Gaijin Kagema, Foreign Courtesan

From 1:00 to 3:00 most afternoons, Reno was a kagema, a male prostitute, and, in his case, a high-in-demand gaijin kagema, foreign male prostitute, at the nearby Shinjuku Prince Hotel. He was in high demand not only because he was a tall, well-built, beautiful, hung hunk, but also because he was a Westerner—the magic of being an American, no less. He had adopted his cowboy persona and dress to emphasize that he was a unique gaijin kagema.

He strode into the lobby of the Shinjuku Prince Hotel at 12:55, stopping at the concierge desk long enough to be directed to the coffee shop. He had been promised lunch there.

Kazu Mori was a nervous, reticent businessman from Okinawa. Reno had a disarming way of belying his brash appearance and making such men comfortable with him in small talk, in low, soothing tones, and compliments of the man’s looks. Kazu Mori was pleasant enough to look at and downright good-looking when he relaxed. He was in his forties—most men who engaged in Reno’s services at this hotel were—and was slight, almost squat in stature. He was wooden in mannerism at the beginning of lunch but Reno had loosened him up considerably by the end of lunch when the man was paying cash on the bill. Reno didn’t have to be told the Okinawa businessman didn’t want the appearance of two lunches on his hotel accounting.

Mori was even more loose upstairs in his hotel room, where Reno fucked him in a position the businessman had never been put in before but that he loved. Taking a cue from the morning, Reno was sitting, just in vest, boots, wristbands, and cowboy hat, on the bed, legs spread and bent. Mori was in his lap, facing away from him and sitting on and sheathing Reno’s cock, his legs draped over Reno’s, and Reno reaching around and beating him off.

“You know this is an ancient Japanese traditional pose for men in the world of Nanshoku?” Reno had whispered in Mori’s ear after causing the businessman to spout his load.

“Nanshoku? What’s that?” the man asked in a breathless voice.

Reno told him, also telling him where he could buy art that depicted the sensual traditions and positions of Nanshoku.

“This isn’t Nanshoku, though,” Reno said, as he readjusted their positions, turning Mori onto all fours on the bed, mounting his buttocks, and sliding into him. Reno hadn’t come yet. “This is just you and me.” Reno held the man in place under him and pumped him slowly as the man groaned and moaned to and past Reno’s ejaculation.

At 2:15, Reno picked up a room card at the concierge desk down in the hotel lobby.

Surprisingly, what he found in the hotel room was a young Japanese man of twenty, a TV drama star, who had heard the rumor of Reno and who wanted to try him out.

“Do you want it refined or rough?” Reno answered.

“Yes,” the young man, Michio Tawagata, answered, with a grin.

Channeling back to the morning, Reno, once again wearing his vest, boots, hat, and wristbands, went on his knees on the bed, with Michio’s buttocks on his lower thighs and his naked body streaming out below Reno, and Reno pulled the young man onto his cock, slowly and with difficulty, as the TV star was small, slim hipped, and tight channeled, and Reno was horse hung. The young man cried out of being lost to the fuck as he endured the pain that melted to the pleasure of being slowly pulled on and off Reno’s cock. Fully buried, Reno suspended the cocking to masturbate the young man to an ejaculation and then resumed the pull of channel onto cock to his own coming.

As he was doing so, Reno noted again that they were in an ancient Japanese Nanshoku—man-on-man—position, an aspect of which they now were performing, wakashudo, older okama fucking younger wakashu. If Michio was interested in learning other Nanshoku positions, he could visit Haruo’s shop in Shinjuku and ask to see the special collection. Michio, panting hard from Reno’s attentions proclaimed that he was, indeed interested, and would visit the shop.

“Are you an expert in Nanshoku positions?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Reno answered.

“If I see ones I want to try, will you do me in them?”

“Yes, happily,” Reno said, but not yet having come himself, he growled, “But now to go the way of the samurai. I will be the nenja and you will be the chigo. This is my sword and I will slay you with it.” He turned the young man on his back at the foot of the bed, grasped Michio’s ankles and splayed his legs out wide, thrust up inside him, and as the young man cried out his pain/pleasure/passion, Reno fucked him a second time hard and deep. The book on Reno was that he was just as good, if not better, in a second fuck—and that he had the stamina to always provide multiples, as desired.

“Watashi wo fakku Gaijin Kagema. Watashi wo koroshimasu—Fuck me, Foreign whore. Slay me!” Michio cried out, loving using the words of what he was paying for.

And Reno slayed him and slayed him and slayed him again, as the young man, arms extended in a crucifix position, clawed at the bedspread and cried out, “Hai, hai! Watashi o Seiko; watashi o Seiko! Hado to dipu! HAI! WATASHI WO FAKKU!—Yes, yes. Fuck me; fuck me! Hard and deep! YES! FUCK ME!” Reno did just that, more than earning his gaijin kagema fee.

