First Time Femme

by D. L. Savage

  “Friends?” she grinned, holding out her arms for a hug.

  “Friends,” I smiled back, glad that at least she hadn’t run a mile, as we both hugged tightly.

  “Let’s hang out again soon,” she added, giving me a final warm squeeze before heading off to her bus stop, leaving me standing woozily on the corner of the busy street, my head spinning and reeling from what’d just happened, the buzz of alcohol still rushing through my veins.

  I knew deep down I should probably head home. After all, that crappy article I was working on wouldn’t write itself. But at the same time, after everything that had just happened, I felt like I needed one last drink.

  And that’s when the mysterious Pink Box fluttered back into my thoughts ...

  2

  As I weaved through the busy crowds of drunken late-night revelers, people spilling out of the many cafés and convenience stores, I wondered if I was really going to go back to that strange place.

  Yet even as I deliberated, it felt like my feet were carrying me of their own accord, my body working on autopilot, no doubt aided by the beer and tequila shots sloshing around inside me.

  I'd never done anything like this before - never visited a strip club or lap dance place – and while I wasn’t much of a hit with the ladies at the best of times, I’d definitely never considered paying for sex. I knew on some level that it was demeaning for women and that the kinds of girls who usually worked in these kind of places probably couldn't find any other sort of work and were doing it out of necessity rather than because they actually enjoyed it.

  Yet at the same time, it’d been so damn long since I’d last had any kind of positive attention from a member of the opposite sex, plowing all my time and energy into trying to make something happen with Ellie (and look where that’d gotten me), so I couldn’t help but feel a little intrigued and even turned on about the idea of going inside and finding out more ...

  I reached the entrance to the mall and made my way toward the stairwell, climbing back up to the third floor and weaving through the maze-like corridors all over again until I finally turned the corner and caught another tantalizing glimpse of that bright pink sign. As I stared at it, I felt the blood charge in my veins and just I knew deep down that I was going inside.

  My heart began to thud as I approached, a cold sweat prickling out across my skin and as I reached doorway and pushed the buzzer just like those businessmen had done.

  A moment later the door slid open and once again I caught a tantalizing glimpse inside: at the mirrored walls and flashing lights. And this time, I saw girls too –four cute Japanese girls, each dressed in a different costume. One was an air stewardess, another was a sexy schoolgirl, and another was ...

  But just then my vision was blocked by the sight of that elegant older woman as she moved sternly into the doorway, staring down at me with a cold, unwelcoming expression, before barking something at me in quick, angry-sounding Japanese.

  “Do you ... Do you speak English?” I stammered in reply, cursing myself for never taking Ellie up on the offer of those free Japanese lessons.

  “No Westerners,” she spat back, shaking her head then quickly sliding the door closed.

  I let out a sigh of frustration, my night turning from bad to worse. Did I really look so pathetic that I wasn’t even welcome inside a strip club?

  And so, feeling totally and utterly sorry for myself, I turned around and headed home ...

  * * *

  The next morning, I woke up and winced in pain – not just from my pounding hangover but also from the memory of attempting to kiss Ellie; in particular the way her pretty face had flashed with horror as she’d realized what I was trying to do.

  I reached out and grabbed my cellphone from where it lay charging on my nightstand, unplugging it and looking at the display. 11:17am.

  I groaned, trying to work up the energy and enthusiasm to push myself out of bed, grab a shower and then finish off my latest job: an article so trashy and clickbaity it barely even qualified as journalism, and definitely not the kind of thing I’d pictured myself writing when I first graduated from college.

  But instead of getting out of bed and starting my day, I instead found myself opening up Google and typing in the two words that were still nagging at my brain: pink box ...

  Almost instantaneously the search results populated the screen, and my eyes widened in surprise as I began to read on. Because it turned out that ‘pink box’ clubs were a well-known thing in Japan.

  And while they weren't exactly strip clubs or lap dancing places like I’d imagined, they weren’t brothels in the regular sense of the word either. Instead, it seemed that they were fetish clubs, specifically designed for men to act out their wildest fantasies – all the things they could never do in real life.

  For example, a common scenario was that a dude could walk onto a realistic-looking subway car filled with hot women, and he was freely allowed to go about groping them to his heart’s content for an allotted time span. Airplane-themed rooms were also pretty common, as were school rooms, cafes, even beauty salons – which totally made sense of all the costumes that the girls inside had been wearing ...

  Again I felt my blood charge with excitement. Because this actually sounded better than some regular sleazy strip club. The thought of going into a place where I could feel up hot chicks with no real-world repercussions had me more turned on that I cared to admit.

  But I felt a fresh pang of frustration too, because as I read further, it became clear that Pink Boxes were specifically a Japanese thing – no Westerners allowed – just like that strict older woman at the door had said.

  It made sense that a pink box club had opened up in my city, seeing as there was such a burgeoning Japanese population here, what with the language schools that were opening left right and center, and the amount of kids that were being sent over from wealthy Japanese families to study at them.

  And while I couldn’t be sure, it felt like this club was the very first of its kind – not just in the city but in the whole western world, too, and I quickly felt something else kicking in: my journalistic Spidey-sense.

