Carved and Uncarved [1/4, Tora/Shou]
I woke up one morning in July with an anchor in my chest. It was heavy, like an elephant or two and pulled my heart down at an unsteady pace. By the time I had greeted my roommate Nao at the canteen for breakfast, the anchor had stopped pulling; my heart hit rock bottom.
Ever since that breakup with Haruka, my mornings had been like that. Yet there was something new, something rather annoying, about this particular morning - the anchor remained stationary o that rough spot in my chest and continued to stay there even when lunchtime arrived, keeping my heart well below Content.
I could barely taste my lunch - minestrone, while Nao happily wolfed down his lasagne and munched on his breadsticks. I thought he was too fixated on his food to realize his roommate was on the verge of crying, but when two-thirds of the lasagne had reached his stomach, he looked at me squarely in the end and said, not unsympathetically:
“You’re depressed.”
I nodded robotically. He knew why; Haruka was a friend of his. He had a unique way of comforting others, too; he gave me no hug, not even a mug of get-well coffee, just a quick pat on the back and an impish wink.
“Hey man, I know how to lift your spirits up. After you’re done with that soup, I’ll take you somewhere nice, okay?”
I agreed without giving it much thought. The sunny aura emitting from Nao’s mere existence was enough to persuade me into following his footsteps for a life of eternal bliss. Plus, we were on holiday - what could b better than kicking back and relaxing at “somewhere nice”?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Nao took me to a whorehouse, much to my surprise. It was secretive, of course, with a “main entrance” clouded by the insecure atmosphere provided by an alleyway, as well as a secretary who doubled as a security guard.
“Welcome back, Nao-sama!” She greeted us with a bow, flashing pearl-white teeth at us. She took out a tiny, bronze key from her pocket and unlocked the door behind her desk, before leading us to a grayish, velvet sofa, where a cluster of photo albums lay waiting to be opened.
“Is this your first time here?” This question was directed at me, but Nao was the one who answered. The second “yes” left his lips, her smile widened, sending small shivers snaking down my spine. Was it too late to leave now?
Unfortunately it was. She seemed to have a secret box of questions floating in her head for new customers; she would unleash them, one right after the other, like a sea of bullets from a never ending pistol. Still, Nao answered them without breaking a single pore of sweat - in fact, he, too, was going so fast that the only things I could catch from him were “ditched” and “relieve his emotions”.
Finally, the Q&A session was over. She presented me with one of those brown-leather albums, in which thousands of whores were put on display like mannequins of zero ambition. She would flip a few pages, then stop to suggest a whore or two, only to resume flipping those slightly wrinkled pages when I shook my head stubbornly - a good fuck was never a good fuck if the opposite party looked too willing.
In the end, she gave up on that album… and simply grabbed another to flip through. There was Emi, who resembled an anorexic clownfish; Usagi, whose smoky black makeup did no justice to his clearly drug-drowned eyes; Becci, round-faced but with skin glued painfully to her bones. They all turned me off, and I almost walked out - I almost did; I would definitely have, had it not been for whore #xyz on page n.
Just like the others, he posed for the camera. Yet surrounding him was an aura of lightness, as if he lived without any pressure or hardships. There was a natural feel to his pose - a simple tilt of the head, one leg slung casually over the other. A few hay-blond strands fell past his left eye, threads of silk against an ivory column.
“This is Shou,” the secretary said when my staring had become quite obvious to both her and Nao. “Would you like him?”
I found myself nodding. She beamed once more, closing the album, before beckoning me away from the velvet sofa. I was led to a small room, decorated with nothing but a futon shoved right beside a wall, as well as a jar of decaying violets.
“Shou will be here in five minutes,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “But while you wait, please use one of these.” Then she handed me a condom, as if it was the most normal thing a girls would ever give a guy.
Sure enough, Shou arrived in precisely three hundred seconds. He looked exactly the same as he did in the photo, except for the tense in his eyes - perhaps he, too, was just as nervous as his client was.
