“Stunning, isn’t it?” Reno said. “And increasingly priceless the longer the artist is dead. That’s where the real profit is in art—outliving the artist long enough to enjoy the jump in profit.”
“Yes, it’s quite nice, although I really prefer my art to jump out at me from the wall, to be active. To turn me on.”
“Jump out? Active? Turn you on?”
“Yes, provide friction and arousal.” Brukener stood there, looking distinguished and staid in his tuxedo, but Reno couldn’t avoid seeing how the elegantly clad man was using his fingers to stroke up and down on the cylinder of the champagne glass he held in his hand. His eyes were glittering. He had a goal and didn’t want to waste time in chatting circles around what he already considered negotiations. Winslow had let him know in no uncertain terms when he’d asked about Reno that the American cowboy’s cock was for sale. He turned his face to Reno and said, “You know, you are an extraordinarily sexy young man. And the cowboy garb. Do you ride the horse? Bareback?”
“Yes, I’m an active rider. Most certainly bareback when I have the opportunity. On your taste in art, I take it you prefer artwork showing two men fucking,” Reno asked, his mouth set in an amused smile, sliding into the negotiations as easily and rawly as the German had.
“Yes. Precisely. Winslow tells me he has a more private sales room here. Something more to my taste. Do you know about it?”
“Certainly. Would you like me to show it to you?”
“Most certainly. I would like to see it all.” The fingers of one of his hands surreptitiously brushed against Reno’s thigh.
They were standing side by side in the special collection room, in front of a more modern print than the traditional Nanshoku form, of two very fit and hunky Japanese wrestlers, their loincloths on the tatami mat under them, in an aggressive stance toward each other, showing upcurved erections on both, and conveying to the observer that soon one would be fucking the other—but which one? Reno remembered the session in Haruo’s studio that produced this print. He knew which one of the young men got fucked—and subsequently fucked by Reno too.
“Is this more to your liking? Active and provocative enough for you? Does it jump out at you and make you hard? Do you cream yourself while looking at art like this? If you are interested, I can tell you that it is the guy on the right, the smaller one, who gets fucked.” Reno was an open and straightforward guy—maybe except with Haruo, who he held in highest regard and was always sensitive toward. The generally reticent and guarded Japanese found this fascinating and exotic about the charismatic hunk. It was probably why some Japanese men were attracted to him like moths to the flame.
Brukener laughed, not put off at all. “Yes, absolutely—to all of the questions. I am a submissive, incidentally. An aggressive submissive, though, like that Jap on the right.” He gave a little laugh. “And a rich one. I like it all—giving head, taking a cock in the ass. Winslow tells me, on personal experience, that you are a premium power top.”
“For a price and as I have an opening,” Reno answered.
“You are a whore for a fee?”
“I am what they call a kagema here—a male prostitute, yes. This concept isn’t relegated to the shadows in Japan as it is in some other countries. And it has status here, being seen more in the traditional view of courtesan than rent-boy. Japan is refined, but it isn’t puritanical. I provide sex for a fee. I am known in Tokyo as the gaijin kagema—the foreign male whore. Blond Western tops are at a premium here, yes. And the cowboy outfits do definitely make me popular. ‘Save a horse; ride a cowboy’ gets a knowing and aroused laugh here. You have no idea how many Japanese men crack that joke with me as they are riding my cock. The cowboy persona helps here.”
The German laughed again. “As, I’ve heard, do your looks, charisma, equipment, and stamina. These art works, in this room. Do you get a commission on sales?”
“Yes.”
“If I were to buy, say, this print and that one over there, what sort of servicing could I get from you?”
“You could suck my cock.”
“Here? Now?”
“Yes, but not here in this room. Nearby.”
“And more later?”
“Depend on fitting into my schedule. Are you in Tokyo for long?”
“My time is flexible—more flexible than my need to satisfy my desires. But, for now, the two prints’ worth.”
* * * *
“I can see how the art could be seen as erotic in ancient Japan,” the German collector, Hans Brukener, said as he and Reno sat in opposite corners of Brukener’s chauffeured, tinted-window limousine while it cruised through Shinjuku, “But I can’t see how that would have much application in today’s world.” He had offered Reno a ride back to the Okama Gallery, and Reno had accepted. Neither of them mentioned the blow job the German had given Reno at Gallery Nippon, because the atmosphere was a little frosty between them. Brukener had asked Reno to go back to his hotel with him and to bang him in his room, thinking he could offer the male whore enough money to put him on the schedule immediately. Reno had said he was sorry, but he had a dinner engagement he couldn’t possibly break. Brukener had not been pleased.
