Gina in the floating wor.., p.17
Gina in the Floating World, page 17
“I don’t know. I suppose it was flattering, but it was a banking event, not a hostess bar.”
“Men cannot resist your charms whatever the setting, Gina.”
I saw my opening. “How about you, Mr. Tambuki? You seem to be resisting my charms.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Are you offering yourself to me?”
“I thought that was what you wanted, as part of the deal.”
“Is it what you want, Gina?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
We stopped at a red light, and he glanced over at me. “Are you still thinking it is wrong to take money for sex?”
I had started this conversation, but I felt confused. “I don’t know anymore.”
“You can have me for free if you prefer. I won’t say no. As I told you before, I don’t pay for sex if I don’t have to.”
Would I sleep with him for free? In Nikko when I desired him, I might not have thought about money.
“But I would like to help pay for your business school education,” he continued.
Mr. Tambuki’s proposal sounded less like a business transaction than a generous offer. I perked up. “When you put it that way . . . ,” I said.
“I am not going to force the issue. You must want this of your own free will.”
I nodded and changed the subject. “Before I forget, I thought you might like to read the report I wrote for Mr. Muriachi that he never had a chance to read.” I pulled the copy of the report from my bag.
“Thank you. Perhaps it will help me to see better how that American mind of yours works.” He winked at me. “Here we are at the bar.”
He pulled over and I handed him the envelope with the report. He placed it on the back seat, for his “bedside reading,” he said.
Bar Puss ’n’ Boots was in a district with other bars, most of which were in the upper stories of buildings. There were three other bars on the tenth floor. Mr. Tambuki rang the bell, and a middle-aged Japanese woman, taller than average, greeted us both with a bow. She looked as though she had stepped out of an Utamaro print, dark hair in a knot, pale skin, brocade kimono with butterflies, edged in a deep purple. Mr. Tambuki exchanged a few words with her, and she took my hand. “Very beautiful,” she said in English.
“I will come back for you at midnight,” he told me.
“Welcome to Bar Puss ’n’ Boots. You will like,” Mama-san 2 said.
She guided me into her bar, gliding as though she were wearing tiny-wheeled roller skates. The bar was divided into many booths of a rich, dark wood. The cushions were a rich cherry. At regular intervals along the walls hung pictures depicting Western fairy tales and children’s nursery rhymes. Snow White, with a lascivious smile and a short skirt, dancing with the seven dwarves. The prince fitting a big-busted Cinderella with her matching shoe, a strappy sandal. His other hand was up her dress. Puss wearing sexy high-heeled boots. Jack and Jill rolling down the hill cradled in each other’s arms. A different Jack fondling a vulva-like pod at the top of the beanstalk. A few weeks ago, I might have been shocked.
Waiters in Robin Hood green belted jackets with red tights prepared the drink trays for the few customers who were there. Unlike the Snack, where the only brand of whiskey was Suntory, the bottle “keep” contained many kinds of liquor as well as various whiskeys. A young Japanese woman, who I assumed was also a hostess, sat with two middle-aged Japanese men in suits. Her blue sequined bodice twinkled as she turned.
“Very nice, yes?” Mama-san 2 asked. “You meet other American—Kat.”
Mama-san sidled over to a woman with long, straight blond hair, her back to us. She had on a short, stretchy dress that showed off her long, slender legs and curved over a sculpted backside. I was envious. When she turned around, I saw that it was Victoria, who’d fed me that first morning at the Club.
“Oh my God!” she said. She hugged me as though we had known each other, not just an hour, but our whole lives. “I can’t believe you’re here, too. What fun!”
Mama-san 2 swiveled her head back and forth between the two of us. “Kat, you know Gina?”
“Yes. Gina,” Kat, alias Victoria, said.
“You show?” Mama-san 2 asked.
“Yes, I will show her the ropes. No worries, Mama.”
Mama-san 2 floated off to talk to a newly arrived customer.
“I thought you were a banker,” Victoria said. “Look at you.”
“I am doing banking,” I said, resolving to put my two dead-end internships behind me. “I needed the money.”
“There’s money here all right,” she said. “You done this before?”
