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![[The Teahouse of the August Moon]](http://www.cmsix.com/Nat/Teahouse.jpg "The Teahouse of the August Moon")
My laid-forward grandmother was a scream. If you were in the right mood, that is. Otherwise, she was a damned pain. My laid-back grannie was a total sweetie but she doesn’t come into this story except to provide the contrast explanatory of how come the other granny comes to be called my “laid-forward” granny. That is to say that no, this is not a story of geriatric sex. That must wait until I’m very much older, may I be spared in strength, health and desire. Please God, may I be spared... My laid-forward grannie afforded a lot of innocent pleasure to a lot of people in her time. Take it from me, there are plenty worse things to say about someone after they’re gone. One of the ways she had of giving pleasure and amusement was by just not getting it. She was born in middle-class, nineteenth-century Africa of a Scots-Calvinist father and a Cornish-Chapelist mother and her descendants are prepared to take bets that, despite our existence, no-one ever gave her a sex-talk of any description. She certainly went to her grave giving an extraordinarily good impression of not having heard about sex. “Ag, shame,” you may well say but, on the other hand, it might have killed her and where would I be then? For example, she once read, and was charmed by, a book called The World of Suzie Wong. Indeed, it’s a charming little book and, if that’s up your alley, I recommend it to you. It was filmed with Nancy Kwan—of Flower Drum Song fame—as Suzie. Point is, Suzie was a whore and, moreover, a whore with pretensions. She was, in short, a bar-girl. Whores have their snobbery, same as you and me. A bar-girl, you must understand, is a rung up the social ladder from a pavement-girl. My laid-forward grannie, having read the book repeatedly, loved it, and recommended it enthusiastically to many, never got this. At one stage, she had a high-collared evening-dress slit up the side to—get this—almost the knee. And, whenever some gallant dutifully complimented this formidably proper woman on it, she would say, “Yes, this is my Suzie Wong dress.” She never got the blanching, stuttering consternation this produced either. She also took me, still in short pants, to the theatre now and again. I met Peter Pan, Wendy and Captain Hook under her approving beneficence, for example. And Hans Christian Andersen. She also took me to see The Teahouse of the August Moon by John Patrick . It happened to be given around Christmas time and therefore one of the things she didn’t get was that the play is by no means a pantomime. It is about the US military occupation of Okinawa after World War II and its theme is culture clash. After the humbling of Japan, amongst many, many other initiatives, a unit of the peripatetic US Army had been sent to Okinawa to re-build the shattered local economy by using and inculcating “American know-how”. Anything the locals wanted to set up in this line, the local officer commanding had merely to wire the Pentagon to get supplies and copious, detailed, expert instructions on what to do with them. “Excellent,” I hear you murmur, “Good Old Uncle Sam. Well done, the American tax-payer. What happened?” Well, the first thing that happened was that they tried to tell the locals what they wanted. This got as far as you might expect. Upon advice from DC, they then decided to find out what Okinawa produced and apply production-line techniques to it. Turns out, Okinawa produced exquisitely delicate hand-carved, lacquered tea cups and empty cricket cages. Superb opportunity! They could get the USAF to fly in lathes and sandpaper and spray-guns and what-all and churn out these cups in industrial quantities and, best of all (Sears would be proud), they could market cricket cages—get this—with crickets ready-installed! Fifth Avenue, here we come! Problem was, the old codger who made the cups—perverse, benighted foreigner that he was—took pride in the fact that, from un-cut tree to breathtaking, lacquered perfection, each single cup took him six months to finish. If it didn’t take that long, he’d shirked the job and no-one would want the cup. And, as for crickets, supplying them is a no-no. You have to catch your own. As a desperation measure, the Yanks were finally forced—surprise, surprise—to ask the locals what they wanted. To cut a long story short, they wanted a teahouse. Gasp! Shock! Horror! A teahouse?! But—gulp!—a teahouse is where the geishas ply their sinister trade. We can’t have that! What would DC say? What will our womenfolk back home in Mississippi (not to mention Missouri, this being the Truman Administration) say when we write home how this is what we’re doing to take the Great American Way into heathen lands? Here’s the problem: I guess everyone knows, geisha is Japanese for prostitute, right? These decadent foreigners wanted to use timber from the good ol’ U. S. of A., flown over the Pacific by the USAF on the US taxpayer’s dollar and build a brothel out of it, fercryinoutloud! Unconscionable! Action stations! Make sure President Truman doesn’t get to hear of this! Except... it’s wrong. A geisha is a tradesperson who offers a particular service unknown in the good ol’ U.S. of A. (since the onset of Women’s Lib, at any rate). At the end of a hard day at work, a man might call in at the teahouse on his way home and unload the burdens of the day. He will be met and made welcome by