored hair on my pubic mound as if he were tugging on the strings of a lute, grinning at finding them so fine and silky yet wiry. I smiled back, then a daring idea came to me, inspired by a song I’d read about in the native works translated for me. Without shyness, I plucked three hairs from my pussy and presented them to him as a souvenir.
He laughed and I felt privileged to see a rare glimpse of emotion when his eyes softened, then he took my pubic hairs and wrapped them in a piece of red silk before sliding his fingers into me. It sets my teeth on edge as I write, thinking about his f
ingers probing me and though he found me tight, his touch intimate, he didn’t stop, but kept going, exploring without trepidation my burning clit, rubbing it back and forth, bending both his need and my desire to fulfill the passion etched on his face. I sighed when his fingers skimmed down lower to that piece of skin where pleasure rises to such heights I cannot explain it and probed at the tightness of my anus twitching and begging for penetration. I’d discovered this exquisite joy on my own, but it couldn’t compare to the intense erotic feelings it inspired in me when Shintaro used his tongue around my inner rim, then inserted his finger lubricated with a sweet-smelling oil into my anal hole. I experienced such intense sensations I buried my face into the silk futon, panting and gasping for breath. Be mindful, dear lady reader, that whatever words I write, whatever soft, sensual phrases I use, I cannot teach you the mysteries of the Orient if you do not let go of your aristocratic attitudes and insert your finger, a hairpin, a dildo, anything inside you to arouse you beyond words.
I existed only for this moment and what he gave me to drink heightened the feeling when he attempted to ease his way into me, my body resisting, but I was hot and wet. I raised up my hips to give him easier access to me, to thrust his cock into me. I kept repeating dōzo…please…him crouching between my legs…me panting, sweating…him grunting furiously and grabbing at my thighs…me pounding the futon with my fists when he slid his cock deep into me, my body raw and hurting when he broke through my virginal wall, but I didn’t want him to stop. I had waited so long for this moment, this tearing of flesh to unite flesh, my body convulsing with utter pleasure, ignoring the pain as much as I could, hot tears stinging my eyes, but I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t. What thoughts he had he closely guarded, as was his way. He showed me a deference I would not have expected, his voice reassuring as he slid his hands up over my rib cage and turned his attention back to my nipples, his touch meant to reassure me, his fingers twisting and teasing the engorged tips to stimulate me, to ease my journey. I placed my hands over his, holding them tight, letting him know I didn’t want him to stop. Deep inside my pussy began to contract, sucking his cock into me as wave after wave of pleasure claimed me, driving away the pain. It was only then I could look into his dark, brooding eyes. I saw a tenderness I never expected, for the meaning was clear without the barrier of words. What I saw was the promise of enchanted days and nights to come.