“At the Snack where you worked.”
“This is way better.” Victoria twirled a strand of hair around one of her red-tipped fingers. She hugged me again. “Oh, I am so happy to see you. The last girl who spoke English left right as I started working here. It’s been lonely.”
“How are the clients here?” I asked.
“Rich. Does anything else matter?”
Mama-san 2 led us to a table with three Japanese men and introduced us. One of the men had fleshy lips and a scar over his left eye. Another had a shiny bald head. The third one had bushy eyebrows that hung over the top of his glasses. They all stood up and bowed. When we sat down, I noticed that Scarface was missing part of his little finger, like Mr. Yakumasei. One of the Robin Hoods brought over a tray, with a bottle of Chivas. Victoria poured.
“You drink, too?” Shrubbrow asked.
We thanked him, and Victoria poured two more glasses with lots of ice. The men couldn’t have been more charming. With their limited English, there was no talk of breasts, no attempted touching. Shinytop asked me where I was from. They nodded when I said near Chicago. I told them about my interest in banking. They nodded some more and laughed.
“You banker, too?” Shrubbrow asked Victoria.
She shook her head. I tried not to stare at Scarface’s missing finger, but he held his glass with his half pinky out like a Victorian lady with a teacup. Someone sang an off-key rendition of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” on the karaoke. After another couple of rounds of drinks, Shinytop asked me if I sang.
“Ooo, let’s sing. It will be fun,” Victoria said.
We did a duet of the Beatles’ “She Loves You.” Victoria stood up, caressed the microphone, and swiveled her hips. She received a few catcalls and whistles from one of the other tables.
After our number, Mama-san 2 split us up. She had me sit with a gray-haired gentleman and three younger men. Two of the men looked like twins, with identical dark gray suits and red striped ties. The Japanese hostess in the blue sequins, whose name was “Cindy,” told an animated story in Japanese. Her hands mimed the parallel curves of a sculpture. The men laughed. I laughed, too, even though I didn’t understand. One of the twins asked me if I spoke Japanese. I held out my thumb and first finger and said, “Watashi wa nihongo ga mada heta desu.” Very little. Hearty laughter.
“Very big breasts,” the other twin said in English, looking around at the others for approval. Guffaws.
“Yes,” I said. “Very big, like her,” I added, pointing to the picture of Cinderella. Hysterical laughter.
“I am Cinderella. But no breasts,” Cindy said, putting her hands over her smaller, but not insignificant bust. “Poor me.”
“Nice breast,” the older man said, gesturing to one of Cindy’s breasts and leaning forward to touch it.
Cindy deftly met the oncoming hand and entwined her fingers in his.
“Nice breast, too?” Cindy asked, pointing to her other breast.
I guessed all bars were the same. After the men tired of the breast talk, they discussed their golf games, another favorite topic. They chatted in Japanese, but I knew the word for golf. One of the twins used a cigarette to demonstrate his technique.
Mr. Tambuki arrived at eleven thirty to pay his respects to Mama-san 2. She ushered me to his table, and I poured him a Chivas.
“So, my little Gina, how was it?”
“Not so bad. The men were more polite than at the Snack. The breast talk, more refined. Mama-san, saner. But what’s with the over-sexualized fairy-tale theme? It’s very kitsch for a fancy place like this.”
“Ah. The bar is a fairy tale, is it not? Where, for a moment, men are made to feel like kings?”
Victoria came over to tell me that that next time I could get dressed in the back room so that I didn’t have to wear my gown on the train. I introduced her to Mr. Tambuki, who stood up and bowed. We left just before midnight. On the way out, I noticed a painting of Dorothy, her frilly checked frock pulled up to her chin, sandwiched between the tin man fucking her in the front and the scarecrow in her rear. At least that was what I assumed they were doing. Toto nipped at her heels as the cowardly lion waved his paws.
“I thought I might turn into a pumpkin if I stayed much longer,” I said, pleased at my little joke.
“Excuse me?”
Mr. Tambuki’s English was so good I sometimes forgot that he might not know all my cultural references. “The Cinderella story. At midnight, she becomes a poor girl again.”
