Woe in Kabukicho

by Ellis, Madelynne

  WOE IN KABUKICHO

  Copyright © 2013 by MADELYNNE ELLIS

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  www.madelynne-ellis.com

  Author Note

  Kit reappears in the novel Enticement published by Samhain.

  WOE IN KABUKICHO

  MADELYNNE ELLIS

  Like fireflies we’re drawn to this pocket of light in the darkness. I’m borne along on a tide of chatter and fantasy. All day we’ve trawled over spreadsheets and haggled percentages in both pounds and yen. I want nothing more than to slope off to my hotel room and slide back into the dream that none of this matters. But my companions are eager for cocktails and company, and so I descend with them into this glittering fantasyland—Kabukicho by night.

  Bronze, brass and iron masks cloud the walls and gilt framed mirrors reflect the sparkles of the chandeliers in this underworld bar in Tokyo’s pleasure quarter. I take the offered menu and without opening it, ask what is good.

  “Oh, all of them,” my associates reply, bubbling with laughter. Their faces alight with cheer. “See what takes your fancy. It’s not busy. You should get your choice.”

  I open the leather bound pages, expecting to struggle with a sea of indecipherable kanji. My spoken Japanese is much better than my script. But there are few words to read. Instead, it is a book of faces.

  “Are these the chefs?” I wonder aloud.

  “The entertainment, silly. Choose one, or two or three. Taiko always has three.”

  Taiko blushes, raising her hands to hide her embarrassed smile. Most of the other women have already closed their menus, and they gather around me, watching my expression intently as I gaze at the GQ perfect, black and white photographs.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “A host bar. Go on. Choose. But not that one.” They rush past one glossy snap of a man with a beard. “That’s a woman. Definitely not your thing.”

  My gaze blurs as my tender Western sensibilities struggle with the concept of picking a companion from a book, and my seemingly old-fashioned notions of gender. Where do onabe—women with beards fit in?

  This all seems hideously taboo.

  “It’s okay.” Taiko places a gentle hand upon my arm. “He’ll just talk and pour your drinks for you. It’s nothing illicit. It’s not crude.” She smiles, a coy girlish smile with her eyes lowered. Her dark hair frames her face. “They are not gigolos. There’s no exchange of money involved. We simply pay for the drinks.”

  Her words reassure me a little, but there is still a part of me that fears what the evening ahead will bring. I’ve flown halfway around the world seeking space, not companionship. Ideally I think I’d like to drink alone. But my companions won’t hear of it. “Unwind. Live a little,” they insist. “Come on, choose.” Their girlish voices twitter around me offering insights into the men’s conversational skills and general cuteness as I flick through the pages. The images are mostly of young Japanese, boys in suits with a few rebels thrown in for variety. They are styled and perfect, all dark eyed and sultry.

  The man I settle upon is called Sky. Taiko shakes her head, but my other companions delight in my choice almost as much as in their own. That is until the men arrive. Then their attention is drawn away by the litany of compliments. Drinks are poured and light-hearted conversations about clothes, shopping and films ensue.

  Unlike the other hosts, Sky takes his time to appear. He’s different than they; I sense it as he slopes through the crowd with long easy strides. He bows before me, and I wave him into the seat at my side. I find that I like him sitting there. The grayscale picture doesn’t do him justice. He is graceful and tall. Far taller than most of the men I’ve seen today, and an outcast among them, but not due to his height. I don’t think he’s pure blooded Japanese, but rather of mixed heritage. There’s something about the shape of his eyes and angles of his jaw—heavier, sharper.

  His hair is dark, ebony shot with glints of red, and when he smiles, his eyes light with a similar mahogany tone.

  However, the first smile he gives me is not altogether honest. There’s a certain amount of tension in it. He’s assessing me, figuring out a suitable line of attack to make the night flow well.

  No compliments, I think. I’ve heard too many pointless adjectives before.

