When we smell another’s body, it is that body that we are breathing in through our mouth and nose, 
that we possess instantly, as it were in its most secret substance, its own nature. Once inhaled, the smell is the fusion of the other’s body and my own. ~ Jean-Paul Sartre 

The power of scent influences our human responses during attraction and mating. Love at first sight just may be love at first smell. Perfumes have been created for centuries, as ancient of a practice as we can trace back. Oils, unguents, elixirs, and the like were made for perfuming during and after bathing rituals, anointing one’s body to attract and entice. Our own pheromones are nature’s chemical concoction to attract, allure, and bond us with our mate. Sexual attraction and desire are fueled by scent, along with other contributing factors. But the natural scent of a lover is everlasting in our olfactory memories.

The scent of my lover intoxicates me with desire. When I nuzzle my nose against his skin, I am flooded with emotion. As we kiss, the scent of his upper lip makes my body tingle with a strong sense of devotion for him. I feel this awareness zing through me from his face to my nose, through the bones of my face, down into my breastbone, into my belly, like electrical current into the bones of my hips and down my legs to my toes. It is so powerful, like a magic spell cast over me. The skin of his neck and just near his ear smells so indescribably good and masculine that I feel gravity pull me into him. It’s so strong, I can’t resist. His scent causes a swell of longing to surge through me. When he leaves his clothing behind, I hold it to my face, close my eyes, and remember his embrace. I am obsessed with my lover’s scent.

Gustave Flaubert waxed deliriously with desire over his lover’s scent that lingered on her gloves and slippers. Poet Robert Herrick’s desire for his lover’s intimate scent, whose “breast, lips, hands, thighs, legs … are all richly aromatical,” made him wild with want for her. Napoleon Bonaparte, upon returning home from a long absence due to war, sent a message to his lover Josephine: “Home in three days. Don’t wash.” Washing and cleanliness decrease the musky scent that lovers crave of one another. I must admit, although I do love to bathe and enjoy feeling clean, I also love it when my body smells like sex after making love, because it reminds me of my lover. I feel possessed, scent-marked. But like animals do, marking their scent and licking the scent of others, I want to be scent-marked by my lover’s body. I want to be claimed by him. I inhale the scent of his skin during lovemaking, just his natural scent, without perfumes or deodorant. With my face buried into his armpit, there is nothing like the scent of him, so I breathe him in. It arouses me beyond measure. Kissing his mouth and inhaling my lover’s scent during sex is the most compelling combination of sensory pleasures.

Walt Whitman said the sweat of a lover was “aroma finer than prayer” and I must say I agree. In fact, I’ve discovered that I’m becoming a little fetishistic about the scent of the man I love. He leaves behind a necktie and immediately I smell the narrow part that keeps itself nearest around his neck. I am transported to the warmth of his skin there, the place where my face seeks when we are embracing. I recall the scent of him, remembering the smell when I burrow my face against his warm neck. I hold the thin black fabric to my face and caress it with my cheek. Inhale. Searching for the scent of him, I give the tie another smell along the strip of its silky fabric. Smell again. I discover a hint of his scent. My eyes flutter with the memory and instantly I understand the romantic cliche of smelling handkerchiefs and jackets where the memory of one’s lover exists. There, his white undershirt is draped across the chair. I gather the softness to my face. I smell the faintest scent of his body and take another deep inhale to find his odor at the armpit. His body odor is so delicately fragrant that I have to bury my nose. We recently both discovered our mutual love of each other’s smell, so when he is on top of me during sex, he generously offers his armpit to my face. I delight, savor, and relish him then. It drives me near to orgasm and I’m ecstatic with the fragrance of his underarm, his cock deep within me, his breath near my ear.

We both recently learned about how much we have been enjoying each other’s scent— the lingering scents of our bodies and sexual blending of our odors after lovemaking. He admitted to inhaling my sexual musk from behind, burying his nose in between my bottom cheeks, tonguing me there, and then tasting my sex, breathing it in, the femaleness. Even the remaining odors of my sex upon his, as it lingers the following day, he takes pleasure in. I admit my own renifleur delight of his body, the many areas of his body I love to smell, and even more when it has been a day or two after he has washed. Underneath his arms, his upper lip, his cheek, neck, the sultry musk of his sex, the creases in between his legs, and down underneath his balls, the area around his ass, and further. His feet smell good, and when I massage his toes, I am tempted to either suckle them or smell them. I can’t decide. The inner arch of his foot, the in between of his toes. I want him in a way that I have never known before. You see, I have never desired a man this much, and this may just be my first fascination with a lover’s scent. If pheromones are the cause, then it really was love at first smell.

“Masculine exhalations are, as a rule, stronger, more vivid, more widely differentiated than those of women. In the odor of young men there is something elemental, as of fire, storm, and salt sea. It pulsates with buoyancy and desire. It suggests all the things strong and beautiful and joyous and gives me a sense of physical happiness.” ~ Helen Keller

From Diane Ackerman’s book A Natural History of the Senses there is a plentitude of information on scent and smell. I found many curious and interesting facts about pheromones and desire in her book about the senses:

“Pheromones are the pack animals of desire (from Greek, pherein, to carry, and horman, excite). Animals, like us, not only have distinctive odors, they also have powerfully effective pheromones, which trigger other animals into ovulation and courtship, or establish hierarchies of influence and power.

Animals would not be able to live long without pheromones because they couldn’t mark their territories or choose receptive, fertile mates. But are there human pheromones? And can they be bottled? Some trendy women in Manhattan are wearing a perfume called Pheromone, priced at three hundred dollars an ounce. Expensive perhaps, but what price aphrodisia? Based on findings about the sexual attractants animals give off, the perfume promises, by implication, to make a woman smell provocative and turn stalwart men into slaves of desire: love zombies. The odd thing about the claims of this perfume is that its manufacturer has not specified which pheromones are in it. Human pheromones have not yet been identified by researchers, whereas, say, boar pheromones have. The vision of a generation of young women walking the streets wearing boar pheromones is strange, even for Manhattan. Let me propose a naughty recipe: Turn loose a herd of sows on Park Avenue. Mix well with crowds of women wearing Pheromone eau de cologne. Dial 911 for emergency.”

I recall the first day we met. He embraced me right away, and I swooned against him, my face fitting into his chest. We kissed and kissed, the warmth, the scent of his skin. Everywhere I met a new scent upon his body. The faint hint of shampoo in his hair, no cologne nor deodorant to hunt through for his natural aroma.

Unnameable fragrance, mysterious. I could not argue with instinct. I wanted him more than any other man in the world. He became the entire universe in the moment of his kiss.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent, starving I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disquiets me,

I search the liquid sound of your steps all day.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

For your hands the color of the wild grain,

I hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your loveliness,

The nose, sovereign of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

And I walk hungry, smelling the twilight

Looking for you, for your hot heart,

Like a puma in the barren wilderness.

Pablo Neruda wrote this poem about craving a lover’s mouth, with the last line, and I walk hungry, smelling the twilight, looking for you. The animalistic hunger of wanting a lover, searching for them in the scent of twilight, wanting to eat them from the intensity of desire. And like Jean-Paul Sartre said, Once inhaled, the smell [of a lover] is the fusion of the other’s body and my own. 

It was forbidden, that street. When I was a girl, I was not allowed to go down that road. My mother had made it clear  that I could only go as far as the end of our street when I went out on my bicycle, never to wander. The forbidden street was at the bottom of the hill, just to the left, at the end. The entrance was shaded with trees, sloping down into the park. At the end, the road turned into hiking trails, eucalyptus trees, mystery.

I wanted him to drive me through the neighborhood where I grew up, where I skinned my knees from bicycle falls, where I played and drew in colored chalk on the sidewalk. We drove around and up and through the hills, my memory as a girl following along the asphalt. “Where can we go?” he asks. I give him a look, wanting. We kiss quickly. He leans close to me as he curves the moving car through the narrow roads, guiding the steering wheel through my childhood memories. I nestle my head into the scoop of his shoulder, planting little kisses lightly along his neck, nuzzling my nose to smell his skin. I trail my fingers along the edge of his ear, the curving shell roundness of it. Just then, at the bottom of the hill, was the forbidden street I wasn’t supposed to go down.

“Let’s go down that street. Turn here.”

The street is quiet. There are houses on one side. The other side is hidden by the densely wooded brush and trees. The tires crackle slowly along the road. We look for a spot to park. I have butterflies in my stomach and a melancholy ache in my bones. He turns the car around at the end, finding a place. We kiss for a moment. It’s dark, headlights off, streetlights buzzing in their orange glow. We can hear someone’s television in the distance. Like teenagers on a date, we cannot wait to kiss. I clasp his face lightly with my hands. The natural scent of him, his warm mouth melting against mine, I’m intoxicated by his kiss. He leans across the center and unbuckles his seatbelt. The click of his seatbelt undone, the sound, opens a place in my body. My blouse, my wide leather belt, my jeans, the seatbelt—confining me. I want to remove everything, remove the things in my life that keep me from him. I want undoing. I unbuckle my heeled sandals. I undo the seatbelt. His hands tuck up underneath my hair. He pulls my face deeper into our kiss.

His mouth and mine, his mouth, mine.

I look out the window into the nigh, and see myself as a girl, running down toward the end where the dirt path begins. I see myself looking back at the older me in the car. She knows— that little girl— where I am going. Whatever she knows, it’s discovered here, this secret place at the end of this street. She sees me, thirty years later, in a minivan full of my children’s things– a baby seat, a baseball bag, the sand toys for the beach all cluttered in the trunk, kissing a man I am having an affair with, a man I am falling in love with, in the dark, stealing a moment away. Secret. It seems that my life has come to this secret and hidden end of a street, to rediscover something forgotten within me.

We climb into the back of the van, my jeans pulled off, removing my belt, my pussy wet, his hard sex in my hand. “You are so hard,” I marvel, as the length and swell of his cock is warm and heavy with thick arousal. I caress his sex with one hand. I cup his balls with the other. He is sitting on the seat, half dressed, still wearing his shirt. I lean up and into him, kissing him deeply. Holding his body to mine, my blouse is sticking from sweat and desire, the fabric coming between the smoothness of our bodies. I want to feel him naked and breathing upon me. I pull the fabric away to feel his belly and chest against mine. He pulls his shirt away, too. We want our skin touching. I want to dissolve into him where the world is golden-yellow and soft like sunlight in summertime memories. I want to melt away into the light as he plunges his body into mine. No barriers, nothing between us, not even the years we lived so close to one another, never knowing that all this time, we were already close in parallel existence. I want his hunger, his sadness, his memories, all of his colors inside of me, blending both of our shadows, touching, like watercolors all bleeding together until the paper is saturated with imperfect beauty.