“I think the Nanshoku style could be even more erotic now,” Reno said. “The world has gotten too open sexually. Some of the mystery of arousal and sexual fulfillment has passed us by. You have bought two very nice pieces. I think the Nanshoku wood block is more erotic than the modern piece, though. Perhaps if you appreciated the art form better, you’d buy more.”
“Ich verstehen nicht—I don’t understand,” Brukener said.
At that moment, the car stopped and the chauffeur called out, “We’re here at the Okama Gallery, Sir,” from the front seat.
“Tell him to idle at the curb until we are finished back here,” Reno said.
“Finished back here?” Brukener queried.
“Until I make you come as you never have before.”
“You’ve decided to come back to my hotel with me?”
“I’m going to do you—to show you how Nanshoku translates to today’s world—here, in the backseat of this car. Perhaps you’ll be moved to buy more of the art work. Turn in the seat, stretch out.”
“There isn’t room here, with you on the seat.”
“We’ll make room. I’ll be under you—and then I’ll be inside you. Tell the driver to idle at the curb.”
“How much will this cost me?” the German asked, his voice husky.
“You don’t want it? You’re already aroused, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I want it.”
“It won’t cost you a thing. If I went to your hotel room with you, it would cost you 40,000 yen for an hour. Here, I’ll just make my point about the relevance of the Nanshoku mystique without charging you anything for the demonstration.”
“Idle at the curb until our guest is ready to leave,” Brukener called out to the driver.
“Now,” Reno said as he turned and stretched out across the seat, his back against the side wall, “turn and stretch out over me.” Brukener did as directed. His legs were on top of Reno’s. “I am going to fuck you in the Nanshoku style,” Reno said. “I bet you’re already hard.”
The German shuddered. “I’m aroused, yes. Shall I strip off my trousers and briefs?” he asked. He was wearing a tuxedo.
“No. I’ll do the stripping, Nanshoku style. I will be your okama, the cock, and you will be my wakashu, the hole—me the fucker, you the fucked.”
Brukener shuddered. “Your words—the imagery—they’re so arousing.”
“They are meant to be. Words and imagery are much of what creates arousal. My long, thick cock, inside your puckered hole, stretching your channel, having its way with you. Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. You exclaimed how big I was when you took me in your mouth. Think of me inside you, reaching up into your gut. Creaming you there.”
Brukener moaned.
Reno leaned forward and undid Brukener’s belt and unzipped his trousers. The German grunted as Reno jerked his trousers down to below the man’s balls. The German already was in half erection.
“Are you going to take them off me?” Brukener asked.
“No. That’s what is central to Nanshoku. Only the erotic elements are exposed. Otherwise you are fully dressed. We are going to concentrate our coupling, my mastering your channel, on just what is needed for total fusion. Look into my eyes.”
As Brukener looked into Reno’s eyes, he jerked and gasped. Reno had leaned forward and placed his hands on the tops of the man’s exposed thighs on either side. “Now look at your cock. Look at my hands playing at the core of you.” The German gasped as he watched Reno move his hands at the top of the thighs, framing Brukener’s bush, balls, and cock. He played in the pubic hair with his fingers, ran his fingers up and down the now fully erect shaft, and rolled, squeezed, and distended the man’s balls. He was uncut and drew his breath in deeply as Reno pulled his foreskin down off the bulb with the fingers of one hand and moved fingers of the other to the crown of the bulb and worried the piss slit. A drop of precum appeared.
“Ah, you are almost ready already,” Reno murmured. “And yet you are nearly fully dressed, and I am totally covered. But we’ll change that.” He pulled his hands back, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. He pulled his jeans down onto his hips. “Watch me carefully,” he said, as he unbuttoned his leather bikini briefs on each side and slipped the garment off. Brukener experienced an intake of breath again when he saw Reno in full erection. He’d already sucked the cock. He had every reason to know how long and thick it was. But the way Reno was working him in the backseat of the limousine made him gasp again. The image of the cock inside him, being controlled by Reno rather than him doing most of the controlling of it in his mouth was nearly making him hyperventilate.
Reno moved in closer to him, Brukener’s legs over his, bringing their bushes together. Both of them had trimmed Vs, but they both did have bushes, both silky, both blond, although Brukener’s had both brown and gray hairs in his. Reno’s was golden blond.
