I had been having dinner with a very highly placed and extraordinarily stressed American executive I had been dancing in circles with for several months waiting for him to rediscover sex. Some businessmen want an affair yet – if they haven’t been with another woman or any woman in awhile – forget how absolutely wonderful sex can be and you have to almost talk them into it.
Like a virgin.
It is such a myth that all men are randy bastards.
Anyway, we were having a very nice Champagne dinner talking about this and that when he tells me about a client in Hokkaido who took him to a sex club. This members only club – which my friend had to join else entry was forbidden – catered to a very interesting sort of fetish; couples who like to have sex or masturbate in front of others, and couples who like to watch. It was, he insisted, a beautiful club, black onyx bar, leather banquettes, cut crystal glasses. The only thing is in the subdued lighting of the club half the clientele were fucking like bandits.
“You have to wonder,” he said taking a bite of crab cake, we were at Roti the main one behind the police station, “I mean,” he fumbled for the right words. “It’s a very narrow line and what does it take to step across it, you know?” Pouring me another glass of Champagne, “They have a club in Tokyo, too. Because of Hokkaido I’m a lifetime member.”
http://www.rotico.com/index.html
Cocking my head to one side and raising an eyebrow I said nothing, waiting to see if he had the courage to go through with what he so obviously wanted to follow up this story with.
He cleared his throat and pushed his food around on the plate, hoping I would say it for him.
I didn’t.
“Um, I know, you write erotica,” (Which I did as a sideline as I said before for Marc Jacobs or vintage Vuitton money.) I had told him only because I hoped it would push him a little closer to rediscovering his sensual self – something I was sure was lurking just under the surface and the main reason I had stuck around this long, I felt there was so much more beneath the bespoke suits and french tailored shirts with matching ties he always picked up in Paris. “It might be interesting for you to go to such a place, for material, uh, for your stories.”
“Purely for professional interest?” I asked unable to keep the sardonic tone from my voice.
He squirmed, actually squirmed and he was not a small man, so I felt bad. I think he really was looking to experiment with his erotic side, maybe reaffirm to himself he still had one. I said “Lets talk about it next time.” However, I added frankly, if he expected me to have sex with him on a banquette he was going to be a disappointed man. Exhibitionism is one vice I have no interest in.
“No, no, of course not,” he exclaimed both hands extended palm outwards – whether in supplication or appeasement I wasn’t sure.
The first chance I got I called and told Margot about the possibility of the sex club trip. Margot and I were very frank with one another, after all we had experienced all the details of our respective divorces thanks to the gossip loving lawyer we shared. It was also important, I felt, to have at least one person know who you were with and what you were doing in case you went missing. It’s a big, bad world out there.
“Oh I know that place Sacha dear, if it’s the same one, there are several around town,” she had said over the phone taking me totally by surprise. “Taki is a member to one in Akasaka and we went many times.”
“You are fucking kidding me,” I said.
“No, I found it very, very,” she began to sob, “stimulating.” And dissolved in tears.
Mystified I asked, “Margot why are you crying about the sex club? As I understand it single women are allowed, in fact encouraged, to go there and masturbate for the other patrons’ enjoyment. I mean, if you are missing the whole public exposure thing.”
She continued to sob into the phone, “We would go together back when he was so desirable, so, so..”
She lapsed into some unintelligible French and I said guessing, “Sexed up?”
“Yes, yes, yes, he was so sexed up. So excited, so hard and strong.”
“You guys actually did it in front of everybody, with people watching?”
“Yes!” She practically snarled the word. “So liberating, the freedom from constraint and inhibition.”
“Margot that is so,” I scanned my mental database for a word that would not be insulting, “so BOHEMIAN of you.”
“Sacha you have said the exact word, exact. We were two bohemian spirits, riding each other, riding, riding in the night.”
“Yea, I get the picture, Margot.”
She started sobbing again muttering “Riding, riding…”.
“Um, I am sorry about you and Taki. Have you gone hunting for anyone else, to take your mind of him?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
I had an idea, “Listen, lets go to A971 the House and Garden, in Roppongi. The bar is full of foreign guys at night. It has become some sort of in-spot plus they have great Tapas and Champagne at happy hour. We could cruise for men. I mean you know, we can play at cruising, we don’t really have to do anything.”