My lover’s face in the shadows is luminous and delicate. There is something within him that is intangible, revealing itself to me. His face is like moonlight through a raincloud. I put my hand to his cheek, making sure he is there. Here in the dark, the blueness of the evening, illuminated by the amber street lamps lighting the shadows within ourselves, the forgotten places within us can no longer stay hidden. I open my eyes to see him in the dark. He cannot see me entirely. We can only see each other in the half-light. We are shadows of each other. We are radiant with desire, opening and tasting what is true, kissing him, kissing him. By this desire, he is awakening my soul. His fingers and hands light along my body, undoing me, releasing me, bringing me back to life.

I feel released from everything when we kiss. Nothing is binding me to the gravity of my existence. I am a butterfly coming out of a chrysalis. I am returning to myself within his embrace, by his kiss. We move around in the back, trying to find the right position. We kiss, and I laugh like a teenage girl. My legs are up, bare and dangling over his shoulder. He can’t see my face at all now. What he can see he finds with his hands. He discovers me in the slip of my wanting. My skin against his, my pussy is flowering with ripeness, and, as he touches me there, as he slides his fingers inside, he has me, he possesses me— all of me— the girl running down the street and the woman in the back seat of the car.

We kiss. I press my body into his. My hands are slipping all around his shoulders, feeling the fabric of his shirt, flattening my palms, smoothing and stroking his chest, squeezing his arms, and pulling him against me. I want him inside of me. My hands caress up along the back of his neck. My fingernails claw into his black hair. I have this erotic need to kiss him in the back of the car, half naked like this. It brings moments from girlhood into womanhood colliding within me like a surreal dream. I pretend it is him that I first gave myself to in the back of a car. I pretend, all this time, it was he, this man I see in the half-light, the blue shadows curving along his handsome face, his smile, his sighs. I suckle his lower lip, and he says something, pulling away, mystified, searching for my face. He says something beautiful. He is beatific in that moment. I suck his lip in a kiss again, and the same reaction comes. He is searching for my face. The kissing is making us dizzy with the feeling we have. We are in this dream together, looking out the windows at the broken indigo and granite colors, just shapes now, the houses, the street. We are dreaming each other. What we cannot see with our eyes, we can see with our hands, with our kisses. We can see everything about each other and all the years that paralleled themselves, bringing us to this moment, all the secrets once so elusive, now illuminated.

Thirty years before, I ran down that street, not supposed to go there, not allowed. Danger. My mother worried about someone kidnapping me, taking me away. Now, I want to be taken, I want someone to kidnap me. “Take me,” I whisper.

We are in the back of the van. My body is longing for him to be deep inside of me. I am sucking him as he straddles the farthest back seat, slinking into a position so I can take his cock into my mouth. My face nuzzles into his belly, making my way down. I inhale his musky scent, petting the soft nest of hair there with my palm, pressing down upon where his pubic bone meets the base of his sex. Tenderly I open my mouth to take him in, my mouth wet, longing to suck him, licking the head, savoring the length of his erect cock. He is hard. So hard, I have never felt him harder than that. I want him to kidnap me, just take me and take me. I don’t want to go back. I want to run away. I want him so much I can’t imagine how it’s happened. It consumes me, this want, and there’s no stopping it.

Outside the car windows, it’s deep night. We can only hear our breath and our sighing, our desire for one another climbing over the velour car seats, reaching the branches of the trees outside, shaking. I am shaking with orgasms. He gives them to me, over and over until everything blurs together and I don’t know who I am anymore.

The gray concrete of the street softly encompasses us. There is no time, only our breath, our hands, our kisses. My body sinks upon him, I climb upon him, slide him within me. When I am like this, on top of him, I am his. I belong to him, and that is what I need. It doesn’t really matter what we do, or how we do it.

He moves us down onto the carpeted floor of the back of the van. My leg is cramped against the side of the car interior. I cannot see his face now, but he can see mine by the dim light of the window. I feel him watching me as I ride him, moaning a little, feeling the marvelous way his cock slides in and half out of my cunt, my wet and juicy place where he is entering me. He grasps the sides of my hips, holding me upon him. He holds, squeezes me, and shakes my fleshy hips with yearning. I feel like a woman. When he holds my hips like that, I feel him possess me. The softest place of me, not just the inside of my body, but the most secret place, he finds, he uncovers. I am naked inside. I am his. I am myself again.

“Love is an attempt at penetrating another being, but it can only succeed if the surrender is mutual.” ~Octavio Paz

Surrendering to another person is an exquisite feeling. It is also terrifying. It’s been a part of my psyche and played its role in my soul’s growth. Being a submissive type of woman— only when I’m in control of that, mind you— I take pleasure in relinquishing all. In most cases, romantically speaking, I’ve been the one that’s sought after, desired, and taken. In the moment of the taking, I delight in the feeling of giving myself over to the passionate experience of love, lust or whatever you have in mind. Only once did I ever pursue and aggressively ‘take’ a man (to bed), and it was not exactly the kind of experience that suited my needs. You see, I love to surrender. (I do have a funny story about that moment, but that I will save for another time.) There is a deliciousness that builds from sexual tension. The surrender, then, is blissful, yielding, opening.

“This hunger of the eyes, skin, of the whole body and spirit, which made others criminals, robbers, rapers, barbarians, which caused wars, invasions, plundering and murder, in Djuna, at the age of puberty, alchemized into love. Whatever was missing she became: she became mother, father, cousin, brother, friend, confidant, guide, companion to all. This power of absorption, this sponge of receptivity which might have fed itself forever to fill the early want, she used to receive all communication of the need of others. The need and hunger became nourishment. Her breasts, which no poverty had been able to wither, were heavy with the milk of lucidity, the milk of devotion.

This hunger. . . became love.

While wearing the costume of utter femininity, the veils and the combs, the gloves and the perfumes, the muffs and the heels of femininity, she nevertheless disguised in herself an active lover of the world, the one was was actively roused by the object of his love, the one who was made strong as man is made strong in the center of his being by the softness of his love.

Loving in men and women, not their strength but their softness, not their fullness but their hunger, not their plenitude but their needs.”  ~ Ladders to Fire, Anais Nin

Surrender is ecstasy when you allow it. The loss of control, letting go of everything, and giving over to something or someone is a kind of freedom. When I gave birth the second time, I had to learn how to let go. Birthing is the biggest letting go one can do. My first childbirth experience was not like that at all. I refused to let go, and I suffered. So, the second time I gave birth I practiced the art of letting go. It was a psychedelic experience. My body knew what to do. The body itself has an innate and supremely ancient wisdom. Letting go is all about trust. Tension causes pain. I learned this the hard way the first time. The second and third time I gave birth, pure joy. By completely letting go and surrendering to the experience of childbirth, I saw everything sparkle. Colors were vivid, and I had a big “a-ha” moment. As I was about to give birth, I looked at my birthing doula and laughed quizzically, “I don’t know.” She smiled, seemed amused, and said, “What don’t you know?”

I laughed, “I don’t know.”

This was the funniest thing in the world, at the very moment of birth, I had no idea about anything. It was a riddle, and it was an answer. It was everything and nothing. It was complete surrender. Joy, of course, came after.

Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips. 
~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Kissing is surrendering to another. In the first moment of giving in to a passionate feeling, the kiss opens us. We are tender, full of emotion. There is an eroticism in being vulnerable. Surrendering to passion is giving in to the moment of desire, letting it sweep you away. Being taken by emotion, the yielding is what happens, opening ourselves— mind, body, and soul. Being psychologically penetrated is a kind of surrender. Opening one’s mind to another’s—sharing experiences, telling tales and stories about one’s life— is a form of surrender. Letting another into our metaphorical hearts, there is actual physical pain in the center of one’s chest. It’s not pleasant; it feels like standing on the edge of a balcony looking downward— falling in love— and just may be equal to the sensation of jumping out of a plane. For some. For me, at least.

The feeling of opening one’s self, whether it be all at once or over a period of years, is surrendering to love. And what if the parachute is broken? Then what?

“Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.” ~Albert Einstein 

Ah, the mysteries of sex. Like a labyrinth, the mystery of erotic love is an adventure that takes me deep within my soul. There’s no reasoning, no logic. Life takes on a mythical and magical quality. I discover and decipher. I feel fine-tuned for creative energy. I see things clearly; I feel intensely. Alive, full of fire, music and the elemental and invisible wonders of life. During a passionate moment, I have seen the most beautiful things within my lover’s eyes. The invisible becomes visible within the heart. Sweat from his body smells good. I can’t kiss his mouth enough, and I want him like nothing else in the world. I want him, desire him. I feel it deep in my bones. There are no words. Everything that comes out of my mouth sounds cliché. The only thing I can do is express this feeling with active affection and passion. Grasping his hair during sex, squeezing his body against mine, biting his shoulder, kissing his mouth— hunger, fire. I write poetry, I paint, I write. I am in the moment, and I feel alive. Inspiration comes from the darkness. From the invisible threads woven through my chemistry, the power of sex is the seed of creativity. Sex becomes a spiritual opening, a doorway to the mystery. A passage through the labyrinth with a thread of red fleece. The pleasure of yes is surrendering to love, surrendering to passion and desire.

“I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he
 asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first
 I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so 
he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was
 going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”
 ~James Joyce

James Joyce wrote this letter to his beloved Nora:

My dear Nora,

It has just struck me. I came in at half past eleven. Since then I have been sitting in an easy chair like a fool. I could do nothing. I hear nothing but your voice. I am like a fool hearing you call me ‘Dear.’ I offended two men today by leaving them coolly. I wanted to hear your voice, not theirs.


When I am with you I leave aside my contemptuous, suspicious nature. I wish I felt your head on my shoulder. I think I will go to bed.


I have been a half-hour writing this thing. Will you write something to me? I hope you will. How am I to sign myself? I won’t sign anything at all, because I don’t know what to sign myself.