“Watch,” Reno commanded, “and remember that this is as far as we are unclothed. The general way now is to strip, hop in bed together, and immediately go at it. The Nanshoku way is to concentrate the vision and the senses on the organs that are going to be involved in the sex act. I could make you come the Nanshoku way just by baring one of your pecs only and making love to one of your nipples. You want me to fuck you, though, so we will concentrate on your anal passage and my shaft, moving in and out of your anus, in and out.”
Brukener moaned. “I’m going to come.”
“Yes, you are. Just not yet. But soon. You’ll come twice with me in this car, though.” His fingers were moving through their bushes, caressing them together. He brought their cocks together and slow stroked them.
Brukener gasped, grunted, and shot his load. But Reno anticipated that. He had a handkerchief out, covered the head of the German’s cock loosely, and let Brukener jerk and release in that three times.
“We’re still clothed,” Reno said, “and I’ve made you come. I’ll bet it was a good release.”
“Yes, it was glorious,” Brukener said, “but you said I’d have another.”
“And so you will. But do you understand, and appreciate, the base principle of Nanshoku sex now? In the current world of let it all hang out, strip down entirely, naked, and let’s fuck, the Nanshoku style of concentrating on where the sex act is actually taking place and leaving the rest clothed is especially arousing.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“I said I could make you come by just exposing a nipple and having sex with that. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you, but—”
“But for the second coming I promised you, you’d prefer my shaft in your ass, right?”
“Yes . . . please.”
“But the Nanshoku way. I want you to concentrate on looking down the line of your body, watching me enter you—hold your cock and balls off to the side so you can watch the root of my shaft, watch what is exposed of my cock lengthening and shortening, as I fuck you.” Reno had already pushed his cock down, wedged the bulb in the German’s hole. Brukener was moaning and panting hard—but he was watching their joined groins, cupping and moving his cock and balls to the side with a trembling hand.
“Raise and spread your legs, press your feet to the ceiling of the car, when I start to stroke, use the leverage of your feet to go with me. And keep your eyes on the root of my cock. Remain aware that we are fully clothed otherwise. The way of the ancient sexual art of Nanshoku.”
The German gasped and gave a little cry as Reno entered his channel with his cock. He only buried himself half way, so that Brukener could watch the full effect of the cock fucking him. But he was quite long and thick enough for Brukener to be belabored by the cocking.
The car rocked back and forth as Reno thrust up inside the German’s ass and Brukener went with him. Reno breeded him deep, causing the German to exclaim, “Scheisse! Ficken! Das ist herrlich!—Shit! Fuck! That’s glorious!” Bruckner called out in German as he came the second time. As the ass fuck had gotten started, Reno had taken control of the man’s cock and stroked it off, once again bringing the handkerchief into play at the strategic second. There wouldn’t be a mark on the German tuxedo.
“Scheisse! Ficken! Ficken! Jaaaaaa! Ich komme!—I am coming!”
An answering cry of release came from the front seat, and Reno laughed. The driver had been listening and taking care of himself.
* * * *
At 5:43 p.m. the chauffeured Mercedes limousine pulled up in front of the Okama Gallery. At 6:02 p.m. Reno stepped out of the backseat, adjusting the silver-buckled belt of his jeans. Anyone standing at just the right angle on the sidewalk could have observed, before Reno closed the car door, Brukener, trousers of his tuxedo and briefs pulled down under his balls, lying across the backseat, legs spread and bent, a silly grin on his face, and two carefully wrapped pieces of framed art on the floorboard of the car next to his head. If anyone had been standing around for most of the time between those two points on the clock, they would have observed the car rocking back and forth.
Reno climbed the two stories up to Haruo’s apartment and was fixing their dinner when the gallery owner came upstairs.
“Had a good day?” Reno asked.
“Very good, arigato—thanks,” Haruo answered with a deep sigh that made Reno look up into his face to make sure he was OK. There was a grimace there that Reno knew had something to do with Haruo’s heart but that was a subject that the elderly Japanese man wouldn’t discuss. “Several works were completed in the studio today. Two of you from this morning have already sold, one to an Okinawan businessman and one to a young man I recognize from TV.”
Reno turned to the stove and grinned, but he didn’t let Haruo see his amusement.
“In fact,” Haruo continued, “we sold far more of the special collection today than we did from the front gallery. And Jain Winslow, from the Gallery Nippon, called just before I came up for dinner and told me he needed a couple of more pieces of Nanshoku art to replace what sold at his new exhibit opening this afternoon.”