  “A drink?” His voice is low, a husky purr that entwines my senses.

  A safe start.

  “Let me pour you something you’ll like.”

  Arrogant that he thinks he knows what that will be. Nevertheless, I continue to feel curiously drawn.

  Around me, my companions are ordering champagne. Just looking at the price of a bottle gives me near heart failure. I’ve never much cared for the sensation of bubbles bursting upon my tongue, so I’m relieved when Sky returns from the bar with a cocktail.

  It’s virulent green and yet surprisingly good. Peppermint and vermouth, and likely several other things slip coolly down my throat. I shiver at the sensation but the drink puts me at ease, and I find myself smiling.

  I twirl the glass in my fingers. “It’s good. What’s it called?”

  “Woe.”

  “Woe?” I confess I was expecting something more obviously flattering like Beauty or Passion. Woe, I roll the word around my head as I sip the drink. It does taste slightly bitter, and there is a salty hint of tears.

  “It suits you,” he says.

  And I wonder how he knows, this man whom I’ve only just met. How can he tell how recent events have fallen?

  “Where are you from?” He taps his index finger to his lips, as though we’re sharing a secret.

  I guess I’m an obvious outsider, with my pale hair and accented words.

  “England.”

  I notice he’s drinking something that looks suspiciously like lemonade. Keen to keep his wits in this madhouse, I suppose.

  “On business?” His dark gaze sweeps to my companions and back. Even in their party frocks and night-time glitz they still exude the miasma of stuffy offices and corporate life.

  I pause. “Absolutely.” Let him make of that, what he will. I’m not sure myself, only that there’s more to this trip than tallying accounts. I guess it’s about escapism too. Pushing the last six months behind me. Moving on. Moving up.

  “Are you here for long?”

  “A month or two. Perhaps longer depending on how things go.” My plans are fluid, as it would seem are his. Does he imagine I’ll return? Is he calculating how much effort to put in, whether I’m going to be a worthy investment? In a sense, I feel the same way about him. What is this thing we’re sharing? It’s not a date, nor the tentative bridge building of a new friendship. Even as I laugh at his jokes, the situation feels contrived.

  Still, I can’t dislike him, or convince myself to leave. There’s something about him that draws me, something familiar that I can’t quite put my finger on. What lies beneath this polished metrosexual image, I wonder? He’s too clean, too scrubbed up and polite for me to feel entirely at ease. I want to see what he’s really like. So I sup, and I imagine him sprawled along the leather banquette on which we’re sat, feet up, legs bent, and a crumpled T-shirt stretched across his chest. The image suits him better than his high-collared shirt.

  “Does this pay well?” I ask, leaning forward
.

  “Women,” he scoffs, rolling his dark eyes. “You’re all about money. Drink. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I’m at your beck and call. Tuck your frowns away.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “You remind me of them. I’ve been looking at business suits all day. Maybe if you had a T-shirt you could change into.”

  His narrow, arched eyebrows rise. “I’ve had many requests but never that one—a T-shirt!” His grin grows broad. “Very well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll change.”

  Taiko leans over while he is gone and her slender fingers close around my wrist.

  “Doesn’t he make you happy? Have you sent him away? Tsuyoshi is wonderful, if you prefer another.”

  I reassure her, but I’m intrigued by her concern. She doesn’t like Sky. It’s clear from the way she says his name. I wonder why. Has he upset her somehow? The mystery of her dislike winds its way around my synapses, makes me drawn to him even more, perhaps because it marks him as an outsider too.

  When Sky returns, a black T-shirt stretches across his chest. The pattern is that of a girl astride a fearsome snake. The symbology is not lost on me, regardless of how I’m assured by my companions that sexual conquest is not the nature of the game. We are here to play at koi—romance, not to land upon our backs in somebody’s bed. And yet, when I glimpse the hint of pale skin and musculature as his body shifts, what I crave from him is physical contact not conversation.