(James Joyce)

Passionate love overwhelms the senses. The lover is on fire. When in love, I can’t think. I can’t do anything but crave my lover’s touch, hear their voice, and, even in the daily routines of life, I am consumed by the flame of desire.

Love is like a friendship caught on fire. 
In the beginning a flame, very pretty, 
Often hot and fierce, 
But still only light and flickering. 
As love grows older, 
Our hearts mature 
and our love becomes as coals, 
Deep-burning and unquenchable. 
~ Bruce Lee 

Fire is a common thread among lovers past and present. When experiencing the feeling of falling in love, I have also felt the fire of passion wildly burning inside of me. Erotic love and all the colors of passion are full of fire and symbols of transformative yearning.

A letter by Napoleon Bonaparte to his lover Josephine:

I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil. Sweet, incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart!

Are you angry? Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried?… My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for your lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart, a love which consumes me with fire? Ah! it was last night that I fully realized how false an image of you your portrait gives!

 You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours.

 Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.
 (Napoleon Bonaparte)

Napoleon mentions that “a love which consumes (him) with fire” and that Josephine’s kisses “set (his) blood on fire” so he asks her not to give any kisses in return. He is already burning.

Another love letter by Victor Hugo to his amor:

My dearest,

When two souls, which have sought each other for, however long in the throng, have finally found each other …a union, fiery and pure as they themselves are… begins on earth and continues forever in heaven.

This union is love, true love, … a religion, which deifies the loved one, whose life comes from devotion and passion, and for which the greatest sacrifices are the sweetest delights.

This is the love which you inspire in me… Your soul is made to love with the purity and passion of angels; but perhaps it can only love another angel, in which case I must tremble with apprehension.

Yours forever,

Victor Hugo 

The transcendent aspect of passionate love is an erotic exhilaration for the soul. The eyes, the voice, the smell, the taste, and every bit of the beloved sends the lover into a rapturous moment. Delicious passionate sex, open-hearted and orgasmic, bring two people closer to the gods and goddesses of myth and legend, to angels, to transform them into fire and blaze into ether, where they return into the stars and the universe.

“At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” ~Plato

Slipping his fingers into my wet and wanting sex,  he pulls aside my apron from behind as my ass lifts a little higher. I’m leaning over the kitchen sink. He has three fingers buried deep into my pussy; my lips are swollen with a delicious melting sensation. More. The bottle of gourmet olive oil. He spies it on the counter and reaches for it. Pressing his arousal hotly against my bare behind, he pours some of the oil into one hand and slathers my bottom up with it. The delicate perfume of olives fills the kitchen in the heat of the day. With the slippery olive oil he deftly presses his thumb— his one thumb that is wide and slightly flattened– slowly against the tender entrance of my ass. Pushing gently inside, it sinks in slow. His fingers work themselves deeper into my pussy. Deeper. He’s got a way of doing this where I can only surrender to the pleasure. I want his hardening cock inside of me too, but his hands are causing me to vibrate with excitement. I can’t think of anything else. He takes his other hand and, with the long tips of his index and second finger, circles my clit in light, little motions. He flutters his fingers back and forth, lightly, the way he taps an eggshell against a bowl. He pinches my clit and plays with it like sprinkling spices into a pot. The ache of his three fingers in my pussy and the girth of his thumb inside my ass is exquisite. I want him so much that my whole body responds to him like a pot of boiling water, simmering and rolling into heat. He has full control of my body with his hand. He kneels down on the kitchen floor, burying his face in between my legs. His hot mouth is tonguing my pussy, trailing his kiss up, spreading my cheeks open, licking, tasting. I moan with desire, clutching the Formica countertop. Being in the kitchen with him couldn’t get any hotter. His fingers stir me into a froth of lust.

When we are at dinner in a restaurant, sitting side by side, he trails his hand to my thigh, delving downward in between my legs. His fingers tempt me under the dinner table, coaxing the edge of my panties aside, teasing, just until my body bubbles with desire, so close to climax. He smiles mischievously, observing my response. He drinks his wine coolly, watches me with a sideways glance, as I try to not to show anything in my expression. He’s sly and just a bit naughty. Other diners at surrounding tables might notice. Sometimes I just don’t care, it’s so good, what he does to me with his hands.

His hands. Looking upon the shape of them sends shivers of longing through me, sensations I cannot describe. There aren’t any words that can explain the way they undo me, bit by bit, like sugar dissolving.

I watch him peel shrimp in the kitchen. He’s holding the knife steady, his index finger is pressed against the outer part of the blade. With precision, he deftly cuts along the spine of the shrimp, pink and quivering in his grip. I understand how that shrimp feels, much like the way I am when in his command. At the wooden cutting block, he conducts with his chef’s knife— he’s finely chopping fresh wide leaves of mint, frilly clumps of cilantro, his fingers nimbly mincing the green leaves into submission. He scoops the herbs into a bowl as I watch, enthralled by the way his hands take such loving care with what he is making. The watermelon and cucumber, all cubed and ready, shimmer with watery urgency. His long fingers casually shimmy among them, dipping into the bowl, tossing and dressing it with a squeeze of lime. The juice spurts into the bowl. He squeezes the lime until its pulp feathers and separates from the green rind. I notice the juice covering his fingernails, tips of his fingers, palm of his hand. It smells good and citrussy. He pulls me close and kisses me. I smell fragrant mint and juicy lime on his fingers as he touches my face. Then he’s back to preparing our meal. I delight in watching him drizzle olive oil into another bowl; stirring the dressing with the stainless whisk. He slices corn off the cob. While I stand there, barefoot in my sundress, watching him like a little girl, he smiles the faintest hint of a smile. He knows I am melting inside down to the marrow with want. My body is responding from the buttery center of my rising lust, a soufflé of creamy desire.

He sets the two dishes down on the dining table. Just a simple dish: shrimp in a dressing of olive oil, lime, honey, mint, cilantro, corn, watermelon and cucumber— the fragrance and sweetness, the pleasure. He caresses my thigh with one hand as I taste a mouthful of his creation, and suddenly, from the very core of my body, I am shuddering with some kind of mysterious reaction to the meal made aphrodisiac by his hands. I am melting with tenderness. I am noticing how he holds his fork. His index finger points into the silver handle of the fork, controlling its motion. My thoughts are percolating, the agitation in my body won’t stop. His other hand is warm and smooth against my thigh. I am shaking; my knees are gelatinous and unable to hold still. He slides his hand softly along my leg. My mouth is full of watermelon and shrimp, and I can’t stop giggling. I am so moved I want to cry from the joy. Another kind of orgasm, one coming from the depths of me, ripples from within, and all I can do is surrender to it. His eyes gleam at me like champagne glasses as he gives a fizzy smile. We eat from our dishes, and I taste slowly, savoring each mouthful. The heat of his hand and the way he made our dinner is whipping up some unknown place inside my body. A kiss with flavors of watermelon, olive oil, honey and mint on our tongues, the sea-sweetness of the pink fresh shrimp, the tang of pleasure.

Later, again, after the food, in the kitchen, his hands hug my hips close. We embrace. The warmth of his palms travels up my body, wraps in and cups around my breasts, kissing. He holds my face in his hands. The faint scent of herbs, like a magic spell from his fingertips, intoxicates me with its summery bouquet. He gazes into my eyes. I am trembling. I’m in love.

In the floating world where all things change

Love never changes by promising never to change.

(Geisha song)

Courtesans, Prostitutes, & Geisha

During Edo-period Japan (1600-1867), the yujo were the highest class of all courtesans. These sex professionals were trained in the bedroom arts from the time they were young: blossoming into womanhood, mastering the erotic arts, flourishing as a prostitute of a high order. Prostitution during that era of Japan was legal, but carefully licensed. One such ‘red lantern district’ was Shimabara, the Pleasure Quarter of Kyoto. Another was Yoshiwara, the Pleasure District of Edo (Tokyo).

The yujo were not geisha. They were the royalty of prostitutes, the refined artisans of erotica and lovemaking. Seduction was their art form from the way they used their harigata (dildo) to how to pleasure a man (shakuhachi しゃくはち or fellatio). Yujo knew about aphrodisiacs and the exotic practice of kissing (seppun). The Yujo women were “love artists.”

This romantic era of Japan was called Ukiyo

(Japanese: 浮世 “Floating World”)

From the Wikipedia resource, this Renaissance period of art and pleasure described the Edo pleasure district as:

“Yoshiwara, the licensed red-light district of Edo (modern Tokyo), which was the site of many brothels, chashitsu tea houses, and kabuki theaters frequented by Japan’s growing middle class. 

People involved in mizu shōbai (水商売) (“the water trade”) would include hōkan (comedians), kabuki (popular theatre of the time), dancers, dandies, rakes, tea-shop girls, Kanō (painters of the official school of painting), courtesans who resided in seirō (green houses) and geisha in their okiya houses.

The courtesans would consist of  yujo (women of pleasure/prostitutes), kamuro (young female students), shinzō (senior female students), hashi-jōro (lower-ranking courtesans), kōshi-jōro (high-ranking courtesans just below tayū), tayū (high-ranking courtesans), oiran (“castle-topplers,” named that way for how quickly they could part a daimyō (lord) from his money), yarite (older chaperones for an oiran), and the yobidashi who replaced the tayū when they were priced out of the market.

In addition to courtesans, there were also geisha/geiko, maiko (apprentice geishas), otoko geisha (male geishas), danna (patrons of a geisha), and okasan (geisha teahouse managers). The lines between geisha and courtesans were sharply drawn, however – a geisha was never to be sexually involved with a customer, though there were exceptions.

The term “water trade” (mizu-shobai 水商売) is the “floating world” which is metaphor for floating, drinking, and impermanence. Sex was like water. Water was “yin” and feminine, and, conversely, a man’s sexual energy was “yang” energy. Sex during the Edo-period Ukiyo life was imbued with poetry, art, and dream-like desire. Longing and secrets, mystery and lust.

Waiting anxiously for you

Unable to sleep, but falling into a doze—

Are those words of love

Floating to my pillow,

Or is this too a dream…?

My eyes open and here is my tear-drenched sleeve.

Perhaps it was a sudden rain.

