The Blonde Samurai (14 page)

And what hypocrisy. I often caught hushed whisperings bantered about at the palace from stodgy old men in their black stovepipes about the “whore problem,” meaning Yoshiwara, where seeking pleasure was as natural to the natives as assuaging hunger. These pompous men insisted they wanted to curtail such goings-on, yet I gathered from eavesdropping on the intimate details of their conversation (“I say, old man, I nearly choked on my cigar when the twit arched her back and her kimono fell open and revealed her breasts.” Or, “The damn girl wouldn’t even look at me when I fucked her.”), they were well acquainted with the women of the licensed quarters. That only made me more determined to see for myself the extent of such pleasures offered there.

Not an easy task, considering James’s man followed me everywhere, except into the empress’s apartments. It became a cat-and-mouse game, with me tipping my parasol to him every morning when I left for the palace, though he pretended not to see me. I brought up the matter to my husband when he returned from his surveying trip and moved out of
our house and took up residence with Lord Penmore. He laughed and attributed my suspicions to my female curiosity and assured me I was free to do as I wished as long as I did not sully his reputation.
His
reputation? I admit I rumbled inside, pushing, posturing to fight back, so angry was I at his impertinence, but I stood firm, as if my feet were encased in sod and mud, and kept my mouth shut. I dared not do anything but comply with his wishes since he had adhered to his end of the bargain, meeting me at the bank to report his business goings-on regarding the railway and showing me the books as I had requested (Da sent me an addendum to his letter of credit as I’d requested, so James needed my signature as a cosigner to approve his expenditures).

I wasn’t fooled. I knew he was using the funds he had pilfered from my father in Yokohama to finance his own interests, but I also knew he was up against the vexing native trait of indecision. Months went by and James became more and more frustrated by the lack of action on his plans. According to Mr. Fawkes, who discreetly inquired about the situation via an old friend seated on the mikado’s council, foreign loans were no longer trusted by the government, which, for the moment, fit perfectly into my plan. Expansion of the railway line from Tokio to Kobé had been halted because of talk about a possible samurai uprising, leaving my dear husband no choice but to go along with my father’s instructions to purchase supplies for the Ōzaka–Kobé railway line, due to open in late spring 1874.

I made certain he did, involving myself in the railway business and raising eyebrows at the bank
and
at court. What is important for
you
to know, dear lady reader, is that I was under great duress to make certain my father’s investment in Japan did not lead to his financial ruin. Da had invested heavily in
the building of the new Northern Pacific Railroad, which suffered from overspeculation. When the bank financing the railroad failed, a panic followed. While I was sipping tea and eating sweetmeats with the empress or buying silks or going to the Kabuki theatre with Mr. Fawkes, the U.S. stock market rallied then fell into a downward spiral so devastating that by the fall of 1873, thousands of businesses were ruined, unemployment rose and, as I write this memoir, the country has not yet regained any sense of normalcy.

Indeed, I worried over the fortunes of one Thomas O’Roarke and my adored mother, but I knew they were strong Irish and would rebuild whatever they lost. My da is a wise, crafty soul with the vision of Saint Patrick dancing in those steel-blue eyes. Knowing how the devil himself can trick you with his pot o’ gold, he pulled his money out of the stock market before it was too late, then sold the New York brownstone and moved back home before regrouping his company with a smaller workforce. But he didn’t forget the fine men who put their heart and grit into laying the tracks and running the trains.

If I may read to you from a letter he wrote to me:

I was lonely for him and my mother and my little sister, Elva, but how could I not stay in Japan? And if I may bare my soul to you, dear lady reader, I
wanted
to stay…because of Shintaro. Every time I went to the palace I would look for him, hoping to see him again, this swaggering samurai rebel exuding such dashing energy I gathered up my skirts and followed him, glimpsing his flowing bronze- and gold-colored kimono disappearing behind sliding doors in the palace. Breathless, I stopped, envisioning his chiseled muscles underneath his kimono set with gleaming crests resting like the soft glow of moonlight on his shoulders and broad back. I saw him again and again, convincing myself he possessed both strength and sensitivity and engaged in wild, careening sexual escapades with beautiful courtesans. It was a young girl’s fancy and ne’er but an innocent view of what was a complex man and his paramours, a hidden side of him I’m not yet ready to speak of, but I promise you I shall be bold in all I reveal later in my tale.

I can ne’er forget the time he caught me behind the camellia hedges along the esplanade in the palace park, admiring the sculpture of a man made of white chrysanthemums and carrying on a conversation with him, so romantic was I, so naive, and pining for a lover. Beautiful to look at, his floral scent rich and heady, his petaled robes as sumptuous as those of the emperor, his flower heart was mine for the taking. Even when I discovered my samurai watching me admiring the sculpture, Shintaro never spoke, his face a mask of solitary darkness as if he struggled to let go and give voice to his desire to speak to me, reach out to me, touch me, but his way of the warrior prevented him, so unflinching was he. I shall never forget his eyes. He did so much with those eyes, making me forget he was so damn physically handsome, so
explosively charismatic in everything he did, yet I would also discover he possessed great intelligence and enormous sensitivity to the world around him. He loved his people and was especially drawn to the children, taking great care to make certain their rice bowls were full and they received instruction in fencing with bamboo swords—and bamboo spears for the girls.

I digress, but we’ve covered a lot of territory, you and I, since that day I first saw Shintaro at the Imperial Palace in the summer of 1873. I shall now continue my story on a night of nights in the spring of the following year in the jaded brothels of the pleasure quarters in Yoshiwara for an evening of pleasure no Occidental woman before me has known.

If you will remember, dear lady reader, ladies were discouraged from visiting the licensed quarters. Knowing my Irish fancy for daring, no doubt you’ve already guessed how I found my way into this erotic environment, creating a dark alter ego who lived in the shadows and embraced all that she found in her rebellion against society. Lust, hot carnal passions. And sex.

And if you haven’t, the surprise will set your clit atwitter.

H
er eyes shone dark and luminous from the black-and-white photo hung on the outside of the Yoshiwara brothel, whispering to me in that lovely way Oriental women have of inviting you in, begging you not to resist, then lowering their eyes so you
can’t
say no.

Disguised as a young English gentleman, I’d been standing outside the brothel on Nako-no-chō Street, a handbill clutched in my fist, trying to get up the courage to go inside this twilight world and involve my libido in the vices offered there. I make no excuse for my conviction to come here, establishing it first in your mind, then shifting to a different reality in upcoming pages where I shall exploit my brazenness to produce a profound sexual disturbance within you. I shall set such unease upon you, dear lady reader, that you will feel your thighs sticking together, but you won’t be able to stop reading, not even to change your damp drawers as you experience with me the sweet ecstasy of what it was like to
lose my virginity within the impassioned walls of these pleasure quarters.

I have your attention, do I not? I’m pleased. I shall fight to hold on to this cavalier attitude, possessed as I am to explore the sexual depths of the native culture with you, and bring you
and
your callused ideas about respectability with me to this place where I found a timely refuge from my lonely existence with—

Shintaro. Yes, he fucked me. Again I use the vulgar word, for love was not in his heart that first time nor was it in mine. I
could
paint our first coupling with the romantic trappings of wistful sighs and deep kisses, but I’m being honest with you, dear lady reader, the reality being that it was raw and lustful, two people both deeply hurt, trying to find a way to ease their pain through sex.
Oh, but what sex.
I feel my heart racing as I recall the exquisite tremors and burning fever of that night. Be patient, for I shall reveal to you the intimacy and legendary debauches of a society ever in heat, where such pleasures are neither morally nor socially condemned.

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.