  Barriers. There are always barriers. It’s what tore Gavin and myself apart. Two different worlds. Too different expectations. I shake my head and laugh. If I were at home at a bar in England, I’d be desperately trying to keep my knickers on, but here where I’m supposed to just talk, I can’t wait to take them off. I glance around at the women and hosts and I wonder if it’s always so formalized and distant. Do they ever go home together? Are there real relationships formed beyond the pouring of drinks?

  Do they kiss? Do they fuck? Get hot and sweaty? Scream in frustration and passion? Screw in shop doorways? Or do they simply crawl home to bed and lie there still yearning?

  I’m tired of yearning. I want to live.

  “Do they serve warm saké in here?” I’ve never tried it and I want to.

  Sky shakes his head when I ask. “I think it’s better you stick to supping your woe. Sake and cocktails don’t mix.”

  “Is that advice borne of experience?”

  He glances at my companions. “Perhaps, yes.”

  I concede. Still, somewhere between the third and fifth drink, woe becomes whoa and I make myself a promise. I’m not leaving until he agrees to come too. My relationship with Gavin is surely over. Simmering excitement bubbles within my chest, nullifying the lingering threads of former relationship pain. I’m past grieving and ready to move on. I crave contact and the feel of strong arms. I want to drive myself against this charming rogue, shove up his T-shirt and score my nails across his chest.

  Does he see the change in me? I think he senses it.

  My hand strays towards his neck. Is touching even allowed? A pewter pendant hangs upon a leather thong. Sky doesn’t edge away as I’ve seen one or two of the other hosts do. He just watches me with unfathomable patience as I trace the lines of this second serpent, this one with a long moustache and an even longer tail.

  I grow bold, lean in, eyes closed and breathe in his scent. Sky smells of rich sharp cologne. He closes his hand over mine and allows our fingers to link.

  Promises… promises…

  Anticipation—heat flares in my womb. I have to leave, before I make fools of us both. There are some social boundaries it’s best not to cross.

  I rise unsteadily, but Sky is there, supporting me.

  “I can’t stay,” I insist. Surely he sees the lust shining in my eyes. How I want to use him like the plaything he pretends to be. Grip his butt tight; make him stand naked in a corner like an erotic ornament that I can play with at my leisure. I want to touch and lick every inch of his skin. Having him so close just makes the desire stronger.

  “I understand,” he says.

  It takes willpower not to shove him back down against the leather and hold him there while I open his fly and dive upon his cock.

  “Not here, you understand.” He meets my gaze. Holds me there for several long seconds while his meaning sinks in.

  I swear he can read my mind.

  He strokes the ends of my flaxen hair, and lets the strands fall between his fingers. “What I do on my own time is my affair. And what you want is perfectly apparent.”

  “Seriously!” My chest expands with the rush of my indrawn breath. Oh my God! We’re actually going to fuck. My insides start to jig, and heat coils in my pussy.

  Sky’s lips curl into an uneven smile.

  “Wait,” I say. “Is this normal for you?” Suddenly my sensible head screws itself back on. What am I getting myself into? I know nothing about this man. Of course, that’s half the pleasure. “I’ve never paid for sex before.”

  “That’s good to know,” he chuckles, but his dark eyes narrow to thin black lines. “I hope you never have to.”

  Oh, God, I’ve got it all wrong and insulted him. I clap my hand across my mouth.

  “It’s okay,” his words purr across my senses. He teases my fingers away from my lips. “I understand. And no, I don’t take every woman home. Very few in fact.”

  We rise, and Taiko scowls in our direction. Is that the key to her malaise? Has he refused her in the past? She appears demure but I suspect she’s not the sort to take rejection well.

  “Champagne,” she calls, lifting her empty glass high and getting to her feet. She calls the name of a bottle from the ludicrously priced end of the list. Immediately, her cry is echoed around the room. Most of the chatter ceases and the hosts all gather around her. Sky is nudged into line with all the others, and I find myself back upon the banquette.

