Welcome to Japan By Michael A. Kroll
I couldn't believe I was really checking into the Tokyo YMCA! The spurt of energy I always feel on arriving for the first time in a new country - and this, my first new country! - was beginning to overcome the exhaustion I refused to give into. It wasn't just the nineteen-hour series of flights from D.C., but the entire ordeal of the past four days that had wrung me out.
Could it only have been four days ago that the roller coaster ride began at the pinnacle of euphoria, then dropped precipitately into the depths of anger and despair, and finally led me here, to the Tokyo Y, once again triumphant? The experience seemed so much longer ago, in such a different place. Here, I felt a surge of unexpected freedom, an independence I had not known I craved until I found it.
Four days before, I had been partying with the 50 or so survivors of my Peace Corps training group in DeKalb, Illinois. We had survived two brutal "Deselection" rituals, at which more than half our numbers were decimated, never to be seen again. We, who were singing and dancing (and not thinking about those who had disappeared), would board a plane the next morning at O'Hare, bound first to Hawaii, and then on to Malaysia, our ultimate destination. It had been my dream for so long to leave the country and to teach, and now both were happening. Plus, I had survived a "Deselection" recommendation, through a combination of cunning and sexism. We were each assigned to a psychologist who led a "Selection Team" that consisted of all the elements of our training, from Bahasa Malayu (the Malay language) to some frankly propagandistic courses, but whose ultimate recommendation lay in the hands of the psychologist.
She and I did not hit it off from the beginning. By the end, she told me she would recommend my deselection because I was too visible. Appealing to his always-present ego, I spoke to her boss, the head psychologist, and told him I thought she did not relate as well to me as he did, and that I would be relieved to put my fate in his hands. He overruled her recommendation, so being here now, knowing that I had made it despite everything, was like looking down from a mountain you've just scaled. I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio would fifty years later, screaming, "I'm King of the World" from the bow of the Titanic.
And then came the phone call from Headquarters in Washington, D C. Jerry, our red-haired Program Director, called me to the phone in his office. The giddiness I felt drained away after the first words came through the line: "While your group boards a plane for Hawaii tomorrow, you'll be coming here, to Washington, instead, to answer a few questions..." The rest of the conversation had to do with my status ("You have been on 'political hold' for months..."), my flight information, who I was to meet and where, etc. I could not focus; Jerry would have to fill me in again on the details.
Early the next morning, as I stood on the tarnmac at the bottom of the ramp, I could see my friends assembled not that far away, boarding their own flight. The head of the Malay Language component of our training was the only staff person there to great me before I boarded my own plane. He removed the black songkok he wore (the ceremonial Malay hat for men) and lovingly placed it on my head. It was too small for me, but I did not take it off during the entire time I spent at Peace Corps Headquarters.
In Washington, I was asked if I'd traveled to Cuba in 1962, as one of their anonymous informants had alleged to the Civil Service Commission employees who conducted the full-field background investigation of potential volunteers for the Peace Corps. My unambiguous "No!" (and my offer to telephone friends in California who could confirm that I had spent that summer in Mexico with them) ended the very brief encounter. Furious, I demanded to know why they couldn't have asked me the question by phone, and allowed me to remain with my friends. Like good bureaucrats everywhere, hey told me that my anger was misdirected, that they were just doing their jobs, and that I would be allowed to join my group, by now assembled in Kuala Lumpur. I would fly to Tokyo the next morning, my first stop.
I completed registering at the counter, and bounded up the old wooden staircase to my room on the second floor. It was even smaller than I'd imagined, with a kind cot/bed along one wall, a simple bare desk and wooden chair under a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and next to the bed, a small portable closet where a white robe with stripes I later learned is a yukata hung, a thin summer kimono, cinched by a sash called an obi. On the floor of the closet/box was a pair of wooden sandals. On the cot/bed there was a folded towel.
Suddenly, I really was tired. I needed to shower and go to sleep. I dropped my clothes quickly, not bothering to gather them up or hang them in the closet. I put the yukata on over my underwear, tied the obi tight around my waist, and practiced walking in the sandals, which supported about half my large foot. My heels stuck out six inches, forcing me to walk like I was wearing spiked heels, except without the heels.
Down the hall from my room and around the corner I found two doors, side by side. I concluded by symbols over the doors that one is for toilet jobs, and one for bathing. I went into the first to pee, and was relieved to relieve myself in a standard urinal.
As I entered the washroom, I expected to find a wall of showers. Instead, I saw a row of low faucets against two walls, with low wooden stools, like milking stools in front of them next to wooden buckets. Brushes and ladles hung on hooks next to the faucets. Against a third wall lay a shallow pool, less than four feet across and about six feet long. An old Japanese man with sparse whiskers on his wrinkled face lay in the pool against the far side, serene and apparently unconcerned about anyone else in the steamy room. Through the steam, I saw three or four men at intervals, each on a low stool, and each thoroughly scrubbing himself. The ritual began by ladling hot water over their heads from the buckets, followed by thoroughly soaping up and scrubbing themselves, and I do mean thoroughly. Then they ladled out more hot water, or poured it over themselves directly from the bucket multiple times, until all the soap was washed away. And then they started the process again.