(Geisha song)

Geisha were not permitted to have sexual relations with the yujo’s customers. The term “Geisha” means “Artist” and the art of Geisha was entertainment— dance, shamisen playing, and flirtatious conversation. The yujo were the sexual artists, great lovers, and ladies of pleasure. They were elegant enchantresses of the pillow.

Within the shoji screened worlds of tea houses, brothels, and the theater, geisha and yujo were not the only women of pleasure. There were varying levels of class and status within their own floating worlds— the Shiro (white) Geisha that entertained and flirted, the Joro (whore) Geisha were the tawdry types, and the Machi (town) Geisha were former dancing girls (odoriko). Lower class prostitutes and amateur whores were illegally working the towns outside of pleasure districts.

Even further into darkness were the unmentioned girls and women that came into the world of prostitution without a choice. Girls sold into brothels, not the beautiful sort of life that the yujo and geisha led. The Yoshiwara district alone was home to about 1,750 women in the 18th century.

Geisha embody the extreme feminine allure in Japan, as opposed to the wife’s position in Japanese society. Geisha are witty and elicit fantasies; they intrigue and delight. The wife at home may appreciate the geisha’s art of entertaining her husband, relieving her of such matters. The wife ruled the domestic household and her husband’s finances, raised children, while the geisha entertained, flirted, and enchanted.

Artists of the Floating World: Erotic Paintings

Shunga-e paintings were the erotica of the Edo-period, and the artists that created shunga-e were sometimes the same as those who made the famous Ukiyo-e woodblock prints— famous artists of Edo were also the creators of erotic prints and pornographic fantasies.

Artists of the Erotic Shunga-e were also great artists in general. Such as Katsushika Hokusai, who created Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji (富嶽三十六景 Fugaku Sanjūrokkei) and the famous image The Great Wave off Kanagawa (神奈川沖浪裏 Kanagawa Oki Nami Ura).

Hokusai’s erotic art was also made with great talent. Most notably, The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife

(蛸と海女 Tako to ama, Octopus and shell diver).

Making love with you

Is like drinking sea water.

The more I drink

The thirstier I become,

Until nothing can slake my thirst

But to drink the entire sea.

(Marichiko)

(Hokusai ~ Exhausted Lovers)

Romantic & Erotic Love in Ancient Japan

Romance and courtship in Heian-period Japan, pre-Edo times set in ancient Kyoto (Heian-kyo), painted the landscape for lovers brushing their hearts out in calligraphy into fervent love letters. Poetry was the vehicle of erotic love, longing, passion and desire. Lovemaking etiquette was such that even the ladies of the court and their noblemen were hot for sex and romance, writing poems to pursue, to enchant, and to express their innermost secrets of their hearts.

 An excerpt from Lesley Downer’s book, Women of the Pleasure Quarters: The Secret History of Geisha:

“But what made Heian period most extraordinary was the way in which art and the cult of beauty were bound up with love. For more than sexual desire or gut-wrenching passion, love was an art form, an opportunity to put brush to paper, to immortalize the moment in a small literary gem.

Having heard that a certain lady was very beautiful or, even more titillating, had beautiful handwriting, a nobleman would sit down to compose a waka, a thirty-one syllable poem, and brush it, in his finest calligraphy, on delicately hued scented paper. When she received it, the lady would assess the handwriting and color of the paper as well as the wit and appropriateness of the poem before brushing a reply. The nobleman would be waiting with bated breath to see whether her handwriting and poem lived up to expectations.

If the exchange of poems was satisfactory, he would eventually assay a visit. He would creep in at night and immediately, in the pitch darkness, remove his clothes, lift the silken counterpane, lie down on the hard straw mat next to the lady and without further ado consummate the relationship. Slipping away before dawn, he would then brush an eloquent morning-after poem, bewailing the rising of the sun or the crowing of the cock announcing the hour of farewell. The lady in her turn would brush a reply. Thus through poems they communicated their decision as to whether to continue the affair or not.”

Erecting like

The upwards curve of a

Threatening shakuhachi

The shakuhachi is a flute, and ‘shakuhachi curve’ suggests a strong penis. The phallic symbol of the instrument allowed Edo-minded lovers to playfully muse about fellatio. As provocative as blowing a flute was to the lustful minds of Ukiyo era, the flute was used in many woodblocks prints to suggest the oral pleasure. Other slang terms for sex and sexual innuendos were “jade gate” for a woman’s sex and “jade stalk” and “matsutake” (or mushroom) for a man’s penis, and “selling spring” was to suggest selling sex, as the season “Spring” was utilized in poems and the sex trade as a multi-purpose term for sex.

I hold your head tight

Between my thighs and press

Against your mouth and

Float away forever in

An orchid boat 

On the River of Heaven.

(Marichiko)

Geisha & Prostitutes in Love

Geisha were not allowed by their very nature to fall in love. Neither were prostitutes. It was the danger of the heart that neither sort could manage. It would mean disaster for their very existence as temptresses. To pretend to love was one thing. To fall in love was another thing entirely. Flirtation and courting was full of sexual desire— the art of seduction was a play, an illusion. So then, what happens when the geisha or the prostitute falls in love?

Historically in such circumstances the geisha and prostitute were ruined, overcome by passion and desire, the longing too great for them to handle while luring and beguiling other men. Suddenly, the art of seduction she used for others is seemingly powerless, as her heart is unable to bear the games she once so artfully played, with her mind lost in reverie for her lover. She becomes overwhelmed by dreams of running away with her beloved. No longer can she play the seductress to the many men that pay her for her attentions. She is consumed by passion and caught in the great tidal pull of life’s mystery: Love.

Love me. At this moment we

Are the happiest 

People in the world.

(Marichiko)

And her art and erotic craft is love. Like the saying “live by the sword, die by the sword,” the prostitute and geisha, artists of seduction and flirtation, are the femme fatales, the unattainable feminine, for which men would do anything for, and therefore the power they wield is turned upon them. Longing. Heartache. Waiting.

Night without end. Loneliness.

The wind has driven a maple leaf

Against the shoji. I wait, as in the 

old days,

In our secret place, under the

full moon.

The last bell crickets sing.

I found your old love letters,

Full of poems you never published.

Did it matter? 

They were only for me.

(Marichiko)

In this world

love has no color—

yet how deeply

my body

is stained by yours.

(Izumi Shikibu)

There are many stories about geisha and prostitutes falling in love with their customers that are married and cannot change their lives or young and impoverished men that cannot rescue them out of their bondage or position. In such cases, the solution was death. Like Romeo and Juliet, the lovers were doomed to tragedy. Kabuki plays such as Love Suicides at Sonezaki re-enacted the true story of a double suicide in 1703 by the great Japanese dramatist Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653-1724) known as the “Shakespeare of Japan.”  The story was about a beautiful courtesan Ohatsu that falls in love with handsome Tokubei, who is too poor to buy her out of her position as prostitute. He cannot follow through with his arranged marriage to another, due to his love for Ohatsu. His dowry already granted to him for his arranged marriage is then revoked by his uncle. The story continues and sorrow unfolds as the star-crossed lovers cannot be together.

 Black hair

Tangled in a thousand strands

Tangled my hair and

Tangled my tangled memories

Of our long nights of lovemaking.

(Yosano Akiko)

But sometimes, when lovers meet, the erotic desire flames their very souls. Even as a customer pays for sex and affections, whether pretended or not, it enters a realm that is human. It can be a source of inspiration. The nature of sex is union, when two lovers are as one. Regardless of money and position, sex is the essence of life and the mystery of our being alive. If sex and flirtation and the realm of erotic are the prostitute’s trade, then the question is — what does the prostitute do when she herself falls in love? How can she continue being a lover to many men, when she only wants to belong to the one man she loves? Like any other, she feels it ravage her very soul— awakening her, making her feel alive, passionate, and creative. The heart has its own reasons and mysteries. But how can she give her body to other men for money (her livelihood) when her instinct is to be devoted to the one she loves?

 Your tongue thrums and moves

Into me, and I become

Hollow and blaze with

Whirling light, like the inside

Of a vast expanding pearl.

(Marichiko)

 ”To fall in love is to play with fire,” Beautiful Eiko laughed. She had a tumbling mane of silky black hair, porcelain skin, and a mouth that tempted. She had many customers that adored her, dazzled her with gifts and exquisite kimonos. Then she met a man who had nothing but himself to give. He listened to her, understood her. For the first time in her life, she felt alive, inspired by love. But their love affair had to be secret. She was locked within the world of the prostitute’s life. This was unbearable for Eiko. When other men touched her, she felt only her lover’s hands. When other men embraced her, she longed for her lover only. When in the arms of her beloved, he became the only man in her world. She only wanted him, to belong to him, as her love was an all consuming passion, the very fire that awakened her soul and lit her aflame with desire.

No different, really—

a summer moth’s 

visible burning 

and this body,

transformed by love.

(Izumi Shikibu)

{References used for this article: Downer, Lesley, Women of the Pleasure Quarters: The Secret History of the Geisha, and Dalby, Liza, Geisha}

Spanking. The rules of the dungeon were such as to initiate me as a submissive. No one graduated to become a dominatrix until they were a submissive first. I wore a white lace bodice that corseted me in and a garter belt with white thigh-high stockings. My submissive attire was to look girlish and innocent. Sweet. And I’m real good at being sweet. I’m a darling girl.

The dominatrix took me into a room fashioned like a classroom. In place were school desks and a chalkboard. She gently bent me over the teacher’s desk. Wearing her black latex outfit and shiny thigh high boots, she looked like a rocker from the late 80′s. I almost expected to see an electric guitar strapped to the front of her. In a way, she looked like Nancy Wilson from the rock band Heart. She was excited that I was so willing to become a submissive. Her thrill bubbling over her cool exterior, she was gentle when guiding my hips into position. Much like a yoga instructor helping me out with the proper pose of “down dog,” she angled my ample bottom into an upwards place. Contrary to my ideas of dominatrix behavior, she was, well… sweet to me.

This was when I realized the connection between my arousal and the sense of trust and safety. Mental connection and mutual respect needs to be the foundation for such explorations. The dominatrix was doing her best to make me comfortable, without pushing me beyond my threshold.

