The Blonde Geisha

“You have your wish, Mariko-san. I will go to okâsan,” I said, “and tell her I accept Youki-san’s apology.”

Bowing, Mariko smiled, then followed me. “Then I will go, too.”

I said nothing. I had the feeling it wouldn’t do any good if I did.

Deep breaths. Soft and gentle. Someone sighing. As if a nightingale wept because its wings had been broken. These sounds floated to my ear as I walked with a purpose through the long corridor of the teahouse. I looked everywhere at once, wondering which room behind its dusky red walls belonged to okâsan.

“Isn’t it late for a geisha to be entertaining customers?” I asked Mariko, daring to think about what kind of entertainment emitted such elusive sounds.

Mariko covered her mouth and giggled. “This is the hour when the women pleasure themselves.”

Pleasure themselves? I could feel a warm flush tinting my cheeks plum-pink. So I wasn’t the only female to discover the magic of her fingers. I was interested in finding out what the girl could tell me.

“What is this pleasure, Mariko-san?”

The little maiko covered her mouth with her hand, then she whispered, “Harigata.”

I shook my head, not understanding. “Harigata?” The word had no meaning for me.

I strained again to hear these strange noises coming from behind closed paper doors. Silence had replaced the last whispering sighs from the woman inside the room and the dark colored wall obscured what lay beyond. I tensed. Something curious, something beyond my world of schoolgirl copy books and writing brushes and India ink was going on in the private quarters of Simouyé.

My curiosity was piqued about the woman whose beautiful dark eyes misted over like a wisp of fog hiding in a ray of sunlight when my father touched her breasts. She must be engaged in something that intrigued me more then frightened me.

“Harigata,” I repeated. “What does it mean?”

The little maiko hesitated, her geisha code of secrecy requiring her not to give up the mystery of what went on behind the high walls of the geisha house, but I could see a sparkle in her eyes as she leaned forward, her eyelashes fluttering like twin black butterflies. “I tell you this because okâsan said you’re to be treated no differently than the rest of us.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Tell me, Mariko-san.”

“It’s most unusual for a maiko to speak openly of these secrets to anyone—” she began, again hesitating to say what was on her mind.

“Then don’t speak, Mariko-san, whisper them to me.”

If the girl was as anxious to talk as I thought she was, she would do so. And she was. She leaned in closer and cupped her hand around her mouth, then whispered into my ear.

“Have you ever seen how a man’s penis resembles a radish or a carrot or…” Mariko giggled, then hid her mouth. I could barely hear her whisper, “A mushroom?”

“A mushroom?” I repeated with a smile. “Are you saying she uses a mushroom for a penis?”

“Yes. As a lover, a large mushroom is said to be more satisfying than a man.”

Her words excited me, and the idea of experimenting with such an object made me feel a pleasurable ache in my groin. “Are you sure of this?”

Mariko smiled. “To see for yourself is the best truth, Kathlenesan. Come, I will show you shunga.”

“What’s that?”

“Shunga means spring drawings. They give a form and focus to the dreams of those who wish to find sexual pleasure.”

Before I could protest, Mariko motioned for me to follow her. We walked outside the teahouse and crossed the court, then creeping through a small door in a large gateway, we entered a retreat with a floor covered in mats so soft it felt like a velvety green moss beneath our feet.

“Where are we?” I whispered, looking around. The small room was empty, but quiet and cool.

“In a private tearoom where we won’t be seen.”

Even in the low light, Mariko had no trouble locating a large, red brocade-covered book placed with great care on a small, lowto-the-ground, black-lacquered table. She left the paper screen open to the night and the pale, yellow moon became the candle by which I could see page after page of a man making love with a woman or two women or many women.

Their exquisitely detailed and patterned kimonos were flung open, their eyes half closed in a personal ecstasy as they showed their exposed sexual organs and silky tufts of black pubic hair to anyone who looked. The men and women pushed, pulled, stretched, climbed, tugged, hugged, even sat on top of each other in a series of positions that made it clear what they were doing was most enjoyable. Their legs were up in the air, over their heads, while pretty young girls peeked at the sexually engaged lovers from behind screens, promoting learning by observation.

I looked. And looked. And looked.

A warmth filled me up inside and a curiosity about what I was seeing gave me a chill.

And still I couldn’t believe. But, oh, what succulent feelings went through me, my passions so aroused I wished I could slip between the pages of the book and into the pictures and fondle the man’s penis with my hands, then my lips, making it so enlarged it would move slowly in me at first, then faster and faster, until—

“What do you call this book?” I asked, trying to catch my breath as I stared at the man’s penis in the drawing. His sex organ was as big as his forearm. Did becoming a geisha mean I would find pleasure with a man such as this?

Did such a man exist?

“Pillow book,” Mariko said with no embarrassment. “It’s most helpful in learning how to please a man, is it not?”

“Yes, but I don’t see any pictures of women with this mushroom you’re talking about.” I skimmed through the rest of the bound book.

“That’s a woman’s secret, a tool to search every crevice of her vagina until she finds her pebble of pleasure, her clitoris,” Mariko explained. “A gift from the gods of thunder and lightning.”

I nodded. It made sense. Somewhat. Though I had to ask, “How can you have thunder without lightning?”

“That’s why there is the mushroom.”

“Tell me, Mariko-san, are the sounds we hear through the paper walls sounds of pleasure from this mushroom?”

Mariko nodded. “Yes, women such as okâsan, who have many duties and no chance to enjoy the scent of a loincloth, must find pleasure in other ways.”

“Loincloth? You mean making love with a man? Taking his penis deep into your vagina?”

I noticed the girl’s eyes sweep over my belly. I covered myself with a wisp of silk, but it didn’t lessen the warm achiness forming in the pit of my stomach.

“We call it ‘flower heart.’ In olden days, women such as okâsan lived in seclusion in semiscented darkness indoors, hidden behind bamboo blinds and curtains, speaking to men through latticed screens. They found many interesting ways to pleasure themselves without men.” Mariko hesitated, then whispered again in my ear, “Though you must be careful if the head of the mushroom swells by the heat of your body so it doesn’t become…stuck.”

I giggled. “Down there, in your…flower heart?”

Mariko lowered her eyes, but I could see the smile she was trying to hide escaping onto her berry lips.

“Yes, in the most secret of a woman’s secret places,” she said. “Come, you will see for yourself.”

Mariko smiled. I smiled back. I was more curious than ever to experience the pleasures of this mushroom and it was that thought of discovering something shocking that induced me to follow the girl through the teahouse. White paper butterflies hung from the ceiling on thin silk strings and fluttered in the breeze from the open sliding doors as we walked past them, then over a small indoor bridge.

The gurgle of running water soothed the strange warmth invading my body before we slipped through rice-paper doors, painted with cranes in a pastel cream of rainbow colors. I guessed this must be the entrance to the quarters of okâsan. Mariko put her finger up to her mouth, as if warning me not to speak, then she opened the side panel so we could slip inside and hide behind a many-paneled screen.