fic: Confessions of a Tokyo Call Girl
Title: Confessions of a Tokyo Call Girl (1/??)
Pairing: Sawajiri Erika/various Johnny's. Play a game of spot which one it is. Only two for now, but more will be added.
Genre: AU
Rating: hard R? Not hardcore enough to be NC17.
Summary: Sawajiri Erika lives the ultimate double life-- she loves sex, and she loves money, so she has sex for money. This is her story.
Disclaimer: Owned by Johnny's and Stardust promotion. Just messing with.
Notes: Very heavily based on Belle de Jour, the writer, and Secret Diary of a Call Girl. Brilliant stuff.
i:
I love Tokyo.
I love the raw mixing with the modern, the flashing lights, the ostentatious. I love the population density, and the identity; the culture, and how the Japanese always seem to bastardize other people's culture.
But most of all I love the anonymity.
My name is Sawajiri Erika, and the first thing you should know about me is that I'm a whore.
"Two lovely gentlemen for you today," the agent trills as I stare up the ceiling. I have an agent-- she keeps 40% of what I get, in exchange for advertising my services on the web, and providing my security, if I need it.
I get up and run a hand through my messy hair. "Suppose you've kept them at least three hours apart, then?" I ask sardonically. "Not like the last time."
I need at least an hour's notice for bookings, to make sure that all primping's been primped, all washing's been washed, and all plucking's been plucked. Maintenance comes with the chosen line of work and I'm not complaining-- I like being beautiful, for the sake of being beautiful.
Also, the stares on the street are a nice high.
"Well the first one is at ten--"
I steal a glance at the digital clock quickly-- "What the fuck-- Ayumi, it's nine-thirty now."
The sarcasm that comes through the line is such that I vow next time when we meet I'll just fucking strangle her."Oh, is it? Well. Chop-chop then, darling. He's on his way over."
I scramble off the bed and run into the shower. With any luck, the trains will all have stalled, or the traffic outside is horrible-- anything, really. Being underprepared for a client is a faux pas I won't stand for, or can live with.
I only take cash (because, really-- where the fuck would I put the swipe machine?), and I get it at the beginning of a transaction. Then I stand up, leave the room to count it and put it away, and call my agent.
Always check in with the agent, to let her know I'm okay, and the client is okay, and that everything is, generally... okay. If I say "Okay" then everything IS okay. If I say "KK", she'll have someone check in on me.
So 40% isn't that bad of a cut, really, no?
I always use men's deodorant and I never wear perfume. There's no sense in leaving the client smelling like a woman, because mostly these are married men, salarymen, who will have to go home to their wives and their children after an hour or two with me.
I do in-calls and outcalls: an in-call is when a client comes to 'my apartment'-- and I use the term loosely-- it's not really my apartment, and I don't really live there. The agency owns the apartment, and I receive clients in them, partly because the idea of a stranger knowing where I really live creeps me the fuck out, and also because my own apartment... doesn't really meet the standards of my job.
An outcall is meeting the client at his place, or a hotel somewhere-- it costs more, because apart from the hourly fee costing more than an in-call, he has to cover traveling expenses. So, yeah. I do 'health delivery'. Or whatever the fuck it is they call it here in Japan now. Prostitute, hooker, selling spring-- I don't care what you call me.
In the end it's all just semantics.
No such luck about the client being late, but a series of extremely quick fixes made sure that I looked like I'd been getting ready since the break of dawn and not just thirty minutes ago.
His name is U--- H----- and seems like a shy sort, almost virginal.
Heaven help me if the boy were indeed a virgin, but then, calls like these was where the easiest money came from. They come too fast and are too sleepy for another round, most likely.
"I've never been with a woman before," he murmurs as I strip him of his clothing.
Well, of course.
"Been with a man, though?" I ask, leading him to the bed. Chatter is 95% of this job-- clients sometimes don't need a fuck so much as they need a sounding board.
"Once," he answers, lying on his back and looking up at me as I straddle him. "I'm... trying out different things."
First rule of this business is to work out what he wants, as fast as you can, and give it to him. For a virginal rich teenager, I hardly even have to extend myself. Why he would hire someone so high-class for his first experience baffled the hell out of me-- he was cute, if you liked your men effeminate.