“And will Gina be a poor girl tonight, or will she allow a wealthy man to make her rich so she can live happily ever after?”
I chuckled at Mr. Tambuki’s reference to a storybook ending, but what I noted was his gentle attempt to appeal to my sense of practicality. Here was a decent man. Every time I needed help, he was there. I was learning so much from him, and he was growing on me daily. When I modeled for him, I even felt desire. What did it matter between consenting adults if I took his money? I didn’t need fairy tales to justify my actions.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s change that story.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We stopped at the Hotel Artemis, an ordinary-looking place without the garish signage of the Hotel Twist, my trysting spot with Baby Elvis. The carpeting was newer, the paint fresher. A vase of cut flowers rested on a wooden table in the lobby. Mr. Tambuki pressed a button on the menu board to select our room, and we went up in a modern elevator with mirrored walls.
Although the bed was the focus of the room, at first glance, it could have been a hotel anywhere. There were a few telltale signs that the purpose of the hotel went beyond a good night’s sleep. The condoms in the nightstand, for one. The enormous bathroom, with a tub built for two, for another. And the bedside reading of a book of Japanese woodblock prints. As Mr. Tambuki fixed us a drink, I paged through the book and was surprised to see the familiar figures in some very unfamiliar poses. The men, elegantly garbed, were brandishing their imposing penises in preparation for entry into equally beautifully dressed women, whose bodies were twisted in unnatural directions that made me wince.
Mr. Tambuki brought me my whiskey. “Ah, shunga. Spring pictures. That one is by Hiroshige,” he said, pointing to one of the unhappy couples. He put his drink down, removed his jacket and tie, and placed them neatly on a chair.
I stared at the print. “The Hiroshige of Fifty-Three Stations of the Tokaido? That Hiroshige?” I asked, remembering one series of masterful prints Mr. Tambuki had shown me.
“Yes, the same.”
“More like ‘One Hundred Views of the Impossible.’” I grimaced.
“Perhaps with a bit of practice, but not tonight. Don’t worry.”
“Is this some kind of satire?”
“Oh, not at all. These were very popular once. Many of the great artists made them.”
“The porno of their day?”
“Not porno. They are very sensual. They capture the ecstasy of lovemaking.” Mr. Tambuki smoothed his hand across the page as though caressing the image. He closed the book and put it back on the nightstand.
Sitting down on the bed, he gestured for me to do the same. We perched on the edge of the bed. Mr. Tambuki gripped his glass with both hands and ran one of his thumbs over the damp surface. He seemed as nervous as me. He picked up the remote to the TV, which was just a yard in front of us and clicked. On the screen, two naked bodies writhed in a pile of hay. Click. An unclothed man lay on his back, each limb handcuffed to a bedpost, so that he was splayed in an X shape. A nude woman knelt over him, tickling him with a large feather and bouncing up and down. She dug the spikes of her long black high-heeled boot into the man’s thighs. Much sighing and moaning from both of them. Mr. Tambuki glanced over at me. I’d seen porn before but not in these circumstances, not that I’d ever been in these circumstances.
I didn’t want to be aroused in this way, so I looked away.
“Some music?” Mr. Tambuki asked, as though we’d become bored watching a rerun of The Brady Bunch.
“Yes, please,” I said, turning back to the screen just as blood appeared on the man’s leg near the woman’s high heel. They both grunted and screamed. Mr. Tambuki clicked off the disturbing image and found some big band music. The television pulsed with waves of color.
“Would you care to dance, Gina?” Mr. Tambuki jumped to his feet, holding out his hand. “Benny Goodman.”
I was back at a high school prom of another era. I never attended my own. I took the hand he offered and placed my other hand on his shoulder, which was muscular and firm. He circled my waist, his palm and fingers pressing the flesh of the small of my back. As he brought me toward him, I could smell the earthy scent of his cologne. We were a good height match for dancing.
“My parents liked this music,” I said as we swayed in rhythm. “I heard it a lot when I was young.”
“It evokes good memories, I hope?” Mr. Tambuki asked.