* * * *

Reno continued on through the afternoon in the Okama Gallery advertising and gaijin kagema mode.

He’d been invited by the British art expert, Jain Winslow, owner of the Shinjuku district Gallery Nippon art gallery, to a special opening that afternoon at 5:00 p.m. Jain, a frenetic, effeminate, slender, and distinguished-looking art collector and seller, was always a bundle of nerves for a gallery show opening, running around and half doing and overdoing everything until someone lassoed him and calmed him down. Knowing he had this problem, he invited Reno not only to the opening, to provide spice and good, all-smiles-and-pats-on- the-back art commentary to patrons, but also to a private pre-exhibit fuck for Reno to lasso him and calm him down before the crowd arrived.

Reno lassoed him to his chair in his office, with the door locked and the blinds pulled down over the window of the door, draped the gallery owner’s bare legs over the arms of his chair, and, in full cowboy regalia, unzipped and erection-exposed, crouched over Winslow and fucked him to a mellow “I don’t give a shit about anything other than the cock inside me” submission.

Winslow glided, hands and eyelashes fluttering, through the opening, while Reno stood out in the main gallery and charmed the patrons with his hunky cowboy persona and his knowledge of art, Japanese art in particular. For likely marks, unaccompanied men of obvious wealth, who followed into deeper conversation on Reno’s hints of the existence of the unique Japanese art world of Nanshoku, Reno guided them to a closed-door gallery deeper into the bowels of the art gallery, where a display of art for sale from Haruo’s Nanshoku art collection could be viewed—and bought.

One fifty-year-old, but still-in-pristine-condition wealthy German art collector, Hans Brukener, was so taken and aroused by the Nanshoku art—and Reno, standing close to him, with a hand palming his buttocks, that he not only bought two ancient Nanshoku woodblock prints, but he also caused Reno to move from his art commentator and seller of the Okama Gallery special art to kagema by showing the German where there was a private staff bathroom with a lock on the door. Inside that small space, Reno posed, steady and trouserless, feet on either side of the toilet bowl, back leaning into the toilet tank, pelvis jutting out, the German’s bald head between his hands, while Brukener went down on his knees to Reno and gave him head.

Winslow had introduced the two in the main gallery, winking at Reno and saying, “Hans asked about you, having observed you from across the gallery. His interest burgeoned when I told him of your talent and the position you played.” And then the gallery owner wafted off with a little laugh, leaving the two standing side by side, staring at the highlight of the show, one of the large, somber-hued woodblock prints from Kiyoshi Saito’s “Winter in Aizu” series.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Reno said. “And increasingly priceless the longer the artist is dead. That’s where the real profit is in art—outliving the artist long enough to enjoy the jump in profit.”

“Yes, it’s quite nice, although I really prefer my art to jump out at me from the wall, to be active. To turn me on.”

“Jump out? Active? Turn you on?”

“Yes, provide friction and arousal.” Brukener stood there, looking distinguished and staid in his tuxedo, but Reno couldn’t avoid seeing how the elegantly clad man was using his fingers to stroke up and down on the cylinder of the champagne glass he held in his hand. His eyes were glittering. He had a goal and didn’t want to waste time in chatting circles around what he already considered negotiations. Winslow had let him know in no uncertain terms when he’d asked about Reno that the American cowboy’s cock was for sale. He turned his face to Reno and said, “You know, you are an extraordinarily sexy young man. And the cowboy garb. Do you ride the horse? Bareback?”

“Yes, I’m an active rider. Most certainly bareback when I have the opportunity. On your taste in art, I take it you prefer artwork showing two men fucking,” Reno asked, his mouth set in an amused smile, sliding into the negotiations as easily and rawly as the German had.

“Yes. Precisely. Winslow tells me he has a more private sales room here. Something more to my taste. Do you know about it?”

“Certainly. Would you like me to show it to you?”

“Most certainly. I would like to see it all.” The fingers of one of his hands surreptitiously brushed against Reno’s thigh.

They were standing side by side in the special collection room, in front of a more modern print than the traditional Nanshoku form, of two very fit and hunky Japanese wrestlers, their loincloths on the tatami mat under them, in an aggressive stance toward each other, showing upcurved erections on both, and conveying to the observer that soon one would be fucking the other—but which one? Reno remembered the session in Haruo’s studio that produced this print. He knew which one of the young men got fucked—and subsequently fucked by Reno too.

“Is this more to your liking? Active and provocative enough for you? Does it jump out at you and make you hard? Do you cream yourself while looking at art like this? If you are interested, I can tell you that it is the guy on the right, the smaller one, who gets fucked.” Reno was an open and straightforward guy—maybe except with Haruo, who he held in highest regard and was always sensitive toward. The generally reticent and guarded Japanese found this fascinating and exotic about the charismatic hunk. It was probably why some Japanese men were attracted to him like moths to the flame.