I find that 85% of Japanese women like their men exactly this type, and if he'd just extend a bit more effort, he'd have been laid, no questions asked.
It's not really my problem.
I suck him off for a bit, then straddle him. Woman on top, because I sense that he's a thread shy of being gay, and would rather be manhandled than manhandle.
He comes in less than fifteen minutes. We spend the rest of the hour talking.
UH is a student at uni, and lately he's been confused about his sexual orientation. Apparently college life makes him question life's fundamental things, like if there really is a God, or is he really straight.
"If you ask me, you don't have to be one thing or the other, really," I tell him, taking a long drag from my cigarette, then exhaling. "Go with what you like doing. You're young," I continue, looking him over. "You don't have to decide now."
He looks up at me and smiles. I feel like an older sister of some sort, except I just had sex with him a little while ago.
"You're really nice for this job, Sophia san."
Oh.
Well for obvious reasons I don't use my real name. The name on the website is Sophia.
Yeah, that's as in 'lover of knowledge'.
I like to read, and I like to watch people. Watching people's been really helpful in analyzing the many people I meet, most of which are men who I'm required to fuck irregardless.
Knowing what makes them tick without asking is part of why I'm really good at my job.
Client number two is an outcall, at a hotel in Shibuya, five hours after U kun goes home. He slipped me a tip that was almost equal to the fee.
Very nice boy. I wouldn't object to seeing him again.
The client's picked a very nice hotel, too.
The easiest way to spot a prostitute in a world where women are trying their damnedest to look like one is to find the girl wearing the designer suit.
I locate the lifts, walk quickly. Ignore reception, make very little of an impression, look like I know where I'm going-- fabulous, but forgettable; a businesswoman, out for lunch. That's all I am.
About the client... from what Ayumi tells me, he was once married, and now apparently not. First time with an escort, and picked a hotel not trendy enough for anyone under the age of forty, so I'm guessing... newly retired and feels strangely emasculated for the fact. He has arranged to meet at the hotel's skybar.
Japanese salarymen, really. They all need to feel pampered and special.
"Sophia san?"
I turn around and very nearly drop my martini glass. In front of me is possibly one of the most gorgeous male species in Japan today.
The image of a fifty year old new retiree is dashed from my mind instantly as he drops a kiss on my cheek. "Y-------- san," I murmur quietly, smiling.
We get down to the deed quite quickly; he sits on the bed while I try to give him a blowjob.
Yes, that's 'try'. It doesn't happen often, with me, but the gent can't seem to keep up, so to speak.
After a few minutes I give up and look up. "Is something wrong?" I ask. I don't really want to know, but sometimes, them getting it out helps. Whether it's the thought of infidelity, or work-related stress...
Y san apologizes quickly, and makes a move for his clothing. I still his hand and tilt my head up at him.
Hey, I'm an all-service sort of girl, you know. Satisfaction guaranteed.
"It's not you," he said hastily, pulling away and putting his clothes back on. "It's just that..."
I sit on the bed, feeling generally frowny. I don't let it show. "Is there anything you think I should improve on, or something...?"
"No!" he cries hastily, giving me a pained look. "Absolutely not. You were a treasure, Sophia san, it's just... I'm really sorry."
Y san shoves some bills into my hands before making a quick exit. I know the room was booked for two hours so I stay and have myself a bubble bath, pondering things.
The next day I meet with Ayumi and some of her other girls at a restaurant in Roppongi.
Ayumi sees us once a month to make reports, collect money, give some unsolicited advice. This time I was actually anxious to see her, ask what Y san had said about me.
"I don't actually know what went wrong," I purse my lips and stab at a piece of tiramisu.
"Well, you know how men are," Leah comments. Leah is another working girl, and I swear I would hit that sometime, given the chance. Right now I listen. "Some of them need chemical support, nowadays."
I frown. "He's too young for Viagra."
Ayumi fixes us all with a smile. "I don't know what you're so worried about, Sophia. He claims that you were absolutely fabulous. In fact, he's booked again."
"Booked me again?" I repeat dumbly. "Really?"
"No darling, booked again. He chose Maki san this time. Very specific; girl next door, no makeup."