  A cork is popped and the resulting froth poured into a tower of crystal glasses. The men each take a glass, and offer up a song and a litany of praise.

  Taiko blushes and beams. She smiles politely at their adulation, while I watch on in mortified horror. Not only is this toe-curling schmaltz, she did it deliberately to tear Sky away from me.

  “Princess.” Each in turn they toast her and offer up bows. But she’s no Snow White.

  When Sky kneels before her, it takes her all her effort not to scowl. I swear she contemplates spitting in his face, but that would hardly be a fitting end to this procession of praise.

  “Time to go?” I ask the moment Sky reaches me.

  “Let’s walk.” He says something to the guy at the front desk before we leave, then stalks ahead of me into to the night. I clatter along behind in my heels trying to catch up, soon growing warm with the effort despite the cool breeze. The night air smells of a musky blend of candy and gasoline. The scent of noodles and chunks of tofu briefly turn my head, but there is no time to stop.

  It’s not until we’re well clear of the bar that he stops and takes my hand. A little jolt of pleasure runs up my arm at the contact. Flummoxed, I wonder if what I’m doing is absurd. It’s risky and taboo in so many ways. And I seem to have landed in the middle of a battleground.

  Despite the ungodly hour, the streets are busy and bright. Pink Lolitas crowd one corner, their girlish innocence, and frilly, pseudo-Victorian, child-like dresses seemingly out of place in this night-time world. They draw the stares of bespectacled businessmen. Rockabillies, hair swept back in an exaggerated version of 1950’s pompadour styling, occupy another corner. We walk past an area cordoned off with fluorescent yellow tape.

  The scene of a shoot out, Sky informs me. Apparently, the yakuza have less of a presence here in Kabukicho than they did in the past, but they are still around, running the odd illegal pachinko parlor.

  “Where are we going?”

  Yellow and blue lights from the countless billboards alternatively illuminate his face. “There’s a park near here. It’ll be quiet. Unless you’d prefer a seedy love hotel?”


  I shake my head, but again I doubt my sanity. We keep on walking and I don’t look back, I just hold his hand tight and allow the anticipation to trickle through my limbs.

  The park is like an enchanted garden straight out of a storybook. It’s April, and the pathways are scattered with cherry blossom. Sky takes me down to the water’s edge, and we watch the ripples the fish make as they glide below the surface.

  “I expect you think me a very naïve gaijin?” I say.

  Sky shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re naïve, and I’m an outsider myself. You realize I’m not actually Japanese.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I was born in a hamlet in North Yorkshire.” When he slips into English, I can hear the accent in his voice. His smile broadens, shows off his teeth. “You never told me where you’re from.”

  I grin in turn. “I’m not going to. If I wanted to exchange life stories, I could have stayed in the bar.”

  “So it’s purely my body you’re interested in?” He backs away a little as he delivers this tease. “Guess you’ll have to catch me then.”

  “No-ooo!” I squeal as he darts away. He peers back at me from around a tree trunk.

  “Dammit!” I slip off my shoes and swinging them from my fingers, scamper after him.

  We dodge and dart, grow breathless and red cheeked. Eventually, he dances close, and allows me the victory. I drop my shoes and shove him up against a tree.

  “Bastard,” I curse. I lean into him on tiptoes, and tease my tongue slowly along the seam of his lips. He’s resistant at first. “You’re such a tease,” I say. Gradually, he opens up to me, and lets me ravish his mouth.

  He tastes both sweet and sour. I love the fact that he lets me dominate. I rub up against his torso and gradually let my hands stray to the hem of his T-shirt, then under, circling the waistband of his trousers. I thumb across the lean muscles, working upwards, exposing his straw-coloured skin to the air. His nipples are so dark, brown like chocolate. They crinkle as I flick them with my tongue.