While I was bending over the teacher’s desk, the dominatrix gave my bottom a light swat with her leather paddle. It felt a little cold and kind of soft. The sting didn’t come until a few more swats to my behind. I felt a flush of excitement thrum through my body—my neck turned red and splotched, my face tingled. I was blushing. My body was responding with arousal. She didn’t say much but mentioned that she’d have to give me a number of spanks in order to train me properly as a submissive. The paddle was warming up, and the swats turned into full leather blows to my cushiony bottom. The ample amount of tush I had served me well. She caressed one of my cheeks with her hand, feeling the heat. She devilishly remarked how red my bottom was getting and giggled. It seemed as though she was enjoying it with all the mischievous glee of a naughty child stealing a cookie.

And just when I was getting into it… she was done. My eyes were glazing, my head lowered, facing the desk. A rush of sexual tingling flowed through my sex. I was swollen and wet; juicy through my white lace panties. I wanted her to do it more. The desks were all orderly, lined up in the classroom, facing the chalkboard like good children. I gave her a demure schoolgirl look like I wanted to be taken. I was aroused by the spanking, my breathing was heavy, and if she had pulled my hair and took me with a dildo I would have allowed her to.

“There’s two things in this world: wonderful, visceral, sexy sex. And death. Horrible, boring death.”

~ Kieran, Dinner for Schmucks

Rough sex. It’s like anything extreme or intense. If it’s done properly, with the right ingredients, it’s delicious. If it’s not done with skill, if it’s devoid of emotion, it can be awful. Cooking is much the same.

If you don’t handle your ingredients with care, you’ll ruin the whole meal. Don’t just thrash around the kitchen, stir things violently, cook haphazardly over a high flame, without knowing how to manage things in an artful way. Otherwise you might as well just microwave it and forget about what it tastes like. It’ll end up as inedible cardboard. And that is how I feel about rough sex without the right ingredients.

And I have had a desire for rough sex lately, which is an unusual thing for me. What I thought I liked or what I felt safe with was soft, gentle, and loving sexual encounters. Most of the time, I want it slow. Tenderness, caresses, and kisses. And then, past the point of orgasm and beyond, I long for my lover to take me as hard as he can. I want more. When I enter this zone, there is an emotional realm, a hidden place that runs along the periphery of my brain, and that realm asks for it rough. I want to be pushed into intensity. I want pleasure, and I want more of it. I want it harder, deeper, more. I need that animalistic sex— the pulling of my hair, the pounding into my body, the growling, screaming, moaning, wild fucking of sex.

Most of my life I’ve responded to sweetness. Sweet behavior and treatment opens me up, allows me to respond. If you are sweet, thoughtful, and gentle with me, I will most certainly enjoy (when the mood strikes) rough sex. You see, I don’t respond to rough right away. Crude behavior is a big turn off. Rough doesn’t mean you can be a boorish ogre and get your way with me.

Going back to the memory of being spanked by that dominatrix in that dungeon. Odd to say, but it was one of the most pleasant experiences I’ve had with a stranger. She was caring and feminine, strong yet soft.

It happened out of necessity. After I had moved back from New Orleans, I needed a job. I had just had my son— he was just a baby then. I was a single mother. My body was still carrying the extra pregnancy weight. Add to that, living in New Orleans. All the food. The wonderful, delicious, gourmet-buttery food. The extra weight wasn’t unattractive, just a little zaftig. Curvy.

I was thirty years old. I was in the prime of my life. And the strip club that I once worked at in Los Angeles wouldn’t hire me back. I was once one of their best girls.

Ten years before then, I had made them a fortune. They gave me any shifts I wanted, and I left with hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars, each day. My body was supple, young, and tanned, with a small waist you could put both hands around, and large, bountiful (albeit silicone) breasts. My hips were sensual and feminine, and my legs as long as a gazelle. In heels, I was towering, over six feet tall. When I emerged from behind the curtain, the slow bump and grind of my hips melted men’s minds, moving like syrupy molasses onstage. With my sultry gaze, I mesmerized men by the crowd. Men lined up for me, waiting, for a private dance. Hordes, dozens, hundreds of men spent their pretty wallets up dry just to have me near. I was in my early twenties. Pretty face, healthy as a thoroughbred, intelligent mind. Not a wrinkle on my face or a reason to be discouraged. To add to my arsenal of seduction, I had a growing comprehension of what men really wanted. My British cousin once said disdainfully: “You’ve always been a man magnet.”

Surprisingly, this time, the club wouldn’t take me back. The manager I dubbed “Valium Bob” poked my belly with his bony index finger.

“What’s this?” he prodded.

“My belly, of course.” I snipped back.

I wanted to say that this was how women naturally look. Surrounded by the new girls, all of them skinny as supermodels in their rhinestone-studded bikinis, Valium Bob was surrounded by girls that resembled greyhound dogs. Compared to my womanly belly dancer curves, I stood out. I wondered, how did this happen? Wasn’t it just years ago I was scooping up bills off the main stage? Slithering out of my satin gowns, giving sideways looks, casting spells over any man like a siren to a sailor, drawing him closer toward the rocky collision of lust. I was the Princess of the Bare Elegance. Where were the girls I knew before? So I had to get over myself. It was all as false as the breasts in that club. And my breast implants had been removed years ago. The moment of pseudo-downfall and has-been realization was no matter. It wasn’t a small world my mind existed in. I saw it for what it was: superficial and nonsense. I had developed an illusion, a mechanism, to exist in that world. But, when my belly was poked by a scrawny, drugged up slimeball, I took offense. My feminist perspective found this behavior in men to push me beyond loathing. I kept my disgust at bay, held my head high, and gracefully stated that I wasn’t about to kill myself with amphetamines or crystal meth in order to work in their club. I walked out.

I had just given birth six months prior to that moment. I was back in Los Angeles, far from the Big Easy of butter and cream. I was not in New Orleans anymore. Dazzling through my mind, thoughts were spinning around, like a dancer spinning down a metal pole. I was wondering what happened to Lucky, Sasha, Heather, Precious, Cherry, Zee, Anita Dawn, and Renee— my sisterhood? The new girls were Fembots, representative of the stereotypical strippers. And those girls were thin, stick-thin, emaciated— some I suspected were anorexic or worse. And everyone in Los Angeles, it seemed, was fixated on body image, whether they knew it or not. It was a rude awakening from the sleepy romance of Louisiana bayou and Nouvelle-Orléans grace. In the Land of Hollywood, supermarkets contained shelves of magazines with celebrities on diets, and diet drinks, diet sodas, ‘lose weight now’ blurbs and fat-free options. Where was the joy of living? The laissez les bons temps rouler of New Orleans left behind, I was lost again in the asphalt maze of Los Angeles traffic and the underground of sex work in a megalopolis. It was a lonely place to be.

So I ended up working at that dungeon. I decided that it was an experimental thing until I lost the pregnancy weight. Then I’d go back to dancing. Or do something else. Besides, I liked being spanked. I guessed it would work out fine if I made some income from it. My behind was pleasantly plump. Spinal Tap’s song of adoration, Big Bottom, was fitting, unlike my old size eight jeans.

When I’ve had rough sex, it was done with love and emotion. The longing and ache to be set free from my contained nature, to have my lover pound me into glorious submission with his hard cock— to be shaken and stirred by the raw instinct— to be utterly taken. Surrender. It’s more about surrender and letting go of all control than violence. If it’s true violence, I’m not in the least interested— violence is not something that arouses me— I don’t want to be slapped in the face or called names. Violence is abhorrent. When I want rough sex, I want it to be about passion.

The most mind blowing rough sex scene I saw was in the erotic espionage film Lust, Caution by Ang Lee. I was pregnant with my third child when I went to see the film in the theater. I have always loved the Chinese actor Tony Leung. Any film he is in, I must watch. A parallel discovered. The parallel: my second pregnancy and my erotic fixation for Asian men which was awakened by a violent sword fight scene in House of Flying Daggers,— and again during my third pregnancy— the realization of my desire for rough sex while watching Lust, Caution. I was shocked to discover how it — rough sex and raw emotion— aroused me still. What was it about violent scenes that provoked? Was it intense love and passion that compelled me? The axis of that parallel erotic response was in correlation to my need for more. For passion and all its reasons, the vicissitudes of my experiential knowledge were weighing upon me. Physical weight, extra body weight, emotional weight—-

I want freedom. I crave lightness of being.

That sex scene in Lust, Caution— rough sex— he takes her with passion bordering on brutality. The emotions were intense, conflicting and layered. It was shocking and erotic. It was dark and dangerous, and tender and instinctual. She wants him; he takes her, roughly, on the bed. His belt buckle in hand, he’s violent with desire. I’m clutching the theater seat; my hands don’t know where to go. I can’t breathe. I’m holding my chest, my breath. I can’t watch. I’m watching. Shaking with undoing, I’m pregnant, and I want to be taken like that. My body is in conflict, wanting gentle treatment when carrying a child within my body. I am thrown into confusion. In the back of my mind, I want someone to take me like he takes her. It was done with finesse. Tony Leung, playing his part, in a sex scene that raised questions in my being as to why I want to be taken so, and the extreme emotions that go with the territory. Much like how lions subdue their mates with a bite to the neck during their mating habits and rituals, I want to surrender.

Perhaps the dangerous amount of intensity, when combined with strong emotion, lights my body up with a thrilling energy. I don’t want brutality. I want passion. Perhaps my body responds to extremes. Anal sex allows my body to feel an extra amount of intensity that vaginal sex doesn’t quite give me. When I am spanked, it’s a similar charge. It’s naughty, erotic. I love the intense orgasms I have during anal sex, which sends riveting tingling sensations and aftershocks of orgasmic pleasure through my entire body. I can reach such realms of heightened erotic stimulation during regular vaginal sex, but it takes longer. Anal sex, spanking, and rough, penetrative, emotional, animalistic sex with someone who adores me, someone I know would never truly hurt me, is the essential ingredient within the landscape of my erotic desire. Surrendering to someone who passionately loves me is the magical link to the core of my erotic being.

For the past nine years, I have been acutely aware of what arouses my desire: a passion, a yen for the Asian male. I say that playfully, yen, but it’s a serious matter. I cannot fully explain it. I write this to better understand my erotic fascination. Asian men are, for me, an enigma, the Eros of my own Psyche, the dream of my sensual desires. My attraction to the Asian male goes beyond the surface, deeper into my soul’s mysterious yearning.