I steal a sidelong glance at Maki, short-haired, boyish-- passes for the girl next door.
This wasn't making any sense to me. He'd chosen me first, me. Maki wasn't even in my league, just yet; she was just another girl in it to pay off her school debts and was totally inexperienced, besides.
I wasn't standing for this.
I try to keep my life and my job separate at all times-- when anyone asks, I tell them I work at a museum, keeping the books. It's a job that's so frightfully boring that no one dares ask any more after that.
I'm not entirely above stealing clients, if it all came to that. There is no honor among thieves, and anyone who advocates otherwise is a moron.
So I stole Y san directly from under Maki. She won't miss him, I swapped her with one of my rich regulars, who'd pay triple what Y did.
I met him at my place, in Nerima. So much for keeping my life and my job separate, but the apartment I use for in-calls was definitely not the impression I hoped to give the man, and apparently, the impression was everything.
He drums his fingers against the couch, sitting rigid, then he picks up one of the books I invariably leave around my place and flips through it.
"That's a good choice," I tell him when I walk in with a couple of beers. "I've always liked that book. Excuse the mess, though."
"No, I like it," he comments, looking around. "So this is where you really live."
I nod. "This is where I really live. And this is how I really look like. No stilettos and no magic makeup. I know you were expecting Maki... she's not feeling that well."
I look up at him uncertainly. He smiles, hands over the money.
I keep it in my pocket, for now. Next thing I know he's on me like white on rice.
So apparently, some men still harbor the kink of having no kink. Noted. The whole experience is so normal-- clothes are shoved or pushed to the side, and he takes me, missionary style, right there on the couch.
He bathes with me after, and talks about his ex-wife.
That night I make a note on my planner of these two men:
U kun: seventeen, uni student. Likes boys, will probably bring a third sometime for a threesome.
Y san: twenty-six, entrepreneur. Likes Erika, not Sophia.
The first thing you should know about me is that I'm a whore.
You should also know that this isn't the real me.
There's a reason why I chose a different name, assume a different identity. There's a reason why I have two separate closets, two separate houses.
That's because, for me, the ultimate experience is anything that doesn't need me to be myself.
Pairing: Sawajiri Erika/various Johnny's. Play a game of spot which one it is. Only two for now, but more will be added.
Genre: AU
Rating: hard R? Not hardcore enough to be NC17.
Summary: Sawajiri Erika lives the ultimate double life-- she loves sex, and she loves money, so she has sex for money. This is her story.
Disclaimer: Owned by Johnny's and Stardust promotion. Just messing with.
Notes: Very heavily based on Belle de Jour, the writer, and Secret Diary of a Call Girl. Brilliant stuff.
i:
I love Tokyo.
I love the raw mixing with the modern, the flashing lights, the ostentatious. I love the population density, and the identity; the culture, and how the Japanese always seem to bastardize other people's culture.
But most of all I love the anonymity.
My name is Sawajiri Erika, and the first thing you should know about me is that I'm a whore.
"Two lovely gentlemen for you today," the agent trills as I stare up the ceiling. I have an agent-- she keeps 40% of what I get, in exchange for advertising my services on the web, and providing my security, if I need it.
I get up and run a hand through my messy hair. "Suppose you've kept them at least three hours apart, then?" I ask sardonically. "Not like the last time."
I need at least an hour's notice for bookings, to make sure that all primping's been primped, all washing's been washed, and all plucking's been plucked. Maintenance comes with the chosen line of work and I'm not complaining-- I like being beautiful, for the sake of being beautiful.
Also, the stares on the street are a nice high.
"Well the first one is at ten--"
I steal a glance at the digital clock quickly-- "What the fuck-- Ayumi, it's nine-thirty now."
The sarcasm that comes through the line is such that I vow next time when we meet I'll just fucking strangle her."Oh, is it? Well. Chop-chop then, darling. He's on his way over."
I scramble off the bed and run into the shower. With any luck, the trains will all have stalled, or the traffic outside is horrible-- anything, really. Being underprepared for a client is a faux pas I won't stand for, or can live with.
I only take cash (because, really-- where the fuck would I put the swipe machine?), and I get it at the beginning of a transaction. Then I stand up, leave the room to count it and put it away, and call my agent.
