Torn by confused sexual preferences and asking life for little more than the opportunity to play the piano and tennis, a young American man succumbs to family pressure, enlists in the Air Force, and is assigned to Okinawa. There his extraordinary natural sexual attraction leads him into the hands of a manipulative pimp and the beds of bored officers and their wives, to be shared separately and together.
Disillusioned, he leaves the service to be taken in by a cougar Okinawa art gallery owner, Clare, and a brooding and sultry male Japanese artist, Royshi. Clare uses him to cajole and satisfy well-heeled clients both in Okinawa and Tokyo, which drives him to playing the piano and servicing customers in a Naha piano bar for the man who seduced him into prostitution in the first place.
Enter the mysterious, powerful, and wealthy Japanese art patron, General Takehiko, who wishes to both liberate the young man and use him for his own ritualistic purposes.
This is a recast and relaunch of the eXcessia novella Ritual of Honor.
I stayed for dinner that night in her small two-bedroom apartment at one end of the gallery building, during which she subtly introduced me to the fundamentals of the wood block print world—both the art and the sales end, in which she was heavily invested, having her main gallery in Tokyo’s Akasaka district and the smaller gallery here feeding off the largesse of the U.S. military personnel. Royshi was only half present. He knelt at the low table with us and ate dinner—if pecking at the food like a bird could be called eating it—and he acknowledged me when we were introduced, but he remained far away mentally and didn’t participate in the discussion.
In the soft glow of the candlelight, which was more than fair to her face and figure, and the tinkle of the wine glasses, Clare propositioned me—both suggesting that I might be interested in joining her on the sales floor, where it was obvious that I was an attention magnet, and join her as well right there on the carpeted floor of her living room, where she hinted that she could show me pleasures never before experienced. She didn’t bother to ensure that Royshi didn’t hear, and he had no reaction that I could see at all.
I demurred on both, saying I already had a job—with the U.S. Air Force—and that I was in a determined phase of chosen celibacy, although yes, indeed, she did have a pair of very nice, firm tits. She made quite clear with her searching hand that she wanted my cock, but the most I would give her was my phone number and a brushed kiss at the door as I turned toward the path leading up to the road and the still-long hike back to my car from here.
As I was leaving, she said, “Royshi will be disappointed, I fear. I think he would have liked to join us.”
I was embarrassed that I paused at that, realizing only then that I was more attracted to Royshi in that way than to Clare. I don’t know whether I would have stayed if he, rather than she, had been the one to ask me to.
A few days later Clare caught me in my BOQ room on the phone and insisted that I come out to the gallery that Sunday to be the first to view a new shipment of block prints she’d brought down from Tokyo. I was drawn to the prints, having thought about this new—to me—compelling art from. The day after I’d returned from the gallery I’d gone to the base library and started reading up on the history of Japanese block print making. I had found an art book on the postwar school of the art form, led by Kiyoshi Saito, and remembered that I had seen some of his work at Clare. I wanted to see more. And, at the back of my mind, I half way acknowledged that I wanted to see more of Clare—and, even more, I wanted to see Royshi again.
And see more of Clare and Royshi I did. The gallery was closed on Sunday, and after letting me see all of the Saitos she had in the gallery, Clare decided we were going for a swim in the cove below. I tried to beg off, saying I had no suit, but she said she had one I could wear. It was a Speedo and a size too small and was barely better than nothing, but it was the thought that counted. Clare wore a string bikini, and she was still firm but supple and rounded in all of the right places. Royshi wore an electric-blue Speedo and, although his chest and biceps were muscle hard, the rest of his body was streamlined to the point that he must be a fast swimmer, with very little resistance while he knifed through the water.
After fighting the current and deciding there just was too much of an undertow for me, I ran back up to the beach and flopped down on my back on the oversized towel, propped myself up on my elbows, and gazed out into the water, trying to see where Royshi had swum to. Interestingly, I hadn’t given a thought to where Clare was swimming. As I looked, though, seeing Royshi only as a thin wake gliding through the water beyond the break of the waves, Clare slowly rose up from the surf, no evidence of the bikini now, and walked in deliberate, undulating strides up onto the beach.