Memoirs of a Temporary Geisha: Torrid Sekkusu in Tokyo

I love the taste of Samurai in the morning...

I love the taste of Samurai in the morning…

The affinity of western men for Asian women is well-known and even emphasized ad nauseum. I’ve always wondered if I could easily reverse the convention, in the manner of Marguerite Duras’ “The Lover” and “Hiroshima mon Amour,” scorching tales in which a western woman tastes the fruit of a male Asian consort.

I was in Tokyo five years ago, meeting friends who taught in Korea. After they returned, I had two days to myself, during which the reptilian core of my brain was itching for exploration of the carnal variety. I was alone, still enduring an 8-month drought, walking down endless streets that seemed animated with sensations both extroverted and repressed; empty neon signals seemed to broadcast a deeper longing.

At my hotel, I met an Irish woman by chance. She was traveling alone, and had the healthy, ripe aura of a middle-aged goddess of fecundity, an earthy seductress unashamed of her age. We shared a drink one night, and she told me (audaciously early in the conversation) about her visit earlier that day to a “Couples Coffee Shop,” a euphemism for an anonymous sex club with a charming premise: Men joined as “members”, paying a fee and waiting in small, private rooms. On the outside of each chamber was posted a photo and a brief menu of desired attentions.

Women could enter the club for free, choose the room, and indulge themselves with the companion of their choice. Needless to say, there were mild risks, or perhaps incentives; this quarry included the lovelorn, the inexperienced, and perhaps the irony-free connoisseurs of Manga and Starcraft.

But perhaps these unfathomable eastern superegos could unleash monstrous sexual Ids. My companion waxed lyrical about her rigorous copulative session and provided a distressingly exhaustive account of her orgasmic peaks and valleys, all enabled by an eager young engineer from Osaka. “He hadna’ screwed for years!”

And perhaps neither had my companion from Eire—she had returned a second time to the club, later in the day, selecting an alternate consort whose skills were equally as admirable. She had strained her back in the earlier encounter, requiring her to lay supine as she “let the laddie do his job.” After this session, she was mercifully sated, as eagerly drained as a flask of Jameson.

She passed me a napkin with the address of the club and it lingered in the bottom of my purse for a day. I passed the façade of the club once in a brief sniff test to evaluate its level of disreputability, but the charmingly fearless “coffee shop” pretense was strikingly maintained: Clean, a trifle bohemian, and suffused with the odor of dark roast.

I finally entered, first cautiously, then with a sense of capricious anticipation. It is never possible to be very nervous in a Japanese interior space; all exudes stark tranquility.

The woman behind the counter smiled simply gestured to an illuminated hallway, as if eager to hasten me to my encounter. I sensed that she was an ardent salesgirl, eager to fill the empty seats; there were perhaps ten doors along the hallway and four were occupied, each with a photo and a list in unreadable script—I would need to take a chance on the tastes and appetites of my chosen quarry.

I chose the second door. Dear reader, I was feeling impetuous and still a filled with the tension that precedes a spirited, inevitable encounter: One imagines oneself valiant, freewheeling, and as empowered as the Lady of the Lake, but a hesitation remains. We are all human and vulnerable in matters of the flesh.

The photo on the door depicted a man in his early thirties, decorous, stern, and mildly soulful in his melancholy formality. I knocked and he opened after a brief pause. He seemed charmingly surprised and flattered as he executed a bow. How long had this gallant soul waited?

And here I did feel a bit of the geisha, but instead of a koto, I was only equipped with the melodious sound of my quaking western voice, speaking over the distant, tinny music of the lobby. We conversed tentatively, inching towards the matter at hand.

I gestured to the couch, when upon I began to suck his fingers and kick off a decent prelude to the action…

And now let us fast forward to my encounter between east and west…

Fully unclothed, we wrestled in a chaste, poetic Hiroshima mon amour embrace before I surrendered to his insistence that I lay back and a nice session of Omonkuu,. He leapt towards the candy jar like a lynx after catnip, direct and without much ceremony, but the end effect, the onrush of pleasure delivered by the wet friction of the Glossus is the same—I wrapped my ankle around his shoulder, and let Japan invade America.

Licked spotless, I then leaned forward to taste the rising sun of his Chipatama.

This all led, naturally, to full Meisatsu and a rollicking session of Sekkusu; topped by Akume after Akume; Our exhaustive athleticism finally culminated in a startling Funshutsu of Superuma across my Oppai.

I raised a drop of Superuma to my lips and tasted seaweed, smoked fish, and the valiant heritage of the samurai, still intrepid, a sword of steel exchanged for a sword of flesh.

And to my Irish friend… Go raibh maith agat!!



More Sexual Travelogues

© 2013 Sylvia Lowry, All Rights Reserved

%d bloggers like this: