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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 Kabukichō, 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.

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Pill producers YAZ are running a contest to redesign the birth control case.

Launched by Project Runway judge Nina Garcia, backed by Step Up Women’s Network and Bayer HealthCare Pharmaceuticals, the contest gives aspiring designers the chance to test their talent.

“The design challenge we’re posing is a fashion transformation unlike any other,” said Garcia. “We’re taking an iconic accessory—the birth control case—and asking aspiring designers to take a shot at redesigning it into a chic, more sophisticated carrying case that they could slip into their purses.”

Design submissions will be accepted until June 30. One winner will receive $10,000 to invest in his or her career dreams, via enrollment in design classes or to buy special design materials and software.

So get to it. I’m over strange-named babies as arm candy. Population and figure control are the new black.

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I’m looking at my legs lazy-stiff in the air, my foot melting into the flesh-colored leather of my stilettos, feeling the bed sheet rub against my naked back. I try to keep quiet, hearing him on the phone, breathing, talking to his Black Card concierge.

“So there aren’t any Elvis chapels open this late? Can you keep looking?”

He puts his Blackberry on the nightstand, muzak crackling through its speakers while a distant man searches for a cheap chapel, though we’re already consummating a fleeting mirage of marriage.

He dives deeper in, and my head tips further back, to face our hotel room window. Upside down, I see the few neon blocks that’s all of Vegas most people will ever know: a miniature of a medieval castle, of the Eiffel tower, of New York, New York. Of the world. It glitters, cheap: the city is an overpriced cocktail that people pay for to cure their pleasure-desert thirst.

I smile at him. “You sure you don’t want to wait until we’re married?”

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“So any idea of what your story will be about?” My dad’s question curves up with his lips; he smiles. After years of telling me my fashion writing was fashioning my writing into meaningless fluff, he was happy to hear I was tired of wordsmithing complicated coos about overpriced shoes on my dot-com. And while I always disagreed–I care less about what I write about and more about how well I write–, I was ready to move from commentator to creator, to build a whole new reality revolving ’round–

“Most likely sex,” I say, reaching for another piece of bread at the same time as him. He pauses, his hand hanging in the air, and lets me take a slice first.

“I’m sorry?” he drawls, still the southern gentleman after more than half a life in Los Angeles. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Sex. More ‘adult’ topics.” I use finger quotes, my polished nails snagging the air in the restaurant. Little hands like his, with the same long fingers. Only mine jammed against a keyboard all day long to make money and pay for blowing bucks at ‘Bucks, and his strummed a guitar to earn a living, when he wasn’t fiddling with the espresso machine he’d taught me to use when I was eight.

“Oh.” He swallows half his beer. The liquid was clear and gold and light, like his faith in Jesus’ virginity and Eve’s original sin.

“Not typical sex writing,” I explain, “not some sort of Sex Mafia and the Cashmere Jungle dating diary. But I think my stories will be situated around sexuality, around gender. Gender’s so much more cultural than physical.” My dad might blame naming his only daughter “Kristopher” for her interest in sex being bendable. “Plus, the sex industry is getting more glossy and pop. Adult toys are like luxury items.”

“I can’t say I’ve noticed.” The rest of his drink disappears. I suppose being sick for a couple weeks had loosened more than just my strict schedule of sleep: my tongue wagged like I imagine it would if I ever drank more than soy lattes (unlike my dad and brothers, I avoided alcohol because I hated to relax my hold on reality). I take a long sip of water, and the ice tinkles like my internal giggling: I’d told my dad I planned my next career move to be a strip tease of words, when I rarely even discussed dating with my parents–my family had first learned about the last boyfriend from my blog.

Maybe now my dad’ll say a little prayer for me at church, which could lead to an extra blessing from god for using my writing to build my heaven on earth. At least god’ll be comfortable with my move. Besides being called upon too often from women in miraculous positions parting a sea of red sheets, it’s written in black and white in the dusty grays of the Bible:

Even Jesus hung with hookers.

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Love isn’t an unconditional feeling inspired by a chubby midget with wings shooting at you.

Love is an emotion sharper than admiration, love is a fair trade of respect with someone who mirrors your values, love is the most holy honor you decide to give someone.

That is, someone you want to enjoy another four-letter word with.

Happy V Day, lovelies.

XXXO,
K

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If dude’s just grinding and groaning, unminding and moaning, a quick in and out without a shout or some sugar –

Dude’s no better than a dild.

Espesh since the dild works without talking, without any risk of drama.

Or asking me about my shoes.