why I sneaked out of the teahouse long before the rooster rose from his bed of straw and called the inhabitants of Ponto-chô awake. Then I hurried down the dark, narrow alleys along the canal, the wooden houses seeming to face inward rather then outward.
I hurried on my high clogs with bells to the shop where they sold the kokeshi dolls: crude, trunk-shaped dolls to look like a man with a roughly carved head with eyes, nose and mouth drawn on the doll and clothed in a brightly-painted kimono. The dolls were regarded as a symbol of protection for unattached females.
My face tightened at the thought of Mariko without a man to love her. Marriage meant security, position, home and children. If a geisha married, she must stop being a geisha. I had a deep feeling as much as Mariko wanted these things, she would never allow herself to stop being a geisha. She was trapped in her mind and body to serve one master. Duty.
I thought of her now as I rushed back down the narrow stairway, down the winding walkway of stone, and looked around the garden for her. Like the veranda, it was also empty. Where was she? Where were the others?
I went through the open gate and out into the street. It was late afternoon. I saw pilgrims on their way to Kiomidzu Temple, priests begging for alms and children wandering the streets. Even a long-tailed Tosa chicken being chased by a little black-and-white dog with big, tearful eyes.
Then I saw something that made me smile. Smile big. Hisa had returned from the market. He’d been on an errand for okâsan, I could see, eyeing the Shiba fish in his basket and a bottle of vinegar in his hand. I shouldn’t do it, but I stared at him, though I stayed in the shadows so he wouldn’t see me. Oh, he was magnificent looking. Tall, manly, his stance more like that of a warrior than a lackey.
I saw him lift his short, dark gray robe, and, to my amusement, point his penis downward and perform the most natural of needs, his steady flow hitting the pebbled street with such force I swore I saw little bits of stone flying through the air.
A loud giggle burst from my lips and I covered my mouth with my hand, but it wasn’t soon enough. Hisa looked around and saw me before I could escape. His chest heaved with excitement and his face flushed, but not with embarrassment. The act of urinating in public against walls, fences and poles with canine indifference was a common sight on the streets of Kioto. It adhered to the Japanese notion as long as the act was performed in a public place that belonged to everybody, it belonged to no one and therefore, need not be respected.
I didn’t move. How could I? He didn’t lower his robe but fixed his stare on me. With defiance, he continued to stand there, legs astride, eyes glaring at me, his penis exposed to my view. I took a deep breath. I should go, knowing okâsan frowned upon a maiko talking to a male servant, but it couldn’t hurt to look at his penis. Wasn’t that part of my training, to learn by observation?
I moved into the shadows, watching, seeing what he’d do next. My curiosity was a Western trait I had difficulty sweeping under my long kimono sleeves. They touched the ground as I walked, picking up bits of dirt on the pale yellow silk that matched the hue of my golden hair hidden underneath my black wig.
I kept looking at him.
As he stroked his penis, I became the artist, my eye drawing every line in my mind, while my body expressed my personal delight and involvement in what I was doing. My pulse raced and a raw heat grew in the pit of my belly. I could smell the scent of my desire, sweet-smelling like fresh moon blossoms, overtake me as I watched Hisa stroke his penis with his free hand. It grew in size until it could have been as strong and hard as any weapon he carried.
I held my breath, sensual thoughts playing with my mind. I imagined our silvery laughter mixing as our fingertips touched, our hands brushing together as he led my trembling fingers down to his penis, then squeezed my thigh. I giggled, remembering the large penises depicted in the erotic pictures of the masters. These artists were of the school if a man’s penis were drawn in its natural size, it wouldn’t be worth looking at. Hisa, on the other hand, defied such logic with a penis as large as any I’d seen in the woodblock prints.
That was why I found myself stepping out of the shadows and striding through the gate of the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree. I swayed my hips, licked my lips and barely glanced at the great black-lacquered palace carriage hung with bright blue silk curtains and parked in front. I had other things on my mind.
I swung my head back and smiled at the handsome young man proclaiming his desire and offering his penis to me, his Sun Goddess, without shame.
I pretended I was the famed noblewoman, Lady Jiôyoshi, who saved her lover by seducing the shôgun. With a piece of silk hanging from my sash, I mimicked the actions of the beautiful noblewoman running through the temple at Kiomidzu, dashing past the shôgun—Hisa in my little drama—who tried to grab her. When he caught her, the brave temptress rewarded him with a night of lovemaking while her lover escaped to freedom.
Follow me, I mouthed the words to the young jinrikisha driver with my crimson bud lips, licking them then making a sucking sound. I had no intention of doing anything wrong. I only wanted to feel the boy’s arms around me, filling up the lonely place in my heart.
“Yes, Kathlene-san,” Hisa said, bowing low and peeking up my kimono, hoping to catch a glimpse of my blond pubic hair on my sand mound.
“The gods will punish you for that,” I teased. He knew I followed the geisha custom of not wearing anything underneath but a light silk wrap. His searching eyes made me giggle, though I blushed at the thought of him seeing my silky golden tuft of hair. He also knew my secret, but he would never tell. He accepted his place in the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree and guarded it carefully.
I slipped into a dark, shadowy corner under the sloping roof of the teahouse and waited. Would Hisa come?
No flickering lights from inside the teahouse sent their warning that the confines of social dignity must be worn here. He did come and joy filled me up. Within seconds his arms were around me, holding me, his chest pressed up against my breasts, my body moving and rocking against his, seeking a pleasure too long denied to me. My soft lips caressed him, brushed against his cheek and wandered up to his ears.
I was lost in the heat of my capricious moment, then startled when he grabbed my breasts. I stiffened, but he didn’t notice. Not satisfied with the touch of silk alone, his hands reached under my kimono. No. I wanted him to hold me, not make love to me.
Before I could stop him, he pushed aside my lightweight wrap that reached from under my breasts to my ankles, making it easy for him to open my kimono by folding the layers back and revealing my pale thighs. I prayed the gods would turn their faces away and not see my shameless passion. I moistened my lips, craving his kiss as much as his touch, but he wouldn’t kiss me. Kissing was a private and erotic act and not practiced openly, but in the dark with a geisha. Yet I longed to feel his mouth on mine, fulfilling me with something that went beyond the sexual act. Something I yearned for but had never known. Love.
“I’ve waited all these years since I first saw you to make you feel the pleasure of my mushroom, Kathlene-san,” Hisa whispered in my ear.
“I’ve waited, too, Hisa-don, but you know it’s against the rules.” I held my breath, surprised at my own words. Yes, I wanted him, but I wanted to be a geisha more.
“I want to taste your essence, Kathlene-san, smell your delicate, sweet fragrance, feel you squeezing my penis hard.”
“I can’t,” I whispered, my heart racing, my lips dry, my palms perspiring. I rubbed my hands on my silk kimono