Always check in with the agent, to let her know I'm okay, and the client is okay, and that everything is, generally... okay. If I say "Okay" then everything IS okay. If I say "KK", she'll have someone check in on me.
So 40% isn't that bad of a cut, really, no?
I always use men's deodorant and I never wear perfume. There's no sense in leaving the client smelling like a woman, because mostly these are married men, salarymen, who will have to go home to their wives and their children after an hour or two with me.
I do in-calls and outcalls: an in-call is when a client comes to 'my apartment'-- and I use the term loosely-- it's not really my apartment, and I don't really live there. The agency owns the apartment, and I receive clients in them, partly because the idea of a stranger knowing where I really live creeps me the fuck out, and also because my own apartment... doesn't really meet the standards of my job.
An outcall is meeting the client at his place, or a hotel somewhere-- it costs more, because apart from the hourly fee costing more than an in-call, he has to cover traveling expenses. So, yeah. I do 'health delivery'. Or whatever the fuck it is they call it here in Japan now. Prostitute, hooker, selling spring-- I don't care what you call me.
In the end it's all just semantics.
No such luck about the client being late, but a series of extremely quick fixes made sure that I looked like I'd been getting ready since the break of dawn and not just thirty minutes ago.
His name is U--- H----- and seems like a shy sort, almost virginal.
Heaven help me if the boy were indeed a virgin, but then, calls like these was where the easiest money came from. They come too fast and are too sleepy for another round, most likely.
"I've never been with a woman before," he murmurs as I strip him of his clothing.
Well, of course.
"Been with a man, though?" I ask, leading him to the bed. Chatter is 95% of this job-- clients sometimes don't need a fuck so much as they need a sounding board.
"Once," he answers, lying on his back and looking up at me as I straddle him. "I'm... trying out different things."
First rule of this business is to work out what he wants, as fast as you can, and give it to him. For a virginal rich teenager, I hardly even have to extend myself. Why he would hire someone so high-class for his first experience baffled the hell out of me-- he was cute, if you liked your men effeminate.
I find that 85% of Japanese women like their men exactly this type, and if he'd just extend a bit more effort, he'd have been laid, no questions asked.
It's not really my problem.
I suck him off for a bit, then straddle him. Woman on top, because I sense that he's a thread shy of being gay, and would rather be manhandled than manhandle.
He comes in less than fifteen minutes. We spend the rest of the hour talking.
UH is a student at uni, and lately he's been confused about his sexual orientation. Apparently college life makes him question life's fundamental things, like if there really is a God, or is he really straight.
"If you ask me, you don't have to be one thing or the other, really," I tell him, taking a long drag from my cigarette, then exhaling. "Go with what you like doing. You're young," I continue, looking him over. "You don't have to decide now."
He looks up at me and smiles. I feel like an older sister of some sort, except I just had sex with him a little while ago.
"You're really nice for this job, Sophia san."
Oh.
Well for obvious reasons I don't use my real name. The name on the website is Sophia.
Yeah, that's as in 'lover of knowledge'.
I like to read, and I like to watch people. Watching people's been really helpful in analyzing the many people I meet, most of which are men who I'm required to fuck irregardless.
Knowing what makes them tick without asking is part of why I'm really good at my job.
Client number two is an outcall, at a hotel in Shibuya, five hours after U kun goes home. He slipped me a tip that was almost equal to the fee.
Very nice boy. I wouldn't object to seeing him again.
The client's picked a very nice hotel, too.
The easiest way to spot a prostitute in a world where women are trying their damnedest to look like one is to find the girl wearing the designer suit.
I locate the lifts, walk quickly. Ignore reception, make very little of an impression, look like I know where I'm going-- fabulous, but forgettable; a businesswoman, out for lunch. That's all I am.
About the client... from what Ayumi tells me, he was once married, and now apparently not. First time with an escort, and picked a hotel not trendy enough for anyone under the age of forty, so I'm guessing... newly retired and feels strangely emasculated for the fact. He has arranged to meet at the hotel's skybar.
Japanese salarymen, really. They all need to feel pampered and special.
"Sophia san?"
