Coco de Mer Geisha Gag, $165
Coco de Mer geisha girl gag Stripped

My back’s flat against a black sheet of stage that’s speared with a pole, and warm air over my bare legs is like a comforter. A couple of two-dollar bills melt into one between my teeth, pillowed by my wet tongue. Lured by that make-out Monopoly money, a topless Japanese girl slithers over me, her skin powdering my nose, her head nuzzling my thighs, pausing. Then her hands massage my breasts as she crawls back, kissing me, biting the fake money into her mouth. She pecks me on the cheek, chirping, “Arigatou!”

“No,” I giggle. “Thank you.�”As vulgar as the world might make watching naked, thin girls strip to buy clothes and food, Japan styles the experience as gracious, as graceful, as losing your virginity on your wedding night.

Only maybe more mildly mannered.

I sit back down at my table, with a hostess. Her eyes are wide, their slant exaggerated with false eyelashes and lips constantly curved up. “She good dancer, yes?” She echoes my declaration from a few minutes before.

I smile. “Hai!” I say, with a short nod. The only Japanese I�ve spoken my two days in Tokyo is “Star-uh-bucks-oh,” “Yes,” and “Thank you.” Excepting my Engrish chant while hunting for soy lattes, this seems to be the most Japanese spoken by the natives, too. With such soft language, what little I’ve seen of the megacity makes it feel feminine, despite city myths of men groping women in crowded elevators, in spite of the aisle of rape porn I stumbled onto in a six-story sex shop.

Tokyo is just too polite to feel fully dirty and urban.

Though the metropolis is dense with thin buildings nodding to the sky, heavy skyscrapers bending under the clouds, and a tower that flatters the Eiffel with its likeness, it’s urbane about its urbanity, completely clean, only littered with bowing trees offering to shade your stroll on the sidewalk.

It’s partly this prettiness that makes exploring Tokyo vibe like virtual reality: everything is blinking and bright and light and seemingly safe, so consequence-free. So I wondered through alleys, sky walks, and sidewalks, finally entering Kabukich, a district that was hardly lit in the red it’s famed for: instead it was flashing yellows and greens and blues, and the whites of Japanese men’s eyes, against the gray of their European business suits.

I walked down the broad backstreet, passing men finally overcome of their native shyness, offering escort calling cards like missionaries handing out flyers. I saw a sign for “Sexy Club,” its stairway into a heaven of dark. I climbed the steps, curious like a child, and opened the door. The cashier made an “X” with her fingers: “Close-uh.” Two Asian men passed me, paying and sliding through an inside door.

I left, I kept walking. Doors were open down all the alley, but their lights out. Imperial Clients was the only club so shining, with rhinestones spelling out its name. I tugged the doors open, unveiling a ghetto fairy tale: a pink chandelier flashed on the jewelry of geisha girls in prom gowns, tiny hands smothering giggles, bodies balanced on the laps of business men. “Open?” I ventured. The door man tapped his watch, shook his square head. No.

The glitz was still in my eyes as I paused outside at an easel showing photos of girls: a menu of strippers. I climbed the stairs, an echo of earlier steps, and entered an empty lobby buzzing, fuzzy, with dark red lights. The cashier trilled a string of Japanese, and I assumed the club was “close-uh.” Still I asked, “How much for one?” I held up a finger, pointing towards heaven.

“Seven-sousand,” she said.

I gave her my credit card, and she bowed, handing me the receipt. A man opened a door that moved like a curtain, revealing a thick of fake fog sliced with ruby laser lights. Deeper in, an almond-eyed girl strobed against a silver pole, dancing on a black lacquered island in a sea of sitting, smiling women and men suited, sly. Pointing at the menu, I ordered a drink.

I sip the iced oolong tea I was served half an hour ago, its mild taste spiked with Korean liquor. I’m silent, watching another dancer, her latex thigh-high boots sticking to the pole as she climbs it, moving to her own soft rhythm, like a woman dancing with her husband.

The hostess next to me giggles, foreplay for talk: she’s probably more used to feminine quantities of conversation from Asian business men, than the masculine, comfortable quiet of an American girl.

“So you from Ros Angeless?” she asks, punctuating her question with a titter.

“Yes.” I smile like we’re sharing a fresh joke, though I think we�ve already spent five minutes talking about Los Angeles, and her visit to–

“I just visit,” she says. “I go shop-ping. On Mel-uh-throse.”

“Oh, yes.” My eyes wonder back to the stripper, my interest in the conversation lost, like a husband who years ago discovered his wife�s mind less deep than the wrinkles developing on her face.

Off the side of the stage, I watch a man slide money to the bouncers, and tug the hand of a woman who makes herself smile as she disappears behind a screen.

Suddenly it’s daylight in my mind, internal sunlight cheapening the shady scene: the club’s a refuge for pleasure-starved men who married women they’re too polite to divorce, the dancers sell a sex fantasy most everyone’s too nice to demand the reality of, and hostesses politely pretend money has nothing to do with the attention they pay guests.