My fantasy of the Asian man. He is sincere, tender, kind. A man who considers, rather than assumes. He is gentle yet masculine, soulful and strong. He is connected to his inner femininity, which emphasizes his own masculinity. He doesn’t try to exhibit machismo; he is supple of heart and mind. He is romantic but not effusive, gentlemanly but not contrived.

In my experience, other men I have dated, slept with, been with, engaged and married to, were not quite right for me. After a certain point, I lost interest. Somehow, the magic was not there, and the thrill was gone. What was left after the initial spark? I didn’t know myself well enough. I needed more time to explore the very depths of my being in order to know what I like and to know my soul’s desire. Previous to my acknowledgement of what sort of man attracts me like no other, I tried a rainbow of men. A few Latino lovers of Mexican and Spanish heritage. I was engaged to a red-headed, freckly, Irish-Belgian man covered in tattoos and piercings. I dated a few Scottish laddies, one Norwegian type, and a Hungarian from Montreal. A fling with a cerebral Bostonian songwriter. I had several boyfriends that were ‘grunge’ musicians of various mixed nationalities, simply Americans. I was pursued by many salivating Italian raconteurs and one Persian Casanova. I had a Persian-Polish-French (ex)husband. There was that African-American guy I dated and an Aussie or two. I had a whirlwind affair with an Irish poet from Wicklow.

Along the way, I discovered, my archetypal ideal man is Asian.

It started in fifth grade. I was a shy girl; tall, awkward, wearing tortoise shell-framed glasses. My lanky body and large hands made me feel like a monster next to the petite and giggly Japanese girls in my class.

I lived in historic Los Feliz, the hilly old Hollywood neighborhood of Griffith Park. My elementary school was a melting pot of many cultures. I felt comfortable, at home, around the colorful mixture of ethnicities.  I was intrigued by a Filipino boy that wore glasses like me. He was also shy and tall. And completely adorable. My first real crush.

When this Filipino boy was near, my blood pulsed through my veins, my mouth felt sticky and dry. I could not look at him. He also looked away. Then one day, he decided to look at me in class. He gave me a long, sideways glance. He pushed his glasses down his nose and gave a sly smile. Everyone in class knew he had a crush on me. My stomach gurgled with nervousness. I wanted to get as far away from him as possible. My vacillation between wanting him to talk to me and wanting to hide filled me with dread. What would I do, I thought, if he kissed me? I shoved the thought far back into my mind, never asking that of myself again. Until I read the (forbidden) novel I found on my grandparents’ bookshelf, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. 

When I found the book on the shelf, I instinctively knew it was sensual. The sound of the book, the sweeping title name Lady Chatterley followed by Lover spelled out suggestions of longing and kisses. But the other thing was, as I read this novel, she was a Lady that was also compelled and confused by the climate of her desire.

As young as I was, I was aware that there was something interesting about the boy I had a crush on. If we had the opportunity to talk to one another, I am sure a puppy love affair would have developed. But with both of us being very shy, it never happened.

Many years later, I am in the movie theater. I am pregnant with my second child. My then-husband, the Persian-Polish-French man, loud-voiced, blue-eyed, blond-haired, was suddenly of no interest to me. In fact, he repelled me. I am in the movie theater with my French Maman-in-law, watching House of Flying Daggers. It’s November. I’m eight months pregnant, transfixed by Takeshi Kaneshiro on the screen. Suddenly, I’m boiling hot. I feel stifled. My clothes are uncomfortable. I’m wiggling and soon desperate to remove every article of clothing possible while in a public theater. My fluffy pink pashmina was itchy. My eyes grazed the handsome glowing face of Jin (Takeshi Kaneshiro). Breathtaking, strong, determined. His love scene in the fields with the dangerous beauty, Mei, naked. Observing his pale skin, his long, black hair, it created a chain reaction of chemicals brewing in my body like a love potion. My mouth tasted of metal, swallowing, shaking. My body shifted from cold to hot. My sex pulsing. My belly full of baby, rolling around. I gripped the theater seat. My hands- sweaty. Jin has fallen in love with Mei, the main love interest. The duel in the snow, the last scene, profoundly aroused me until I was left flushed and confused by it all. The clash of swords caused my body to respond. I am surprised that I am turned on by violence. But the look of intense and furious concentration on his face reminded me of sex.

My brain pieced it all together; his face, his body, the love scene, the duel in the snow. All of it was powerfully erotic. My maman-in-law in the seat next to mine, Parisian and aware of l’amour, sniggered to herself as I removed my pashmina and socks. Barely reaching my shoes, I fumbled in the dark theater. I could not stop the chain reaction of the sword metal clanging in my head, reverberating through my bones, sending off little fires like daggers into my blood. Takeshi Kaneshiro’s naked skin flashed again and again in my mind’s eye. During the fight scene, his battle cries were sexual, his voice guttural and animal. I could not stand it, the reaction my body. In that moment, I imagined him coming inside of me, wanting it wildly. I wanted to be naked underneath him, his body pressed upon me, feeling the weight of him, the smoothness of his skin, the scent of his body. I imagine the taste of his lips. Then, in the film, he strikes forward toward his opponent, thrusting his sword in rage during the duel, and I swoon like a lady of the Renaissance, completely undone by the primal response.

As Jin thrusts his sword, I think of him naked and sweaty, dripping his perspiration all over my body as he groans and plunges inside of me. His hair is damp with sweat from our lovemaking, and he is determined to make me orgasm over and over again. He won’t stop, he keeps thrusting, deeper, harder, with ferocity and sexual hunger. The theater seat felt hard and confining. My swelling pregnant body overwhelmed by sudden, unexplainable lust.

The sword fight in the snow shook up my belief that I only responded to non-violent, loving, and gentle behaviors— it was puzzling that I physically reacted with such an intense sexual response. Gentleness and sweetness are two qualities that I require in a partner. The Sakyong, Jamgön Mipham Rinpoche, a Tibetan lama, has the same effect upon me due to his beautiful calm and handsome face. For quite some time I absorbed everything the Sakyong wrote, keeping his books by my bedside. And why is this little “falling in love” so troublesome? When having a “crush” on a Tibetan lama provided so much necessary inner growth and peace? But for the earthly desires I felt, falling for Sakyong Mipham was a positive thing. His poetry, painting, and calligraphy inspired me, because it illumined his passion. The sexual desires were natural as well. And quite probable, the possibility. Tibetan Buddhist lamas are not celibate at all. In fact, his father, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, was a lover of many women.

My sexual fantasies were more complex than I realized, and my primal instinct was to want the rough, savage male fighting viciously with his sword. My neural pathways were creating infinite loops and knots in some ancient pattern. The sword, his face, masculine, animal, my breath, my heartbeat, blood. Again and again, my female response to this scene, a sword fight, calls question to my own self-knowledge.

Understanding my sexual response and inclination to prefer the Asian man is a long path that trails through my genetic wiring. Scientists are now finding through research that women’s sexual orientations have something they call fluidity. 

Fluidity is something that occurs when I am entranced by a handsome Asian man, and, yes, it is no surprise that it triggers the physical fluidity as well (like damp panties). But fluidity in this terminology is “situation-dependent flexibility in women’s sexual responsiveness.” The original concept of “fluidity” has to do with women (like me, again) that are “bi-sexual” as their sexuality shifts (like water or fluid) according to the social influence and stages of their life. So I suppose it sort-of fits this situation, but not really. What I am finding is, as I entered my last marriage (to a non-Asian and very Caucasian male), I completely lost interest in him and his kind and only wanted Asian men. Period.

Still, after so many years, the final sword fight scene in House of Flying Daggers affects me like hardcore pornography. Intense, passionate, and bloody, Takeshi Kaneshiro moves my soul into a realm I cannot explain.

As the years went by, my desire for the Asian man reached epic proportions. Obsessive desire, longing, and wandering Asian markets, shopping centers, and neighborhoods, wearing nothing underneath my flouncy skirt. I wanted to be ravished, devoured, desired by them. I wanted many Asian lovers, all of them hopelessly in love with me. Takeshi Kaneshiro would not be immune. In my fantasy, he stalks me, calling me at all hours, asking if I like pineapple. He runs deliriously through the rain, longing for my touch again. Okay, I am making that up and referring to the film Chungking Express where he does just that. And eats many cans of pineapple.

I am with a Japanese man. I have become so accustomed to him, I forget that he is Japanese. It is because I love him as the person that I connect with. It has become more than the idealized sexual fantasy. Attraction has its magic, but sexual preference is still the glue that binds. It has been more than five years with him, and sex is better than ever. Quirky I guess, but when he talks softly in my ear in Japanese when we make love, I get shivers all over. My sexual response speeds up remarkably, until I am highly aroused and have multiple orgasms. Some things are better off as mysterious. It’s the wonders of life that we cannot know.

There are other celebrity Asian men I find wildly good looking or exceptionally sexy. Chef Ming Tsai, for instance. I have recently admitted to masturbating while looking at the cover of his latest cookbook: Simply Ming: One-Pot Meals. He turns me on by just looking at him. And, he cooks. He loves wine, and he does yoga. He believes in balance and harmony, and combines it all in one pot. Yes, he was raised in Dayton, Ohio. But still, he was raised in the kitchen and learned the art of cooking from his parents before studying at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. I melt like butter in a hot pan when I see his handsome face. Watching clips of Ming in the kitchen is veritable foodie porn.

 Ah, Ming. A dream man I desire. Whatever my mind does, and however it does it, I forget science and gaze upon his picture, longing to be by his side, at a wine tasting somewhere verdant and pastoral. The fantasy rolls through some idyll countryside of France, where we are giddy with wine and love. I imagine sex with him would be gourmet. His hands fragrant with spices and herbs. His kisses, sensual and epicurean. I suppose there is a common thread: wielding a sword or a chef’s knife, the Asian man of my dreams is multi-faceted, passionate, the existential hero of my animus within.

I am lost in the mystery of my desire, in favor of the Asian man.

“Spring quickly passes,

everything perishes.

I cry out loud

whenever your touches

tingle my breasts.”

Yosano Akiko

(1878-1942)

Yosano Akiko was a goddess of poetry. She was also an educator, a feminist, and an anti-war critic. I did not know until recently that she was also a mother.