I turn around and very nearly drop my martini glass. In front of me is possibly one of the most gorgeous male species in Japan today.
The image of a fifty year old new retiree is dashed from my mind instantly as he drops a kiss on my cheek. "Y-------- san," I murmur quietly, smiling.
We get down to the deed quite quickly; he sits on the bed while I try to give him a blowjob.
Yes, that's 'try'. It doesn't happen often, with me, but the gent can't seem to keep up, so to speak.
After a few minutes I give up and look up. "Is something wrong?" I ask. I don't really want to know, but sometimes, them getting it out helps. Whether it's the thought of infidelity, or work-related stress...
Y san apologizes quickly, and makes a move for his clothing. I still his hand and tilt my head up at him.
Hey, I'm an all-service sort of girl, you know. Satisfaction guaranteed.
"It's not you," he said hastily, pulling away and putting his clothes back on. "It's just that..."
I sit on the bed, feeling generally frowny. I don't let it show. "Is there anything you think I should improve on, or something...?"
"No!" he cries hastily, giving me a pained look. "Absolutely not. You were a treasure, Sophia san, it's just... I'm really sorry."
Y san shoves some bills into my hands before making a quick exit. I know the room was booked for two hours so I stay and have myself a bubble bath, pondering things.
The next day I meet with Ayumi and some of her other girls at a restaurant in Roppongi.
Ayumi sees us once a month to make reports, collect money, give some unsolicited advice. This time I was actually anxious to see her, ask what Y san had said about me.
"I don't actually know what went wrong," I purse my lips and stab at a piece of tiramisu.
"Well, you know how men are," Leah comments. Leah is another working girl, and I swear I would hit that sometime, given the chance. Right now I listen. "Some of them need chemical support, nowadays."
I frown. "He's too young for Viagra."
Ayumi fixes us all with a smile. "I don't know what you're so worried about, Sophia. He claims that you were absolutely fabulous. In fact, he's booked again."
"Booked me again?" I repeat dumbly. "Really?"
"No darling, booked again. He chose Maki san this time. Very specific; girl next door, no makeup."
I steal a sidelong glance at Maki, short-haired, boyish-- passes for the girl next door.
This wasn't making any sense to me. He'd chosen me first, me. Maki wasn't even in my league, just yet; she was just another girl in it to pay off her school debts and was totally inexperienced, besides.
I wasn't standing for this.
I try to keep my life and my job separate at all times-- when anyone asks, I tell them I work at a museum, keeping the books. It's a job that's so frightfully boring that no one dares ask any more after that.
I'm not entirely above stealing clients, if it all came to that. There is no honor among thieves, and anyone who advocates otherwise is a moron.
So I stole Y san directly from under Maki. She won't miss him, I swapped her with one of my rich regulars, who'd pay triple what Y did.
I met him at my place, in Nerima. So much for keeping my life and my job separate, but the apartment I use for in-calls was definitely not the impression I hoped to give the man, and apparently, the impression was everything.
He drums his fingers against the couch, sitting rigid, then he picks up one of the books I invariably leave around my place and flips through it.
"That's a good choice," I tell him when I walk in with a couple of beers. "I've always liked that book. Excuse the mess, though."
"No, I like it," he comments, looking around. "So this is where you really live."
I nod. "This is where I really live. And this is how I really look like. No stilettos and no magic makeup. I know you were expecting Maki... she's not feeling that well."
I look up at him uncertainly. He smiles, hands over the money.
I keep it in my pocket, for now. Next thing I know he's on me like white on rice.
So apparently, some men still harbor the kink of having no kink. Noted. The whole experience is so normal-- clothes are shoved or pushed to the side, and he takes me, missionary style, right there on the couch.
He bathes with me after, and talks about his ex-wife.
That night I make a note on my planner of these two men:
U kun: seventeen, uni student. Likes boys, will probably bring a third sometime for a threesome.
Y san: twenty-six, entrepreneur. Likes Erika, not Sophia.
The first thing you should know about me is that I'm a whore.
You should also know that this isn't the real me.
There's a reason why I chose a different name, assume a different identity. There's a reason why I have two separate closets, two separate houses.
That's because, for me, the ultimate experience is anything that doesn't need me to be myself.