Brukener laughed, not put off at all. “Yes, absolutely—to all of the questions. I am a submissive, incidentally. An aggressive submissive, though, like that Jap on the right.” He gave a little laugh. “And a rich one. I like it all—giving head, taking a cock in the ass. Winslow tells me, on personal experience, that you are a premium power top.”

“For a price and as I have an opening,” Reno answered.

“You are a whore for a fee?”

“I am what they call a kagema here—a male prostitute, yes. This concept isn’t relegated to the shadows in Japan as it is in some other countries. And it has status here, being seen more in the traditional view of courtesan than rent-boy. Japan is refined, but it isn’t puritanical. I provide sex for a fee. I am known in Tokyo as the gaijin kagema—the foreign male whore. Blond Western tops are at a premium here, yes. And the cowboy outfits do definitely make me popular. ‘Save a horse; ride a cowboy’ gets a knowing and aroused laugh here. You have no idea how many Japanese men crack that joke with me as they are riding my cock. The cowboy persona helps here.”

The German laughed again. “As, I’ve heard, do your looks, charisma, equipment, and stamina. These art works, in this room. Do you get a commission on sales?”

“Yes.”

“If I were to buy, say, this print and that one over there, what sort of servicing could I get from you?”

“You could suck my cock.”

“Here? Now?”

“Yes, but not here in this room. Nearby.”

“And more later?”

“Depend on fitting into my schedule. Are you in Tokyo for long?”

“My time is flexible—more flexible than my need to satisfy my desires. But, for now, the two prints’ worth.”

* * * *

“I can see how the art could be seen as erotic in ancient Japan,” the German collector, Hans Brukener, said as he and Reno sat in opposite corners of Brukener’s chauffeured, tinted-window limousine while it cruised through Shinjuku, “But I can’t see how that would have much application in today’s world.” He had offered Reno a ride back to the Okama Gallery, and Reno had accepted. Neither of them mentioned the blow job the German had given Reno at Gallery Nippon, because the atmosphere was a little frosty between them. Brukener had asked Reno to go back to his hotel with him and to bang him in his room, thinking he could offer the male whore enough money to put him on the schedule immediately. Reno had said he was sorry, but he had a dinner engagement he couldn’t possibly break. Brukener had not been pleased.

“I think the Nanshoku style could be even more erotic now,” Reno said. “The world has gotten too open sexually. Some of the mystery of arousal and sexual fulfillment has passed us by. You have bought two very nice pieces. I think the Nanshoku wood block is more erotic than the modern piece, though. Perhaps if you appreciated the art form better, you’d buy more.”

“Ich verstehen nicht—I don’t understand,” Brukener said.

At that moment, the car stopped and the chauffeur called out, “We’re here at the Okama Gallery, Sir,” from the front seat.

“Tell him to idle at the curb until we are finished back here,” Reno said.

“Finished back here?” Brukener queried.

“Until I make you come as you never have before.”

“You’ve decided to come back to my hotel with me?”

“I’m going to do you—to show you how Nanshoku translates to today’s world—here, in the backseat of this car. Perhaps you’ll be moved to buy more of the art work. Turn in the seat, stretch out.”

“There isn’t room here, with you on the seat.”

“We’ll make room. I’ll be under you—and then I’ll be inside you. Tell the driver to idle at the curb.”

“How much will this cost me?” the German asked, his voice husky.

“You don’t want it? You’re already aroused, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I want it.”

“It won’t cost you a thing. If I went to your hotel room with you, it would cost you 40,000 yen for an hour. Here, I’ll just make my point about the relevance of the Nanshoku mystique without charging you anything for the demonstration.”

“Idle at the curb until our guest is ready to leave,” Brukener called out to the driver.

“Now,” Reno said as he turned and stretched out across the seat, his back against the side wall, “turn and stretch out over me.” Brukener did as directed. His legs were on top of Reno’s. “I am going to fuck you in the Nanshoku style,” Reno said. “I bet you’re already hard.”

The German shuddered. “I’m aroused, yes. Shall I strip off my trousers and briefs?” he asked. He was wearing a tuxedo.

“No. I’ll do the stripping, Nanshoku style. I will be your okama, the cock, and you will be my wakashu, the hole—me the fucker, you the fucked.”

Brukener shuddered. “Your words—the imagery—they’re so arousing.”

“They are meant to be. Words and imagery are much of what creates arousal. My long, thick cock, inside your puckered hole, stretching your channel, having its way with you. Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. You exclaimed how big I was when you took me in your mouth. Think of me inside you, reaching up into your gut. Creaming you there.”

Brukener moaned.

Reno leaned forward and undid Brukener’s belt and unzipped his trousers. The German grunted as Reno jerked his trousers down to below the man’s balls. The German already was in half erection.