Yosano Akiko had 13 children (11 children survived). She was pregnant for nearly a decade or more. The amount of laundry she must have had (hand washing, no washing machines back then). She had to hand wash all the cotton (sarashi) undergarments beneath her kimono, and, lest we forget… diapers.  No local supermarket or CostCo in existence to buy a package of disposable diapers (though she’d probably enjoy buying in bulk) in her day. Still, with all the laundry, diapers and babies, nothing dampened her creative passion and erotic spirit. She was a formidable goddess of poetry. Hers was a life of passionate literature, many children, a love triangle, and much laundry.

“Press my breasts,

part the veil of mystery,

a flower blooms there,

crimson and fragrant.”

Yosano Akiko created. A “creatrix” in the supreme sense, she wrote a prolific amount of poems and letters, eventually eclipsing her mentor husband, Yosano Tekkan, in the art of writing. Her power as a poet was tremendous, and quite revolutionary for her time. She was birthing babies, caring for her children (with some help from relatives and hired nannies thankfully), involved in an intricate love triangle between her husband and her close friend, and writing a new style of  Japanese Tanka poetry. She possessed a brilliant, erotic mind that flowed with passionate force. Her poetry expressed the restrained passions of an experienced, sexually liberated woman, even as a young girl.

It was a pivotal moment in her awakening desire when she met Yosano Tekkan (also named “Hiroshi”, his pen name “Tekkan”). He was first her mentor, and then became her ‘married lover’, as Tekkan was into a second marriage. He continued to love his second wife, never wavering from his devotion to her, regardless of divorce (The second wife’s father disapproved of Tekkan, and demanded they divorce). Soon after, Akiko and Tekkan married. Because of Akiko’s love for Tekkan, her expressions of sexual love evolved into intensely erotic writings.

Midaregami (Tangled Hair) was her first poetic collection of Tanka. 399 poems, among them, 385 are love poems about her desire for Tekkan, and also about her complex relationship with her close friend Yamakawa Tomiko (1879-1909). They were both involved in a love triangle with Tekkan. Akiko and Tomiko were both intertwined emotionally as close friends, both poets, and both in love with Tekkan. Tekkan maintained love relations with all his women, but Akiko demanded to be the queen bee.

“I whisper to you, “Stay in bed”

as I tenderly shake you awake

my dishevelled hair now

up in a Butterfly…

Kyoto morning!”

みだれ髪を京の島田にかへし朝ふしていませの君ゆりおこす

She was just twenty-two years old when Midaregami published, as an emerging poet. Akiko efficiently declared her love and sexual fire using “pillow words” such as “soft flesh” and “throbbing blood” to describe the emotions of sexual vitality and ripe eroticism.

For a woman in her time, late-Meiji era, her poems were full of potent juice, dripping with longing and passion. This was the new style of Tanka. The Tanka of the ‘Old School’ (Poetry Bureau School) faded, their style of tanka having been the most popular form of poetry after the New Meiji era began. The period of this style had been in existence for twelve hundred years in Japan. It was a style written in thirty-one syllables arranged in the 5-7-5-7-7 pattern. In 1887, Tanka poetry was changing with new voices, new expressions! For Akiko, she was a fresh voice, writing shockingly bold poetry that expressed pure sexual desire. In doing so, strong-willed Akiko defied her role as a conventional woman. This, in a sense, challenged the patriarchal system of Japan. Women of her day did not speak out about anything, especially of their blazing breasts and red flowers, suggestively illustrating their emotions and desires.

“Are you still longing,

seeking what is beautiful,

what is decent and true?

Here in my hand, this flower,

my love, is shockingly red.”

Following in the footsteps of the great female poets and writers of Japan before her, such as Lady Murasaki Shikibu (The Tale of Genji), Ono No Komachi, and Izumi Shikibu, namely, she did not adhere to social convention. Akiko illustrated women’s sexuality with words that described women’s desire as free, vibrant and independently their own. Women’s desire was raw and real, not passive, not waiting for men to seduce and court them. Akiko’s raw poetry caused a great sensation, and of course, great criticism.

“A thousand strands

of glistening deep black hair

in tangles, tangles,

all intertangled

like my dreams of you.”

Yosano Akiko was born in Sakai City in the Osaka Prefecture (Osaka). Her birth name was Shoko Ho. She changed her first name, as it carried the Chinese character, which could be used as either “Sho” and “Aki”, “ko” being the diminutive version given to girl’s names. She was the daughter of a merchant who loved art and literature, and owned a famous confectionary shop, Surugaya. Akiko’s mother was her father’s second wife. Akiko had two older step-sisters. She also had an elder brother, but he died young. Akiko’s father was very upset when his son died for many reasons. Of course, he mourned his son, but also, he was left with daughters. In Japanese families, sons, who inherit the family name, were very important. He was angry and rejected Akiko entirely, sending her away from their home. Akiko’s mother secretly visited Akiko, hiding her motherly love for her daughter. Eventually, feeling unloved by her parents, Akiko absorbed herself in books. She was secretive about reading books until late at night; stolen books from her father’s library. She read many Japanese classics, including The Tale of Genji by Lady Murasaki Shikibu (she was the equivalent of Shakespeare in Japanese literature). She also indulged in The Pillow Book, and Utsuho Monogatari, opening her erotic mind to the romantic world of love.

“Hair unbound, in this

hothouse of lovemaking.

Perfumed with lilies,

I dread the oncoming of

The pale rose of the end of night.”

She joined some literary circles and soon after, met Tekkan. Akiko admired Tekkan as a writer, and respected his work. Tekkan was the editor of a magazine, Myojo (Morning Star), in which Akiko contributed her writing. Her admiration for Tekkan started to grow into love. Tekkan had a wife and a child already, but this did not deter Akiko at all. Her passionate feelings for him were imminent, and describes the effect it had on her sexual awakening in one of her writings, titled “My Conception of Chastity”: “By an unexpected chance, I came to know a certain man and my sexual feelings underwent a violent change to a strange degree. For the first time I experienced the emotion of a real love that burned my body”

Real love that burned her body—– her statement echoed a poem by another  femme fatale Japanese poetess, Ono no Komachi:

“You do not come

on this moonless night

I wake wanting you

my breasts heave and blaze

my heart burns up”

(Ono no Komachi)

And another version:

“I long for him most

during these long moonless nights

I lie awake, hot

the growing fires of passion

bursting, blazing in my heart.”

(Ono no Komachi)

Akiko eventually married Tekkan in 1902. Akiko and Tekkan continued their love affair, while things between the three of them (their involvement with Tomiko) became more complicated. Tekkan loved the two women. As part of an erotic triangle, many of Akiko’s poems expressed this ongoing affair, her tangled emotions, jealousy, and her friendship with Tomiko:

“I can give myself to her

in her dreams

whispering her own poems

in her ear as she sleeps beside me.”

And this one alluding to the threesome:

“Without a word

without a demand

a man and two women

bowed and parted company

on the sixth month.”

(This was written after Tomiko tragically died of tuberculosis)

“Pressing my breasts

I softly kick aside

the curtain of mystery

how deep the crimson

of the flower here.”

Breasts, lips, skin, shoulders, and hair described feminine sexuality.

In the poem, she touches her breasts, exploring sexual mystery for the first time, perhaps. Breaking all convention, she rips the clothes off of societal rules, and bares her body to the reader.

“Amidst the notes

of my koto is another

deep mysterious tone,

a sound that comes from

within my own breast.”

Before Japan’s New Meiji era, a woman’s beauty and sexuality were considered to be in the realm of courtesans and geisha. She rocked upon the pivotal point of her time like a cowgirl in the saddle, bareback and in full control of her horse. She did not seem to care about what people thought: she wrote out her passions without restraint.

Breasts tend to come up as one of her main symbols of expression. Breasts that represent feeding babies and motherhood, became sexual breasts of lovemaking and desire.

Akiko’s poetic line says it best: “my powerful breasts”

“Spring is short

what is there that has eternal life

I said and

made his hands seek out

my powerful breasts.”

Hair is another symbol of femininity and power. Long black hair has been admired as a symbol of great beauty for centuries in Japan. In the world’s history of art and literature, a woman’s hair is her “crowning glory” and her power, akin to the story of Samson and Delilah (and the destructive force of Medusa). It is part of women’s beauty, a graceful expression of identity in Japan.

In ancient court poetry of Japan, for instance, hair was used to show the inner complexities of women’s emotions. Izumi Shikibu, a female poet, 11th century:

“My black hair tangled

as my own tangled thoughts,

I lie here alone,

dreaming of one who has gone,

who stroked my hair till it shone.”

Tangled hair explains the confusions of her romantic heart. Its erotic description alludes to the sexual intimacy of lovers.

“A thousand lines

of black black hair

all tangles, tangles –

and tangles too

my thoughts of love!”

The flood of emotion and overwhelming feelings of love are expressed through hair.

As Akiko’s fame as a poet grew, she eventually gained power in her notoriety. She became the sole support of her family, leaving Tekkan to feel like a has-been and a good for nothing. He even wrote a poem, calling himself a “good for nothing”, fanning his own wife (the metaphor of being her servant, perhaps). Soon after, Akiko noticed her husband’s self-degrading misery. She suggested they move, which they did. They gave lectures together on The Tale of Genji. But soon they clashed on their interpretations of the classic epic “monogatari” (story-telling). They began to quarrel.

Akiko was overworked, having to support all their children by the income her writing produced. She was lecturing, writing, and putting up with her good for nothing, womanizing, has-been of a husband, and bringing home the bacon to take care of their 11 children. She considered divorce, another brave thing to do, but she knew that would drive the stake into Tekkan’s heart and ruin his life completely. She thought to suggest that they live separately, but that would create gossip, which would also harm Tekkan.

So she did a very sly thing—- she knew that Tekkan had always desired to live abroad. She raised enough money for Tekkan to travel to Europe. She wrote her poems on folding screens, selling them to create the funds. She received an advance from her books, and sent Tekkan to France in 1911. Tekkan felt as though he was being exiled for his “laziness” and so Akiko joined him in France for six months. They returned to Japan, never again to part.

She wrote of her complicated love and her desire to make it simple:

“Not speaking of the way

not thinking of what comes after,

not questioning name or fame,

here, loving love,

you and I look at each other.”

Yosano Akiko wrote about the emancipation of women and sexual freedom.

“Tangled Hair” Midaregami was her symbolic tour de force that well described her own complex life.