I undressed slowly, watching to make sure I did what they did. I hung my yukata and towel on a small peg, dropped my underwear as unobtrusively as I could, and hid them under the towel. I sat quickly at one of the unused faucets, and began to fill the bucket with hot water. As I did, I noticed that one of the men, now having washed and rinsed completely twice, stood and made his way to the tub, a large belly hanging over and almost covering a small patch of black over a small dick . As he stepped into the tub, the old man who had been soaking there stood and stepped out, his gray pubic hair matted and clinging to his thin frame. I wondered if this was also part of the ritual - only one-at-a-time - although the tub was wide enough for two bodies.
The man who got into the tub only remained a few moments before getting out, toweling off, and leaving the room. That left just two others in the room with me, and they, too, entered the tub, one after the other, quickly finished their soaking baths, side-by-side, (thus, answering my question) before getting out, one after the other, drying off and leaving me alone to ladle hot water over my head. Alone, Ahhh. I took my time soaping myself up all over, rinsing off, then repeating the process. I stood and poured the entire bucket of warm water over my now squeaky clean hair and shoulders, watched the clear water make its way to the drain and disappear, and walked over to the bath. I put my foot in.
"Wow that's hot!" I said out loud, even though I was the only one there. It took me several minutes to get used to the steaming hot water before I was finally able, little-by-little, to submerge my entire body, lying where the old man had been against the wall. My earlier exhaustion, now deliciously warmed, overcame me, and I began to drift into a dangerous sleep. Suddenly, however, I was wide awake - and no longer alone. Someone had just come into the steamy room, although it was close to two the morning. I looked quickly, and then quickly away. He was young, not more than 20 (but then, I was only 22), dark and slim. He had short-cropped hair that accentuated his high cheek bones, the beautiful structure of his face. I saw all of this in the split second between looking and looking away.
Now, I looked studiously straight ahead, but he was well within my peripheral field of vision. I watched him carefully untie the obi holding his yukata loosely at his slim waist, and hang it on a small wooden peg next to where my own yukata, towel and underwear hung. He was not wearing underwear. He removed the towel from around his naked shoulders and laid it over the collar of his empty kimono, found a stool to sit on in clear view of where I lay, and began to bathe.
My first thought was to get out of the water, to dry off, to leave the room to him, to let him bathe in comfort and privacy. But the opportunity to do that evaporated the moment he removed his yukata, revealing a beautiful hard, brown body, slim but not skinny, with a round but muscled ass that, even now, excites me to conjure in my mind. I concentrated on not looking at this beautiful youth, now sitting naked on a wooden stool six feet from where I lay soaking. I tried thinking of something else - my grandmother's funeral - but the harder I feigned indifference , the harder I did NOT think about him sitting there, the harder I got.
Now my panic rose, which should have had the effect of diminishing the growing tug of my cock to push through my covering hands, but which did nothing of the sort. All my senses were acute - no sense of exhaustion remained. Not knowing what was coming, or what was expected of me in this situation, I remained paralyzed, tingling with anticipation, and wondering if it was only the product of wishful thinking exacerbated by sleep deprivation.
By the time he stepped into the ofuro bath alongside me, I managed to cover most of my profound erection with my hands, preventing my cock from breaking the surface of the hot water as it strained upward, but not quite completely hiding the source of my embarrassment. I hope it doesn't sound like I'm bragging (since I had nothing to do with it), but I'm a little bigger than average down there - not enormous, just bigger than average - and while my hands are also large, I still can't quite completely cover myself when I'm as hard as I was by now. He appeared not to notice. While my hands did their best to keep my dick, now fully engorged, from jumping up, as it wanted to do, I studiously kept my eyes straight ahead, But even so, I could not help but see that, unlike my rather sparse and very curly pubic hair, his was smooth and very black, and from where his uncircumsized penis met his stomach, it swept upwards, covering his tight, flat stomach, then circling his navel, dark, sweet.
He made no effort to cover himself. His cock, though perhaps not as large as mine, was still clearly larger than when I first saw it. He was in the process of getting hard, and as I saw that nearly imperceptible growth happening, I had a sudden, desperate desire to help him. I had to consciously restrain myself from reaching out and taking him in my hands. He climbed in beside me, still holding his washcloth. Slowly lowering himself into the hot water, he slipped easily next to me, careful not to let his beautiful bare legs touch mine, until only his head lay above the water next to me. I hoped he could not feel the pounding beat of my heart through the two inches of water that now separated us.