“Treat Tora-sama nicely,” the secretly ordered him. “Tora-sama is in need of some cheering up.” Then she left, shutting the door loudly behind her, leaving the two of us alone.
Shou got right down to business. He dropped to his knees and bowed deeply. Such an act was supposed to light any man’s fire, but in my case, it only made things more awkward than they already were - I sort of wanted to punch Nao for this. Sort of.
“Welcome, Tora,” his voice was at least a whole octave lower than I expected; it was richer and more velvety than the grayish sofa outside.
“Uh -” was all I could croak out in response.
“Eto, how would you…?” His voice trailed away as he gave the futon a quick glance.
Truth be told, I had absolutely no idea on how I wanted to shag him. Hell, I wasn’t even sure whether I should stay or not. But for the sake of Nao’s optimism, I decided to let those thoughts slide away into a temporary trash bin - shagging before doubting, yeah?
“Gently, I guess,” I answered, feeling the temperature rise a little in my cheeks. “I haven’t done it in a long time.”
I thought I saw the hint of a smile break through his lips, but if it was there, it was gone as quick as it appeared. He stayed there for a while, still like a statue, one hand folded over the other, head bowed in total silence. Then he looked up, a quivering smile stretching across his face, and crawled to my side.
“Gently it is, Tora-sama,” he whispered coyly, and pressed his lips to mine.
It was all an act, a fake act of meaningless actions and delusional feelings. His lips were rock hard and arctic cold, just a pair of plastic clippers against my skin. When he began unbuttoning my shirt, I pulled away, accidentally shoving him off my lap. I couldn’t do it, not without real emotions.
“No,” I told him before he could speak. “I’m sorry, just… no, not like this.” I let out a deep sigh. “This won’t help at all. I just want to talk.”
Shou looked at me with what seemed like utter shock, jaw dropped wide open like a fish, as if he had never heard of the verb “talking”. I thought he was going to bail, but once again, the smile returned to his lips.
“Okay,” he nodded. “We can talk. I won’t tell a soul.”
We started like strangers would - shy, hesitant, boring. But as time passed, there were less scruples, less eto and anou, less periods of ticking silence between us. It did not take long for small talk to morph into deep discussion; before I knew it, I was pouring out all those bottled-up emotions to Shou, a prostitute, a total stranger. Yet it felt good, talking to Shou; the more I spoke, the more the anchor was beginning to fade; I showered him with a truckload of worries and so did he.
I went for Shou the next day, paying no heed to the secretary’s suggestions. When Shou saw me, he broke into a smile - one that was somehow more natural, more free, than the one that graced his lips when we first met. Our conversation was lighter that day; it touched airy subjects like coffee, 50’s rock, and breakfast - bread for me, watermelon for him.
I visited him the day after, too. We talked a little about our childhood, but he fell silent rather quickly, so I changed the subject, steering away from topics that could possibly remind him of the cruel life he had now.
“Tell me, Amano-san,” he called me that when the secretary wasn’t around; I had bluntly told him that “Tora-sama” was too much between two men who did nothing but chat all day. “Do you have any goals? Ambitions? Dreams?” He was fingering the plastic ring on his thumb.
“Yeah,” I immediately replied. “I wish to improve, to be come a better person. I’ve changed a lot, stopped a handful of bad habits, but there’s never an end when it comes to improving oneself.”
He nodded slowly, wished me good luck, and gave me his private number, so did I.
On the fourth day, Shou was “not available”, according to the secretary. I had gone through the trouble of finding the right present for him - a cream-coloured notebook from loft, so that he could pour out every string of distress onto its blank pages. I placed the present on the secretary’s desk and asked her to pass it to Shou as soon as he was available again, but she shook her head stubbornly. “I cannot do that,” was all she said.