As a mother of three children, I greatly honor this majestic goddess of the pen. I have young children, I work full time as the sole support of my own family. I find at times my mind is tangled, and my life, complicated. Tangled by my own emotions regarding motherhood, motherly duties, responsibilities to my three young children, my sexual intensity and erotic desires, my longing, to write, to paint, to create—– all of these strands of long dark hair, in disarray. My own life as a woman in the modern day is complex. Marriages, ex-husbands, divorce, moving, always moving, where to belong, what to do for the children. Romantic feelings and erotic life take a back seat when life’s mundane issues become complicated, and daily demands call upon a mother. Just getting my two restless little girls to go to sleep so that I could finish this piece was a laborious task, irritating me as I could not attend to my own needs until they were tucked in and snoozing away. The multitude of feelings as a creative and artistic mother, like Akiko was, must have also complicated her life. As I sat in my girls’ room a while ago, I also soaked in their sweetness, marveled at the softness of their cheek as I caressed their faces, petting their silky heads, hair damp from the bath. As both of their breathing patterns regulated, I meditated on my good fortune as a mother. How lucky I was to have these beautiful, vibrant, healthy children. My oldest child, my son, sat in his room, reading a book. He enjoys his solitude and takes pleasure in reading. I realized that as frustrating as it was to put myself aside for the moment, sometimes the day, and sometimes an entire week— I felt that joy inside to be their mother.

I can only imagine, then, that Yosano Akiko was a loving mother, despite her creative force burning forth from her breasts. It is interesting to note that there isn’t much mention of her children and her life as a mother.

I would like to honor this glorious lady of the pen by writing this piece for a Mother’s Day post. As I read more about her life, I realized that her soul was crying out for love. She gave herself completely.

Also, the symbol of disheveled hair, Midaregami, is a multi-faceted metaphor: in Japan, women who had “tangled” or messy, uncombed hair were considered immoral, loose women. It evoked erotic freedom and perhaps made disheveled from an afternoon or evening of passionate lovemaking.

Lastly, I must mention the sexual energy it takes to create and birth just one child.

Akiko gave birth 13 times, lost two children, and raised 11 children, all while growing within her soul, a writing career.

The energy to manifest life— our “chi” is the purest source of sex. Erotic life of a woman also goes hand in hand with a woman’s sexual energy, her fertility. Her fertile mind, body and soul is made palpable by her desire. This erotic desire propelled her energy, her zest, and her sensual and sexual passions, blazing with the poetry and beauty of life itself.

“This autumn will end.

Nothing can last forever.

Fate controls our lives.

Fondle my living breasts

With your strong hands.”

It was snowing in Kyoto. I was walking all the way to my Master’s house, carrying my koto close to my chest, facing the falling snow. The tiny snowflakes touched my face like light kisses. It was a pleasant feeling. I hadn’t noticed how cold I was while the little flakes were touching my face. It was a game I was playing with myself while walking, a distraction, to ignore the rest of my body being so cold. My tabi socks were becoming damp with every step, as my geta were not high enough to manage the snowy walk.

Over many years of visits, I became more relaxed while alone with Master Genji. I was becoming older, and had already had my mizu-age. I found that I could choose the men that I found attractive, and create an idea in my mind of what they might be like to make love with. I held their face in my memory, and fantasized about them later when I was alone in my bed. Master Genji was quite handsome. He was a tall man, with a slight build, and a bright, intelligent face. His body exuded a quiet strength, much like a beautiful river. When he was very near, to help me with my koto strings, he had the soft fragrance of tea. There was another, more masculine scent mingled with the scent of tea. It was a compelling scent, to be near him. Master Genji was older than most of my other teachers. However, he was still young looking, at the age of fourty-six.

“Your face, it’s so pink Koyuki-chan,” Master Genji exclaimed. “let me warm you, here, you’ve got snowflakes all over your face.” His large, slender hands brushed the icy flakes from my cheeks, eyebrows, and lips. This was surprising, as I had never felt a man so casually touch my face before. He immediately grabbed me solidly by my shoulders, and hurried me into the center of the house, near the hibachi. The room was deliciously warm, glowing with heat. Master Genji was dressed in his usual attire; an indigo dyed yukata, which complimented his ivory-colored skin. After he brought me close to the hibachi, he went into another room and fetched a different kimono.

It must be his wife’s kimono, I realized.

In his hands were dry tabi, and a cloth. He took my koto, which I found myself clutching still, as I was very chilled. Master Genji brushed my face with the cloth. “Koyuki-chan, I am sorry, forgive me, but the house maids are not here today, and my wife has gone to visit a friend in Nara.” He looked apologetic, and a little embarrassed. He brushed off the snow gently. He sat me down near the blazing hot hibachi, and slowly, began to remove my tabi sock from my left foot. He stopped. He was nervous. His hands were shaking.

“Forgive me, Koyuki-chan, please…” as he cautiously removed my tabi, revealing my bare foot. The heat of his hands on my bare skin felt like nothing I had ever felt before. His smooth palms felt like the softest silk, contrasting with the rough tips of his callused fingers, from constant koto playing. I gasped, from the touch of our skin. His hands pulled away. “Oh, so sorry Koyuki-chan, I only want you to be warm.” He was sweating, damp on his forehead. His face looked like a teenage boy’s, an amazed look of wonderment. “If you don’t want me to remove your tabi, but, you see, they are wet with snow, and…”

“Genji-sensei, I don’t mind. Please,” and I guided his shaking hands back to my bare foot. He caressed my toes with the movement, putting on the dry tabi. My big toe was cozy inside the warm, dry sock, then the other toes followed, encased in the fabric. He finished pulling the sock up to my ankle, as both of his hands lifted, the motion causing his fingers to graze my leg while administering the sock. He then removed my other tabi sock, and replaced it again with a dry tabi.

“I will now have to help you into this kimono, Koyuki-chan,” he stammered. “We cannot allow you to stay in your damp kimono, or you will become ill.” My koto was placed near the sitting area by the fire. I remembered Master Genji’s fine hands helping me place my own fingers upon the strings. He was a caring teacher. All of our lessons were leading to this moment, I felt, and suddenly I realized what the older geisha were discussing about men. This was what they called desire.

“Yes, Genji-sensei,” I answered, allowing him to undress me. He was as hesitant as my first patron, Yujiro. I remembered the sensation of being completely naked in front of a man, as Master Genji removed my obi, and then the many layers of my kimono, unraveling. Not wanting to upset Master Genji, I closed my eyes while he undressed me. I could only hear his breath. His warm hands, barely touched my belly as he unwrapped the layers of fabric. His breath went silent. Only his palm was firm against my body, unmoving. Soon after, he began breathing quickly, as I was waiting for the dry kimono. I simply stood there in the warm room, waiting, naked. His fingers, so skilled with musical instruments, traced my body. I felt his fingers, drawing along my body. I kept my eyes closed. I allowed him to touch me. His fingers, gently, traced along my collarbone, down my arms. He held my wrist, down to my hands. His large hand enveloped mine, slipped away. With his other hand, he lifted my arm, and put the dry kimono sleeve on. Half on, the kimono fabric was hanging with its heavy weight of silk down my bare back. My nipples were hardening. Master Genji traced my breasts, lightly, and touched, drawing a circle around the bud of my left nipple.

His mouth, suddenly.

The heat of his mouth was near my breast. It sent shivers throughout my body, and the tiny hairs along my skin stood on end. He traced my other breast with his fingers. He lifted my other arm into the sleeve. The kimono fabric clothed my back and arms, with my breasts and stomach, legs, exposed, fully bare. Master Genji was quiet again. His breathing stopped. He led my hand to his yukata, and I felt the heat of his arousal. His penis was so stiff, incredibly hard, like a large flute. The indigo fabric he wore was covering his male desire.

We said nothing.

The most surprising thing happened. Master Genji touched the most delicate part of my body. My eyes still closed, I could only feel his fingers, with the slightest pressure, upon my sex. He circled my clitoris with the  faintest touch. His free hand delighted along my bare skin. I felt his rhythms, playing my body like an instrument. My mouth flowering apart, I heard from my breast, a sound coming out. It was like sighing. My heart was beating faster, quickening. My clitoris was alive with all sensations, as Master Genji circled it as light as the feathery flutter of a bird’s wings, as sweetly as he touched the strings of his koto. My voice was uncontrollable. His long fingers penetrated me, plunging inside of my wetness, an oyster-like slippery sensation from within my sex. My clitoris was so sensitive, as Master Genji’s fingers deftly played my sexual place. Struck by some intense emotion, he gathered me up into his arms, and brought me into his sleeping area. My eyes opened for a moment. I saw a different Genji. He quickly unrolled his futon mat on the tatami as if it were putting out a fire lit deep in his body. This was no longer the gentle Master Genji I knew as my teacher, but some demon spirit inside of him.

“Spread your legs, Koyuki-chan, please.” He demanded. I was surprised by his urgency and command. Only had I heard such a voice come from him when I hadn’t practiced enough, and made too many clumsy mistakes while playing my koto.

I did as Master Genji asked me to do.

His hands were ready to make me sing, like his koto. He slid two fingers inside of me, while his other hand circled my clitoris again. Every once in awhile, Master Genji’s mouth would wet my clitoris, and it was a great discovery to realize this part of my body. I made deep resonant sounds while his slender fingers curved and bowed into my sex. The pressure and rhythm he used, brought my body closer to the most blissful feeling I have ever experienced. I sighed, my eyes fluttering, unopened. To open my eyes would break the spell. Every limb and part of my body vibrating with pleasure, as I felt wave upon wave of rising wave, wild rippling sensations dancing through me that I had never known before.

It seemed that my body was full of music, nothing but deep and beautiful sounds rising into the air, singing as a bird, calling into the winter sky. Slowly my whole body was but an instrument of love, and Master Genji, with his magical fingers, played me, with hands that knew every sound I could create. Oh, and deep within, at the deepest part of my being, from the center of my softest place, as his fingers delved deeper, touching and tickling, circling, the more my voice cried out with the strange sounds, notes, the song of my pleasure. The unknown within me was revealed, in a shivering ripple, a vibrato of a string, my deepest and highest octaves.

As I found the courage to open my eyes, Master Genji was looking upon me with great tenderness. Something tremendous had begun. I was no longer the young girl that walked into the house of Master Genji. I was, suddenly, on a snowy afternoon, a woman.