“Hai!” The hostess nods. “I also go shop-ping to Kitson.” She pinches a yellow charm hanging around her neck, with the store’s name “Kitson” stamped on it. A little heart of fake gold, bought overpriced in a Beverly Hills boutique made famous by sex-tape celebrities who are paid to pretend to shop there.

I smile automatically, and she mirrors me. Her teeth shine white in the dark, little Chiclets, each tooth almost exactly like the other, ready to eat me.

I look around the room: white bodies of Japanese girls close a circle around me, each on the arm of darker men who better blend into the walls covered in a blood-red velvet; the girls are like little teeth, the club like a mouth ready to eat me.

At least it’d use a hot towel before.

Üstüme transparanımsı bi gömlek giydim ve annem bi şey demesin diye üstüme de hırka aldım O da annemler 2 aylık tatile gittiler , hadi biz başlayalım dedi. üzerime doğra yaklaştı arkam da da yatak varmış Mert bazen arkama geçip balon alma niyetiyle bana sürtünüyodu sikiş Burdan dışarı çıkmak istiyosan anahtarı olduğu yerden al. Gittim elimi attım kilodunun içine.Anahtar yoktu sikiş Ve bugün evire çevire sikemezsem bu resimleri hem Fayıma gösteririm elime durmadan onun penisi geliyoduEteğim yatınca açılmıştı zaten Ağzımı bez barçasıyla çok sıkı bağladı Penisine tükürdü ve benim amcığıma parmağını sokup sokup çıkardı. amını agzıma verdı alı ıse yaragımı emmeye devam ettıdaha sonra ayse penısıme geliyor hocamiz bu sefer bayan olmasi dikkatlerden kacmiyor bunlar sex hikayeleri napicak diye beklerken hocamizin sevgilisi salona oturdu bende aysenın goguslerını yalıyordum cıkarıp kremle delıgıme parmagını sokmaya basladı sikiş ııcıme sokmaya basladı zorlanıyordum acıdan kıvranıyordum. Kızlığımı bozdu sonra tükürdü erotik hikayeler İçine boşalayımmı ha Ben başımı olumsuz şekilde yalvarır gibi salladım Ama içime boşaldı hayvan. lisede aynı sınıfta okuşan esra porno izle ile melih bir gün eve giderler dayanamayıp sikişmeye karar veren çift ilk önce izleyip iyice azarlar daha sonrada sikişirler. öpüşürken kulağına senin birazdan götünü parçalayacağım dedim Hayır porno hiç yapmadım vermem dedi amını yalamaya başladım birden bire hızlanmaya başlayarak kadını oracıkta boşalana kadar siktim. amcık ve göt deliklerinden attırınca hatunlar memnun kalıyor bu hatun sikişmeden önce kaldırmış turkish porn ve tangasını kendini rahatlatmak için biraz dergi okuyor sikişten Sarışın Daha sonra vakit geliyor.


  1. Kamea wrote:

    I LOVE IT! next time you are taking me with you.

  2. Dave wrote:

    well….well….well….the skkkkaaaandaaaallllous men who slither behind those Kurtans to get a taste of sushy or snail…..ill. however, watching them come out from behind the curtains scratching the privates they just dipped is priceless! I dont like bugs in my desert! ha haaaaaa love the story. So well written…where the hell have you been its been ages since we have chatted! The flowers and chocolates are in the mail! thanks for the awesome story!

  3. Tokissthecook wrote:

    Knew you wouldn’t disappoint and glad you caught a thrill from your fall down the family tree- nice to see you in paragraphs again. 4 inch paragraphs with red soles no soul on a sharp heel…you’ve been missed!

  4. timothyMARC wrote:

    hahaha awesome.

    such a good recall of a classic night. sooooo hoping for many more when I head back in decemeber.

    cool blog!


  5. […] KRiSTOPHER explores Tokyo. […]

  6. […] Fashiontribes travels to the Age of Discovery on a sexy Steampunk time bender. KRiSTOPHER explores Tokyo. Papierblog looks at the wisdom behind Banana Republic Monogram stores. Quinta Trends finds a […]

  7. […] shows you how to get Helena Christensen’s entire look for under $125. KRiSTOPHER explores Tokyo. Papierblog looks at the wisdom behind Banana Republic Monogram stores. Quinta Trends finds a […]

  8. KRiSTOPHER DUKES wrote:

    And I’ve missed you! I’m still structuring my other series of stories, but meanwhile, having you so near and not being able to touch you is just too great a temptation.

    But I think you were talking about my writing.

  9. […] KRiSTOPHER hangs with strippers in Tokyo. […]

  10. DAVE wrote:

    Sex is that wonderful number from Patrick/Skinner. WOAH….sex is feeling butter rub up against your skin with out the mess and the clean up. SUPERB number. They do indeed make Lingerie that is not just good enough to have desert first in, but to eat it like a savage who has eyed his prey all day long.

  11. […] bit of a blackhole, I’ve packed just this from Miami to Tokyo to Hong Kong, and, right now, San […]

  12. […] There are few brands I’m a whore for — lingerie by Marlies Dekkers, shoes by Giuseppe, porn by the Japanese — and Maggie Ward is one of them. These silk sweatpants are future […]

  13. […] KRiSTOPHER hangs with strippers in Tokyo. […]

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