But I was not ready to give up - not now, not ever. I urged for an explanation, an expanded version of “Sorry, Shou’s not available right now.” She must have gotten tired of my urges, because her next words were mixed with irritation and a faint hint of hesitation:
“Shou’s never coming back; he’s quit.”
Ever since that breakup with Haruka, my mornings had been like that. Yet there was something new, something rather annoying, about this particular morning - the anchor remained stationary o that rough spot in my chest and continued to stay there even when lunchtime arrived, keeping my heart well below Content.
I could barely taste my lunch - minestrone, while Nao happily wolfed down his lasagne and munched on his breadsticks. I thought he was too fixated on his food to realize his roommate was on the verge of crying, but when two-thirds of the lasagne had reached his stomach, he looked at me squarely in the end and said, not unsympathetically:
“You’re depressed.”
I nodded robotically. He knew why; Haruka was a friend of his. He had a unique way of comforting others, too; he gave me no hug, not even a mug of get-well coffee, just a quick pat on the back and an impish wink.
“Hey man, I know how to lift your spirits up. After you’re done with that soup, I’ll take you somewhere nice, okay?”
I agreed without giving it much thought. The sunny aura emitting from Nao’s mere existence was enough to persuade me into following his footsteps for a life of eternal bliss. Plus, we were on holiday - what could b better than kicking back and relaxing at “somewhere nice”?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Nao took me to a whorehouse, much to my surprise. It was secretive, of course, with a “main entrance” clouded by the insecure atmosphere provided by an alleyway, as well as a secretary who doubled as a security guard.
“Welcome back, Nao-sama!” She greeted us with a bow, flashing pearl-white teeth at us. She took out a tiny, bronze key from her pocket and unlocked the door behind her desk, before leading us to a grayish, velvet sofa, where a cluster of photo albums lay waiting to be opened.
“Is this your first time here?” This question was directed at me, but Nao was the one who answered. The second “yes” left his lips, her smile widened, sending small shivers snaking down my spine. Was it too late to leave now?
Unfortunately it was. She seemed to have a secret box of questions floating in her head for new customers; she would unleash them, one right after the other, like a sea of bullets from a never ending pistol. Still, Nao answered them without breaking a single pore of sweat - in fact, he, too, was going so fast that the only things I could catch from him were “ditched” and “relieve his emotions”.
Finally, the Q&A session was over. She presented me with one of those brown-leather albums, in which thousands of whores were put on display like mannequins of zero ambition. She would flip a few pages, then stop to suggest a whore or two, only to resume flipping those slightly wrinkled pages when I shook my head stubbornly - a good fuck was never a good fuck if the opposite party looked too willing.
In the end, she gave up on that album… and simply grabbed another to flip through. There was Emi, who resembled an anorexic clownfish; Usagi, whose smoky black makeup did no justice to his clearly drug-drowned eyes; Becci, round-faced but with skin glued painfully to her bones. They all turned me off, and I almost walked out - I almost did; I would definitely have, had it not been for whore #xyz on page n.
Just like the others, he posed for the camera. Yet surrounding him was an aura of lightness, as if he lived without any pressure or hardships. There was a natural feel to his pose - a simple tilt of the head, one leg slung casually over the other. A few hay-blond strands fell past his left eye, threads of silk against an ivory column.
“This is Shou,” the secretary said when my staring had become quite obvious to both her and Nao. “Would you like him?”
I found myself nodding. She beamed once more, closing the album, before beckoning me away from the velvet sofa. I was led to a small room, decorated with nothing but a futon shoved right beside a wall, as well as a jar of decaying violets.
“Shou will be here in five minutes,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “But while you wait, please use one of these.” Then she handed me a condom, as if it was the most normal thing a girls would ever give a guy.
Sure enough, Shou arrived in precisely three hundred seconds. He looked exactly the same as he did in the photo, except for the tense in his eyes - perhaps he, too, was just as nervous as his client was.
“Treat Tora-sama nicely,” the secretly ordered him. “Tora-sama is in need of some cheering up.” Then she left, shutting the door loudly behind her, leaving the two of us alone.