  After all, my old journalism tutor had always said that sex sells, and I just knew that if I wrote up a long-form piece on this underground Pink Box culture – complete with an interview with a girl who worked there perhaps – I might finally get my big break, moving up a league from the crappy freelance listicles that I was currently putting my name to.

  Before I even knew what I was doing, I’d swiped over to contacts, hitting Ellie’s number excitedly and pressing the phone to my ear.

  IT was only as it started ringing that I remembered things might still be a little awkward between us after last night, but to my relief when she picked up the phone she sounded totally normal and friendly: “Hey Danny, what’s up?”

  “I have a favor to ask you,” I replied. “It’s kinda weird, but you remember that Pink Box place we saw?”

  “You mean the weird sleazy bar?”

  “Exactly. Well you need to look up pink box clubs online – it turns out they’re even more fucked up than we first suspected, and I’ve decided I wanna write an article on them ... Which is where you come in. You think you could maybe ask around at the language school, see if you can find someone who’s maybe been to one or at least knows someone who has?”

  “I can try,” she replied, “but I wouldn’t get your hopes up ...”

  As we finished up the call I felt glad that we hadn’t acknowledged the awkward thing that’d happened, and it seemed like we really could still be friends after all.

  I set down my phone, then let out another groan of frustration, knowing that I’d put my work off long enough, and until Ellie came through for me I’d have to get back to my latest article, the scintillatingly titled Thirteen Things To Do With Your Life Now That Game of Thrones Has Ended ...

  3

  About a week or so later, I received a message out of the blue from Ellie: I might hav
e found someone for your article.

  As I read it I felt a rush of excitement, even relief. Because ever since I’d found out about the Pink Box clubs, I’d been fixated on the idea of pitching an in-depth journalistic expose to somewhere big like Vice, hell, maybe even the New Yorker, and I felt pumped that my journalistic break was finally getting underway.

  I arranged to meet Ellie and the person she’d lined up for me at a bar we often hung out at in Chinatown called The Lotus Flower. For some reason, I’d imagined that my interview subject would be a dude –some shy kid like myself who for whatever reason had ended up visiting the club one night – but as I arrived at the bar, to my surprise Ellie was already there, sitting with a strikingly beautiful Japanese girl with long straight black hair and pale flawless skin, dressed in everyday college kid clothes (just skinny blue jeans and a navy sweater).

  I gave them both a friendly wave as I approached, and Ellie waved back, while the mysterious girl just shot me a nervous, tight-lipped smile.

  “Danny, this is Sayaka,” Ellie said, as I sat down to join them. “Sayaka, Danny.”

  “Hey,” I grinned at her, and she just nodded back at me.

  “She doesn’t speak much English,” Ellie explained, “so I’ll be translating.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, feeling my thoughts freeze up for a moment.

  “Here,” Ellie grinned, pushing a cup of saké in my direction. “This might help you relax.”

  I picked it up and took a long sip, trying to summon my confidence.

  And to my relief, I felt myself snapping into serious reporter mode, setting down the cup and grabbing my cellphone from my pocket then turning it onto voice record mode. “Does she mind if I tape the interview?” I said.

  I waited while Ellie asked the question in brisk Japanese, then Sayaka shot me another tiny smile, nodding her head politely.

  “So ...” I began, hitting record on the app, “what experience do you have of the Pink Box club?”

  I knew it was kind of a lame opening question, but I felt nervous and on the spot, and I just wanted to try and get some kind of dialogue going.

  Again I waited for Ellie to translate my question, then watched as Sayaka outright giggled, covering her mouth with her hand in the way Japanese girls often did so their teeth didn’t show, before muttering something to Ellie.

  “She’s been working there part time for the last five months,” Ellie explained.

  Holy shit, I thought. She just so angelic, so innocent and the idea that random drunk dudes could wander in off the street and grope someone like her seemed insane somehow. But I guess that was the whole point ...

  “Can you ask how she got started?” I persisted, again waiting while the two girls chatted back and forth for a minute or so, before Sayaka fell silent once again.

  “She said that she came here to study English,” Ellie explained, “and heard about the job through a friend of a friend - a way to make a little extra spending money. But now she works at the pink box full time, it pays so well and she never continued her studies. Her folks in Osaka think she’s studying and the club has a special alibi phone line set up, to cover for the girls.”

  I shook my head, unable to believe how crazy this place was – even more insane that I could have ever imagined. And I had to fight off a smile as I imagined all those journal editors clamoring for the amazing article I was gonna write once I was finished.

  “So how many girls work there?” I asked, impatiently waiting for the translation to come through.

  “There’s maybe a hundred girls currently working there in total,” Ellie said eventually. “But around twenty on any given night. There’s various rooms, too – to accommodate for the different scenarios the club offers ...”

  I sucked in a deep breath, looking first at Ellie then at Sayaka, before throwing caution to the wind and asking the question I’d been building up to: “Is there any way I can come and see how it works first hand?”

