The movements of the young maiko stops. She deposits the
chawan on the tatami and pours a little hot water in it.
The odor of the tea fills up my nostrils. The saccado sounds
of the koto infiltrate my pores and make shiver, my whole
body, with erratic spasms. I look at the appetizing flesh of
my tender geisha, she moved slightly, her eye rises up, my
penis inflates. The pressure of the warm flesh of the young
maiko intensifies, the tips of her tiny oppai encrusted
more deeply into my flesh.
The hands of my kan-geiko crossed over the border of the
tatami. They installed and remained there, motionless a
moment, on my knees. Then they slip slowly up to my trunk,
and pressed slightly on it, making my body fall back. I
gently fall on the body of the young and graceful maiko,
strategically deployed on the tatami. I could easily feel
the structure of this too fragile body embedded into my
back, her small and rigid bosoms pierce my shoulder blades,
my buttock come resting with impudence, in the narrow and
hot valley formed by the crack, that marks the meeting of
her slender legs, they voluntarily spread out and now, encircles
my legs, with an energetic pressure.
During this time, my kan-geiko has also discreetly slipped
over my belly; she encrusted there, skillfully deploying her
members around my body, joining them with the members of the
young maiko, to form a compact and inexpugnable envelope, a
yoni inside which, my entire body is metamorphosed into an
impudent lingham.
My body is agitated. The hot flesh that encircles me,
tightens, warms up, and is agitated to the rhythm of the
beats of my heart. Blood runs into my veins that inflates to
the paroxysm, almost bursting.
Then the noose is loosening. The members spread themselves,
the body of my kan-geiko gently slips down along my belly,
her hot lips passing by, licking my flesh, fuddled by an
extreme tension. She settles there, close to my boiling
penis, she encloses with her fingers, she awaits, thus,
inert, the bibin kuru, the erection of the volcano.
The odor of the tea fills my nostrils. The complaints of the
koto, hammer my senses. The young maiko-san is kneeling very
close, carrying into her two hands, the chawan made of
splendid textures of raku. She presses her elbows on her
knees, she makes a long reverence, and immobilizes herself
until my kan-geiko perceives her presence at her sides. My
kan-geiko rose herself up and accepted the chawan from the
hands of the young maiko. She raises the chawan with her two
hands, turns it towards me, to show me the floral drawing
that furnishes its front wall and she makes a long
reverence. She slowly raises the chawan, fixing it with her
eyes and she ingurgitate the hot liquid in a mouthful.
She is there, motionless, in front of me, her eyes staring
at my almost bursting penis, her mouth still full with the
hot liquid, she leans down to me and she softly engulfed my
penis between her closely tight lips.
I could feel her lips, slipping along my penis, exerting a
strong pressure, and passing over, she uncover my fragile
gland from its flesh, then she presses more strongly with
her jaw, scratching my fragile flesh of her sharpened teeth;
my sex inflates with blood, it is almost bursting, it
plunges into the hot usucha , penetrates more deeply to reach
the narrow corridor of the shokudo , and maintained there a
long moment; then she tightens and loosens the pressure,
until the expulsion of my viscous sperm into the still hot
liquid, inflating the throat of my kan-geiko, hot elixir she
ingurgitate with passion.
It is that way, I reached the wao-kei-sei-jaku, the supreme
harmony, I fell asleep, I was satisfied.
I must have been dreaming. The sounds of the city draw me up
from my sleep: horns, squealing of tires, the buzz of the
city at far, cries of children, sinister mooing of animals,
domestic sounds, noises of cauldrons, bells ringing, shouts,
jerked laughter's from hysterical women, paper crumpling,
the mysterious gong of a shintoist temple, I must have been
dreaming, I woke up finally.
The scenery is the same. I did not change place: daylights
already pierce through the translucent walls, tatami plaits,
an uncomfortable takamakura, a pillow in enameled wood that left
a pain on my neck. I am not alone; I remember the intense
pleasure of my senses, this incomparable night of love, the
voluptuous contact of this carnal woman, enigmatic goddess
with her sulfurous kisses, intriguing beast with her
tentacle fingers, an elastic body of an astonishing
lasciviousness, tempting women laying all naked on the
foko-no-wa, which accompanies me in my wake-up, there, very
close by, the inanimate mannequin, the skeleton stripped
from her flesh, the decomposed body of the geisha, of having
so, crossed over time.
When she had, from my bones, sucked all the marrow,
And that, languishly, I turned towards her,
To return a loving kiss to her,
I did see no more then a bladder
With sticky sides, all full of pus!
I closed my two eyes, in my cold terror,
And when I reopened them to the living clearness,
At my sides, instead of the powerful mannequin
Who seemed to have made provision of blood,
Trembled confusedly, remains of a skeleton,
Whom from themselves, rendered the cry of a weather cock
Or an ensign, at the end of an iron rod,
Balanced by the wind during the winter nights.
Baudelaire (traduction libre)
I crossed, distraught, the rice paper wall. I engulf myself
in the vast reception room, thrown into panic; the guests
and the geishas are always there, indifferent to my
distress. Elegant men carrying the attaché-case of the
Japanese businessman or of the busy Japanese, are on their
way out of the establishment, under the constant attention
of the geishas.
I am like projected out of the house. My senses now,
perceive the obvious noise of the city that awakes from its
night of torpor. The objects are familiar to me, the sounds,
people who run in all directions, through the vast parking
space, the bus crammed with tourists in front of the seki,
the gate that gives access to the castle. The house is
there, behind me, quiet and out of time.
I reinstate in hurried steps, my motionless camping-car at
the end of the carpark, the palanquin has mysteriously
disappeared, the human beings, the sounds, the complaints,
the shadows from another time, replaced by the familiar
murmurs of the city, the inevitable small monsters, those
boys with their stereotyped clothing's, their small cap
without edges, the rucksack of the schoolboys, and the joshi kousei with their appetizing thighs, dressed with
outrageous fujinfuku with their broad collar drawn of marine
patterns, their long white socks of thick wool, slackely
rolled down to their ankles, laughing young girls,
mischievous, adventurous. I leave under the gibes and the
laughter, without decency, of these schoolboys and
schoolgirls intrigued by the sudden appearance of this
gaïjin like a mislaid traveler, out of his time.
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes asiatiques, translated, august 2000) © 1998 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
(Hommage to Hiroshige, Hokusai, Utamaro, to the geishas and Japon)
Send a 
Post Card