Then the most delicious thing happened, which immediately shattered all my preconceptions about the uptight and regimented Japanese. He reached across me as if to deposit his washcloth on my side of the tub, but "accidentally" dropped it just short of its destination. It plopped into the water, and slowly slid down, coming to rest on top of my hands. I let my arms slide down to my sides, removing my hands from under the washcloth, allowing it to lie on top of my dick, which, now that I was no longer restraining it, was waving near the surface, a white cloth covering it like a soldier surrendering his weapon. He reached down to retrieve it...
Gently, he let his fingers encircle the cloth around my dick, and lifted it, making sure that his fingers lingered up my shaft. At last, I looked into his face, so close to mine. With an incredible surge of passion as he continued to stroke me, I stared into the darkest, most beautiful almond eyes I'd ever seen. He had almost a little boy's slightly quizzical look, cocking his head, as if wondering what my reaction to this overt sexual overture might be. I can't describe the flood of emotions except to say I let them happen. Like magnets, we drew even closer, until he pressed his lips against mine.
My eyes rushed to the door, fearful, but even the fear heightened the intensity of emotions I was feeling. I think I was less afraid that we'd be caught than that any intrusion would interrupt this completely unexpected moment - a moment more passionate, more sexy, than anything I think I had ever even imagined. This was my first real kiss. His full lips were yielding, soft but insistent, both gentle and firm at the same time, and it brought me near to orgasm there in that ofuro bath. Oh, I'd kissed girls before, but it had never felt like this. With my left hand, I reached out across the short distance to his balls, feeling the silky smooth nest of black hair they rested in, then sliding my hand up to his foreskin and gently sliding it down. With my right hand, I reached around him and pulled him even closer. Our lips parted slightly as our tongues touched. How could I have waited so long to experience this, to feel this?
Slowly, he pulled away and indicated the door. I nodded, though had he made love to me there in the public bathroom, I would have let him. He said something in Japanese. I shook my head to let him know I didn't understand. I said something in English, and then it was his turn to shake his head. Quickly, I stood, stepping over him as I tried to leave the tub. As I did, the tip of my dick, sticking straight out and throbbing, wet with something other than just hot water, brushed against his lips, and he quickly but only momentarily took it into his mouth. Had I remained a few more seconds, I would have cum, which he seemed to understand, and we could not let that happen here, where we might be discovered at any moment. As I finished getting out, he reached up and caressed my bare ass.
I went to one of the steamy mirrors and, with my finger, wrote my room number: 223. He nodded, and then exited the two-man pool himself. For one delicious moment, we stood face to face, hard cock to hard cock, my hand in his hand, his in mine. We were about to kiss again when we heard approaching wooden sandals clopping along the corridor, and quickly grabbed our towels and covered ourselves, turning toward opposite walls. Another fat old man entered. I rubbed the number off the steamy mirror, dried off quickly, put on my robe and clogs, and left the room ahead of my new friend.
When I got to my room, I quickly scooped up my clothes and hid them in the closet. I sat down on my small bed and wondered if he would come, wondered if he would have second thoughts the minute he got back to his room, wondered if he had been as powerfully attracted to me as I was to him. And then there was a gentle knock at the door. I opened it quickly, and he came in. We sat on the bed, both in our robes and both feeling a little shy. I tturned his face to mine, took it in my large hands, and drew him to my lips. The kiss removed any vestiges of shyness either of us might have been feeling, and in seconds, we were writhing naked together under coarse sheets, our mouths and hands eagerly exploring each other's bodies. We kissed again, bringing us closer to the brink. How he managed to maneuver his body in that small space, I don't know, but I felt his mouth take in my cock, and I shuddered in anticipation and pure animal pleasure. His wonderfully hard brown cock, lying now in front of my face, was irresistible. I took in a deep breath, and the smell of sex was like an aphrodisiac. I smelled him, then put my lips around his foreskin, and slowly slid down his warm shaft, pulsating with hot blood.
I was about to cum. I couldn't hold it back any longer, though I wished I could prolong this moment forever. I made a guttural sound from somewhere deep inside, as if to warn him that I was about to spurt a load of cum that I knew would be huge, partly because it had been so long but more because of him, because of us. I didn't want him to stop, but I didn't want it to end with just one of us spent and satisfied. The thought passed as quickly as it came because as I began to cum into the warmth of his eager mouth, I felt the warmth of his semen spurt into mine, more and more. He was amazing. His cum was warm and it tasted slightly sweet. I swallowed for the first time, overwhelmed and overcome by the unexpected satisfaction of having him inside of me.
And then, like a dream you want to hold onto but which evanesces into the air as you wake, he stood, donned his yukata, bowed at the waist, and said in halting English that emphasized each syllable: "Wel-come" (he pronounced it like comb) "to Jah-pahn." And then he was gone.
Welcome to Japan 11