“Are you going to take them off me?” Brukener asked.

“No. That’s what is central to Nanshoku. Only the erotic elements are exposed. Otherwise you are fully dressed. We are going to concentrate our coupling, my mastering your channel, on just what is needed for total fusion. Look into my eyes.”

As Brukener looked into Reno’s eyes, he jerked and gasped. Reno had leaned forward and placed his hands on the tops of the man’s exposed thighs on either side. “Now look at your cock. Look at my hands playing at the core of you.” The German gasped as he watched Reno move his hands at the top of the thighs, framing Brukener’s bush, balls, and cock. He played in the pubic hair with his fingers, ran his fingers up and down the now fully erect shaft, and rolled, squeezed, and distended the man’s balls. He was uncut and drew his breath in deeply as Reno pulled his foreskin down off the bulb with the fingers of one hand and moved fingers of the other to the crown of the bulb and worried the piss slit. A drop of precum appeared.

“Ah, you are almost ready already,” Reno murmured. “And yet you are nearly fully dressed, and I am totally covered. But we’ll change that.” He pulled his hands back, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. He pulled his jeans down onto his hips. “Watch me carefully,” he said, as he unbuttoned his leather bikini briefs on each side and slipped the garment off. Brukener experienced an intake of breath again when he saw Reno in full erection. He’d already sucked the cock. He had every reason to know how long and thick it was. But the way Reno was working him in the backseat of the limousine made him gasp again. The image of the cock inside him, being controlled by Reno rather than him doing most of the controlling of it in his mouth was nearly making him hyperventilate.

Reno moved in closer to him, Brukener’s legs over his, bringing their bushes together. Both of them had trimmed Vs, but they both did have bushes, both silky, both blond, although Brukener’s had both brown and gray hairs in his. Reno’s was golden blond.

“Watch,” Reno commanded, “and remember that this is as far as we are unclothed. The general way now is to strip, hop in bed together, and immediately go at it. The Nanshoku way is to concentrate the vision and the senses on the organs that are going to be involved in the sex act. I could make you come the Nanshoku way just by baring one of your pecs only and making love to one of your nipples. You want me to fuck you, though, so we will concentrate on your anal passage and my shaft, moving in and out of your anus, in and out.”

Brukener moaned. “I’m going to come.”

“Yes, you are. Just not yet. But soon. You’ll come twice with me in this car, though.” His fingers were moving through their bushes, caressing them together. He brought their cocks together and slow stroked them.

Brukener gasped, grunted, and shot his load. But Reno anticipated that. He had a handkerchief out, covered the head of the German’s cock loosely, and let Brukener jerk and release in that three times.

“We’re still clothed,” Reno said, “and I’ve made you come. I’ll bet it was a good release.”

“Yes, it was glorious,” Brukener said, “but you said I’d have another.”

“And so you will. But do you understand, and appreciate, the base principle of Nanshoku sex now? In the current world of let it all hang out, strip down entirely, naked, and let’s fuck, the Nanshoku style of concentrating on where the sex act is actually taking place and leaving the rest clothed is especially arousing.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I said I could make you come by just exposing a nipple and having sex with that. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you, but—”

“But for the second coming I promised you, you’d prefer my shaft in your ass, right?”

“Yes . . . please.”

“But the Nanshoku way. I want you to concentrate on looking down the line of your body, watching me enter you—hold your cock and balls off to the side so you can watch the root of my shaft, watch what is exposed of my cock lengthening and shortening, as I fuck you.” Reno had already pushed his cock down, wedged the bulb in the German’s hole. Brukener was moaning and panting hard—but he was watching their joined groins, cupping and moving his cock and balls to the side with a trembling hand.

“Raise and spread your legs, press your feet to the ceiling of the car, when I start to stroke, use the leverage of your feet to go with me. And keep your eyes on the root of my cock. Remain aware that we are fully clothed otherwise. The way of the ancient sexual art of Nanshoku.”

The German gasped and gave a little cry as Reno entered his channel with his cock. He only buried himself half way, so that Brukener could watch the full effect of the cock fucking him. But he was quite long and thick enough for Brukener to be belabored by the cocking.

The car rocked back and forth as Reno thrust up inside the German’s ass and Brukener went with him. Reno breeded him deep, causing the German to exclaim, “Scheisse! Ficken! Das ist herrlich!—Shit! Fuck! That’s glorious!” Bruckner called out in German as he came the second time. As the ass fuck had gotten started, Reno had taken control of the man’s cock and stroked it off, once again bringing the handkerchief into play at the strategic second. There wouldn’t be a mark on the German tuxedo.

“Scheisse! Ficken! Ficken! Jaaaaaa! Ich komme!—I am coming!”

An answering cry of release came from the front seat, and Reno laughed. The driver had been listening and taking care of himself.