Another grin, again not shown to Haruo. Reno didn’t want Haruo to know what he was doing to help sell Nanshoku works.
After dinner, the two sat, cuddling, but no more, and looking through art catalogs. It was Reno’s favorite part of the day, one in which he needed to be quiet to recharge for the night.
This, of course, was because he hadn’t worked at the art printer’s facility where Haruo thought he went five nights a week, for several months. He’d quickly learned that technique and had gone into the Shinjuku-sanchome world of not only gay cruising clubs, but the more hardcore kagemajaya—all-male brothels, where Reno exploited his hunky American cowboy persona as a highly sought gaijin kagema—foreign male prostitute.
Reno needed all the “down time” socializing with Haruo during the dinner break to be “up” for his night work. The kagemajaya was quite demanding of his talents, although his contract limited him to two men a night in addition to advertising and dancing. His reputation was such that those two men paid a premium for premium usage of Reno’s cock.
* * * *
Reno was holding the young Japanese man in his lap, cradled in his arms. They both were robed in richly embroidered brocade kimonos and sitting on a low platform covered in tatami matting in a Japanese-style room inside the kagemajaya, the male brothel. Only the young man’s right breast was exposed and Reno was working the nipple with his teeth, lips, and tongue. The young man’s head was nestled back into Reno’s shoulder. Reno’s right arm was embracing the young man, holding him close in his lap. Reno’s left hand was buried in the folds of the young man’s kimono. He was using that hand to stroke off the young man’s cock. With a shudder, Riyho Mikymoto cried out, “A, fakku!—Oh, fuck,” and shot his load into Reno’s hand inside the folds of the kimono.
Reno worked a four-hour night shift at the exclusive kagemajaya five nights a week, including the busiest nights, Friday and Saturday. Reno, the gaijin kagema, the foreign male prostitute, was one of the stars of the kagemajaya and was used primarily as a tease. If you wanted him to fuck you, you made an appointment in advance, and you paid 60,000 yen an hour, with an hour being the limit along with as many orgasms as Reno chose to give you in that time limit. If you wanted to fuck Reno, you were out of luck. He would blow you if he wished and found you arousing. His main attraction though was what he could do with his horse-hung cock in your channel and how it seemed he could make you come just by looking at you.
He was a bigger-than-life persona at the kagemajaya, making the most of his looks, his hunky physique, his expert sex techniques, and his cowboy costume. The first hour on duty, he roamed the lounges, teasing and flirting and drumming up business for the kagemajaya in general and, if the horny man was a millionaire who could cool his heels for a week for an appointment time with Reno, drumming up business for himself.
In two fifteen-minute sets and one six-minute set, broken by twelve-minute off-stage breaks during his second hour, the gaijin kagema danced one of the poles in the main bar, in a prominent position where the patrons could get close enough to touch his knees, but no higher, unless they waved 10,000 yen notes at least, in which case he would lean down to let them deposit the money in his belt and cop a feel.
The only item that the kagemajaya added to Reno’s “stripped down” attire—fringed calf-leather vest; leather bikini briefs, buttoned at the side; fancy cowboy boots, fringed leather wrist bands; and a cowboy hat was a holster belt, holding two six shooters, with the gun holster bases fixed to his thighs with leather straps around his thighs. The six shooters were squirt guns, loaded with vodka. In set one, Reno danced in his costume, including his tight, worn jeans, and a silver-studded Western shirt under the vest. This is what he’d worn the first hour while he was working the lounge areas. In set two, he cut the clothing down to the “stripped down” attire and fired off his six shooters into the crowd, the man gathered below the stage there chasing the stream of vodka, hoping it would wind up in his mouth.
In the third, short set, he let it all hang out, dancing without the bikini briefs. This, of course, was a show stopper at the kagemajaya.
The last two hours were devoted to book-ahead private appointments. On this night, the first appointment was with a man five years younger than Reno, a very unusual occurrence, because most who could afford Reno at the kagemajaya were middle-aged or older men. Riyho Mikymoto was a minor member of the Japanese royal family. He was small, but handsome and muscular, being a devotee to samurai traditions. He was an expert and connoisseur of nearly every cultured aspect of Japanese life that Reno discussed with him in their nearly monthly appointments. He was as much a practitioner of the art of Nanshoku sex as Reno was, and for that reason, Reno came to his appointments dressed in a ceremonial kimono rather than his cowboy costume, and the two engaged in refined Nanshoku sex techniques. A session with Mikymoto could be a strenuous exercise routine.