“They are probably all gay.”
That brought me up short because it was a very real possibility. The couple of times I had passed by there seemed rather a high proportion of men – but that was often the case here.
“Listen I’m at the Art Center working on a story right now. “
“Who are you interviewing?”
“No, no, just writing. You know my style. If you can get off work a little early come and meet me here, if not call and I’ll meet you at the bar how about?” Margot was just a few blocks away from me in her office at Roppongi Hills.
That settled I sipped my ice coffee and got back to people watching. Quality of life in Tokyo was definitely improving at a rapid pace. My Panasonic and I sat at one of the little round metal tables in the lobby coffee bar the black and silver plastic on metal chairs surprisingly comfortable.
Tokyo’s new National Art Center was, along with the Tokyo Midtown Starbucks, one of my favorite places to work these days. The vast interior space was such a relief from the crowded urban interiors of this country; the building constructed to look like an enormous rolling wave, glass running like water across the entire massive exterior. Inside it seemed more spaceport than museum. Two huge concrete cones one reaching the second floor the other nearly twice its size towering up to the third supported a restaurant: the Vogue Café for lunch and the first overseas branch of Brasserie Paul Bocuse serving both lunch and dinner, respectively The Brasserie had the distinction of remaining open even after the museum closed at 6:30. Diners in the evening entered the empty darkened museum along a roped off pathway, the immense space echoing only to the click of high heels, the rattle of tableware.
http://www.hiramatsu.co.jp/eng/restaurants/paulbocuse-musee/
Giant escalators climbing the far walls, steel, glass and concrete, the pure manmade beauty of industrial design, the place took my breath away. What made it truly different was the museum building and the grounds were free – the only charge was for entering one of the actual exhibitions in the large side wings. Now the Brits would not be surprised at this, the National Gallery after all is free as is the British Museum. But not in Japan and certainly not at this level. The whole complex was laid out to encourage people to linger, to sit and enjoy. My laptop and I had become regular patrons popping up, I was sure, on endless digitalized security data files.
http://www.nact.jp/english/index.html
I had been working about an hour when my phone buzzed. It was so warm today, I was in my sleeveless silk brown and white wrap dress I had picked up on my last trip to Bloomingdales and white wedge sandals. The sandals were from Target of all places but I would never tell! Only journalists in the movies could afford to keep all their shoes from designer boutiques – or resale boutiques. Buzzing the phone danced around the table top. Flipping it open I saw a number but no name.
“Hello?”
“Sacha? It’s James.”
I had handed over my number but given the transitory nature of his visit I had not bothered to put his into my phone, leaving it floating in limbo in the ‘calls received’ list. What was the point, he’d be gone soon.
“Hey there Pasadena,” I said cheerfully. “How’s your day?”
“Not that great I am arguing over contractual details for my client with these guys and they are being very selfish.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Art Center writing.”
“Remember we talked about going to the Roppongi Hills Club, the last time we were together.”
That had been the blackmailing trip to the Love Hotel to catch Thomas the Man Whore, now Thomas the Bi-Sexual Man Whore and Rent Boy Patron. “I remember.”
“Well, what about tonight? Can you come tonight?”
Oh shit. I really wanted to go to the Club it was so clear today the views would be wonderful but could not desert Margot. “Actually I’m meeting a gal pal at A971 for drinks. She needs cheering up. Would you like to come too?”
http://www.tokyo-midtown.com/en/shop/92/index.html
“She wouldn’t mind?”He sounded doubtful.
“No, not at all. Margot is a lot of fun. Although since she is French the conversation is bound to touch on political and social issues and she takes no prisoners! Prepare to defend your territory or she will plant the French flag on your lifeless body. If you can stand that, come on over. We should be there between 6 and 7. It will be fun.”
Okay,” He was laughing, I amused him, I knew. “Wait, where is this place?”
I told him. Temporary or not, I owed him big time for coming with me on my Love Hotel Spy escapade.
It was up to him to decide what currency he wanted that in.