Shou got right down to business. He dropped to his knees and bowed deeply. Such an act was supposed to light any man’s fire, but in my case, it only made things more awkward than they already were - I sort of wanted to punch Nao for this. Sort of.
“Welcome, Tora,” his voice was at least a whole octave lower than I expected; it was richer and more velvety than the grayish sofa outside.
“Uh -” was all I could croak out in response.
“Eto, how would you…?” His voice trailed away as he gave the futon a quick glance.
Truth be told, I had absolutely no idea on how I wanted to shag him. Hell, I wasn’t even sure whether I should stay or not. But for the sake of Nao’s optimism, I decided to let those thoughts slide away into a temporary trash bin - shagging before doubting, yeah?
“Gently, I guess,” I answered, feeling the temperature rise a little in my cheeks. “I haven’t done it in a long time.”
I thought I saw the hint of a smile break through his lips, but if it was there, it was gone as quick as it appeared. He stayed there for a while, still like a statue, one hand folded over the other, head bowed in total silence. Then he looked up, a quivering smile stretching across his face, and crawled to my side.
“Gently it is, Tora-sama,” he whispered coyly, and pressed his lips to mine.
It was all an act, a fake act of meaningless actions and delusional feelings. His lips were rock hard and arctic cold, just a pair of plastic clippers against my skin. When he began unbuttoning my shirt, I pulled away, accidentally shoving him off my lap. I couldn’t do it, not without real emotions.
“No,” I told him before he could speak. “I’m sorry, just… no, not like this.” I let out a deep sigh. “This won’t help at all. I just want to talk.”
Shou looked at me with what seemed like utter shock, jaw dropped wide open like a fish, as if he had never heard of the verb “talking”. I thought he was going to bail, but once again, the smile returned to his lips.
“Okay,” he nodded. “We can talk. I won’t tell a soul.”
We started like strangers would - shy, hesitant, boring. But as time passed, there were less scruples, less eto and anou, less periods of ticking silence between us. It did not take long for small talk to morph into deep discussion; before I knew it, I was pouring out all those bottled-up emotions to Shou, a prostitute, a total stranger. Yet it felt good, talking to Shou; the more I spoke, the more the anchor was beginning to fade; I showered him with a truckload of worries and so did he.
I went for Shou the next day, paying no heed to the secretary’s suggestions. When Shou saw me, he broke into a smile - one that was somehow more natural, more free, than the one that graced his lips when we first met. Our conversation was lighter that day; it touched airy subjects like coffee, 50’s rock, and breakfast - bread for me, watermelon for him.
I visited him the day after, too. We talked a little about our childhood, but he fell silent rather quickly, so I changed the subject, steering away from topics that could possibly remind him of the cruel life he had now.
“Tell me, Amano-san,” he called me that when the secretary wasn’t around; I had bluntly told him that “Tora-sama” was too much between two men who did nothing but chat all day. “Do you have any goals? Ambitions? Dreams?” He was fingering the plastic ring on his thumb.
“Yeah,” I immediately replied. “I wish to improve, to be come a better person. I’ve changed a lot, stopped a handful of bad habits, but there’s never an end when it comes to improving oneself.”
He nodded slowly, wished me good luck, and gave me his private number, so did I.
On the fourth day, Shou was “not available”, according to the secretary. I had gone through the trouble of finding the right present for him - a cream-coloured notebook from loft, so that he could pour out every string of distress onto its blank pages. I placed the present on the secretary’s desk and asked her to pass it to Shou as soon as he was available again, but she shook her head stubbornly. “I cannot do that,” was all she said.
But I was not ready to give up - not now, not ever. I urged for an explanation, an expanded version of “Sorry, Shou’s not available right now.” She must have gotten tired of my urges, because her next words were mixed with irritation and a faint hint of hesitation:
“Shou’s never coming back; he’s quit.”