  Ellie’s eyes widened and her brow furrowed, but I added quickly, “Just as an observer! Ask her if I can come and take a look around at least.”

  “I’ll try,” Ellie muttered, before again turning back to Sayaka and saying something in a gentle tone.

  I held my breath, not holding out much hope, and after they’d discussed the matter for a little while, I felt my hopes sliding away as Sayaka shook her head. But Ellie seemed to persist, and after another minute or so, the vibe seemed to change subtly, with Sayaka now looking at me quizzically, tilting her head to one side as if to assess me for the very first time, her brown eyes narrowing. Then she said something to Ellie that was barely more than a whisper.

  “What?” I asked excitedly. “What did she say?”

  “She said,” Ellie sighed, “that if you want, she’ll take you to meet Madame Saito now. She’s the owner. It’s her decision.”

  Madame Saito? I thought. That must be the striking older woman I’d seen at the door!

  “Tell her yes,” I replied eagerly.

  “But there’s a catch,” Ellie cut in, something changing in her expression.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The Pink Box is Japanese only, Danny,” she explained. “Sayaka says she’ll explain to Madam Saito that you’re half Japanese and maybe that will be enough, although she can’t promise anything. And obviously that means that form now on you’ll be without your translator ...”

  “Oh,” I said, as it began to dawn on me. There was no chance in hell they’d allow Ellie inside. Which meant I’d be doing this alone.

  I paused, deliberating, before picking up my cup of saké and knocking it one, my body charging with nervous excitement as I said, “Alright, I’m in ...”

  4

  I said a quick goodbye to Ellie, making sure to thank her profusely for setting up the interview, and then Sayaka led me wordlessly through the corridors of the mall and back toward the pink box club on the top floor.

  As we arrived outside, I noticed that the sign wasn’t lit, which I guessed meant the place wasn’t open for business just now.

  I hung back as Sayaka pressed the buzzer with a slim pale finger and once again the door slid back to reveal Madame Saito, dressed in her elegant red kimono, her stern expression taking me in coldly for a moment before flicking across to Sayaka.

  I held my breath, watching on as she seemed to explain the situation and after a little conversation, both women turned to look at me once more. I tried to smile back warmly, as if to suggest that I wasn’t going to be any trouble. Then, after a couple more minutes of discussion, Madam Saito seemed to relent, nodding toward me and gesturing as if to follow her inside.

  I shot a glance toward Sayaka who stood aside and also nodded, as if to say Well, go on then. This is what you wanted after all ...

  So that’s just what I did, sucking in a final deep breath then stepping through the doorway and into the club.

  I felt my stomach lurch with nerves as Madame Saito slid the door closed behind me, so that the two of us were standing alone in a large mirrored room. It seemed to be some kind of reception area, complete with desk and even chairs and tables set out with magazines, and it smelled sweet like candy. With a gruff gesture, she beckoned me through another doorway and into a long black corridor, lit only with UV lights, and with plain black doors leading off on either side.

  Were these the fantasy rooms? I wondered.

  As if to answer my question, Madam Saito stopped outside the first door, throwing it open and flicking on a light to illuminate an eerily realistic Japanese schoolroom, complete with rows of desks, cluttered book shelves, and even a chalkboard with kanji scrawled across it.

  I stared in at the scene before me, unable to believe my eyes, wondering if I’d piss her off by taking out my phone and snapping a few photos.

  But before I could try, she’d muttered something gruffly before leading me on to the next room, again throwing open the door and flicking on the light, this time illuminating something even crazier:
a mock up of the inside of a plush first class aircraft cabin, perfect right down to the tiniest details. The seats even had TV screens set into them, and there were in flight magazines and safety instructions tucked into the netting beneath. Damn! Even the windows seemed genuine, open to reveal a photorealistic expanse of blue sky and fluffy clouds beyond.

  I shook my head in awe as Madam Saito led me further down the corridor, opening each door to reveal its contents: a subway car, a grocery store, even a full beauty parlor.

  And this time it actually had employees working in it, too: three sexy Japanese girls about my own age, dressed in short white beauty parlor uniforms who turned to look at us in surprise. I felt my stomach flip, the blood charging in my veins.

  Holy shit. Was I about to get a chance to sample the delights of the pink box first hand?

  I thought it’d been made clear that I just wanted to watch, not actually take part. But as Madam Saito started talking with the girls in lightning fast Japanese she seemed to be giving them some kind of instructions. And the moment she'd finished talking she turned and strode out of the room, leaving me alone with these sexy Japanese babes.

  As the door slammed close behind her, the girls began to approach me, reaching out taking hold of my clothes, gently coaxing me out of them. And in that moment, I knew I had two choices – either get the hell out of there or enjoy myself ...

  5

  Ah, what the hell, I thought, figuring that if I wanted to get a juicy story, at least this way I’d have the inside scoop.

  But as the girls began to unbutton my shirt, I winced with embarrassment as my flabby torso became exposed. My shame grew stronger as I actually heard them giggle and point at the puppy fat that had collected around my pecs. I’d been intending to hit the gym, but never quite found the time and instead had just been hiding my body beneath dark shirts and sweaters.