I had to think for a moment. “Some,” I said. I recalled my parents dancing at Carol’s wedding, Dad dragging the leg with the prosthesis but reluctantly happy for once. That was the last positive memory I had of my parents. I was six, and from then on without Carol as a buffer, it was just us and Robert’s ghost.
Mr. Tambuki sandwiched our joined hands between our chests. The tick of his watch and his heartbeat were in sync at a perfect sixty beats per minute. I wedged my head between his neck and shoulder. We held that pose through two numbers, still silent.
Mr. Tambuki’s fingertips slid down under my waistband. My tummy fluttered, and I gave his upper arm a squeeze. From that trigger, our lips found each other. Our kisses delved deeper. Our hands traced each other’s silhouettes. Mr. Tambuki controlled the pace, which was slow if not methodical. Clothes were peeled off, one by one, beginning with a button here, a zip there, until my dress fell to the floor and his shirt was off.
When we were naked, Mr. Tambuki explored me with his mouth, owning every inch. Tasting, sucking, nipping my neck, my breasts, my stomach until I moaned and went limp.
He led me to bed and placed me on the pink sheets. He worked his way up from my feet, which he massaged one at a time. Then with his lips and tongue and fingers, he traveled the route up the sensitive flesh of my inside thigh, teasing my genitals, before devoting his attention to the other thigh. I squirmed and reached up for him, grabbing onto his arm, which was sinewy and felt like a tightly wound spring.
“Do not be in such a hurry, Gina. There is only one first time.”
He got off the bed and returned with a large, ripe peach. As he approached me, I noticed his whole body. He was hairless and slim, but sculpted with a flat stomach and full thighs like a bicyclist’s. It wasn’t a body of a young person so much as one who had fashioned it at will for his own purposes. Different from round Hiro, pudgy Gabe, or slender and unmuscular Baby Elvis. My gaze stopped at his penis, which was long and thick in proportion to his stature. It was perfectly straight, just as I had imagined it. I wanted it inside of me.
I would have to wait.
“Here,” he said, holding out the peach. I took a large bite, the juices running down my chin onto my chest. Mr. Tambuki lapped them up, finishing with my lips. He took his own strategic bite of the peach, drops slithering down toward his navel, and then two additional large bites so that the drops became rivers. I followed my cue and licked the sweet nectar from his hard stomach as it streamed toward his genitalia. His penis twitched up toward my mouth as I came closer. I circled around it until I enveloped it, swallowing as much of it as I could. Mr. Tambuki was silent, but he followed my motions with his eyes. I liked the feel of him in the cave of my mouth, but I stopped as he had. He was still holding the remains of the peach. I finished the peach, put the stone in the glass on the nightstand, and wiped my fingers on my erect nipples. I then sucked each of Mr. Tambuki’s sticky fingers as Baby Elvis had done to me. It seemed like a light year ago.
“You are not such an innocent, I think,” he said, a minuscule smile flitting over his lips. He took a condom from the nightstand, tore off the wrapper, and handed it to me to put on him. I did so slowly as I knew he wanted me to, but I was still eager for the next act.
Mr. Tambuki pulled me onto my back and probed my vagina, knowing where to find the extra pockets of wetness. He slid into me with ease and positioned himself above me. Our pelvic bones ground together with such perfect precision, I came within a few minutes. I had never before had an orgasm during intercourse the first time with someone, and certainly not in the “missionary” position. Mr. Tambuki stopped for a few seconds and then began to pulse again, my body instinctively responding to the motion. I came again, and then again. Each time he stopped, allowing me to experience the dissipating waves of pleasure. We continued for what seemed like an hour. I lost count of my orgasms, as one seemed to meld into the other.
Finally, as I was beginning to climax one more time, his pace quickened.
His penis spasmed, and he stopped just as I was almost at my peak.
He resumed, my vagina gripping, his penis pulsating, my insides bursting, neon colors flashing, until our bodies sighed.
I opened my eyes. Mr. Tambuki was staring at me. I thought I saw the lens of his eyes open, the shutter finally letting in some light through those dark pupils. He rolled onto his back, and we lay there for a few minutes.
He turned his head. “Gina, why do you keep your eyes closed?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” It’s what people did.