the geishas. They will make him tea, strictly according to an elaborate ritual that is tiresomely long and inefficient to Yankee eyes. Like my laid-forward grannie, the damnyankees just don’t get it. It’s not meant to be short. It’s not meant to be efficient. It’s meant to be comfortably predictable, distractingly complicated and, since it’s rude to interrupt it, take long enough to force an uptight client to take stock of his life, take a few deep breaths and appreciate that, lousy day at the office or not, some things can always be relied upon. Tea made, the geisha will serve it and talk to the client. His boss is a prick? His wife doesn’t understand him? No-one appreciates his efforts? The geisha will listen sympathetically, understand what’s bugging the poor bastard and re-build his sense of self. Now and again, if sex is what it takes for her to achieve this and deliver her product, then sex can certainly be resorted to. Only a sex-obsessed damnyankee, though, would accord it more importance than the teapot in the process. When it’s all over, the client goes off home feeling better about life and, thanks to the geisha, though, he interacts with his family in a positive way instead of taking out his frustrations on them. And that, Gentle Reader, is the service that geishas deliver. Damnyankees don’t get it, though, just as my laid-forward grannie didn’t get it, but for different reasons. The Teahouse of the August Moon is a truly great play. Years later, I found the script on a second-hand bookstall and, much read, it will always have a permanent place in my bookshelf. In the play, one single Yankee transcends my grannie and gets it and catches his own cricket. Needless to say, he is shunned by the other Yankees, who are focussed on a post-demobilisation career in Detroit. Fuck them. You, if you are a Yankee, would probably regard me as being a gigolo. You won’t get it that I think of myself as a geisha. But I’ll fuck you anyway—for dollars. The difference is, when I’ve fucked you, it’s “Fuck you, damnyankee”. And God help your family when you get home. When my cell ’phone rang, I was guiltily playing Ragnarok—I should have been at the gym swimming a mile or pumping some iron. I’d like to be saying that I was being tormented over choosing to opt for playing on as super-hero with advanced skills instead of becoming a wizard but, like geriatric sex, that apparently must wait until I’m very much older. I was doing well enough to make it worthwhile put my body in cryogenic freeze, though. It was Dick on the ’phone for my body-temperature persona. Dick is my agent. I always kid him that he should get a partner, also called Dick, so that, when either one of them ’phones, I can say, “Is that Big Dick or Little Dick?” But I digress. “I’ve got a new client for you,” said medium-sized Dick. “And what does she want?” “She wants you, my boy! Are you up for it? Been living the existence of a hermit, waiting for this moment, I trust?” “Close enough. Why does she want me?” “She wants you because she’s not getting what she wants from her husband.” “He can’t get it up?” “No, no. Nothing like that. Thing is, he worships her. Puts her on a pedestal. Metaphorically. If he did it for real, maybe she wouldn’t have such a problem. Gives her respect, remembers foreplay, the whole nine yards. Especially respect. And then the missionary position, ‘How was it for you, my darling?’ and so forth. ‘Captain Vanilla’, she calls him. Can’t take it any more.” “Poor bitch. How she must have suffered.” “Yeah, right. Let’s not get too snide, however, because it’s his credit card your specialist services are going on. You’re itemised as ‘Full Facial’, by the way, should you feel the need of inspiration.” “Gee, thanks.” “You will thank me, when you see her. She’s gorgeous. And, get this, been married a few years, can’t do without what she wants any more.” “And that is?” “Helplessness. Wants to be taken by someone who’s going to do it, no matter what.” “I can do that.” “So I’ve heard. That is why I’m calling. She’s in Room 220 of the Newlands Holiday Inn Garden Court. I left her with her hands cuffed behind her back. The keys are in a brown envelope at reception when her husband, Mr. Wheeler—that’s you, okay?—arrives and picks up his swipe-card and any messages.” “Okay.” “While I remember—she’s got a full change of clothes in a suitcase in the closet. So go wild with what she’s wearing. But listen—helplessness, okay? No bruises, no marks, no nothing that will require explaining away to Captain Vanilla. Have you got that?” “Yes, boss.” “Good boy. Go get ’er. Lucky bastard.” I thought of saying, “Luck had nothing to do with it” but I thought of my Ragnarok game, as opposed to my mile in the pool, and let him click off. I was wearing a ski-mask when I put Mr. Wheeler’s swipe-card into the door. Because it wasn’t a key, she didn’t hear me coming and swung round with a gasp. I closed the door deliberately, put my tog-bag down on the bed and took off the jacket I wore over the T-shirt. She might as well get an eyeful of the results of the swimming-and-iron-pumping while she still could. I took a ball-gag out of my tog-bag and advanced on her. She didn’t know if she should speak or not. I didn’t give her the choice. I grabbed her jaw in the way I learned when putting bits on recalcitrant horses and pressed thumb and forefinger on her cheeks between her teeth. Her mouth obediently opened and the ball-gag started going in. By the time her mouth was as far open as she thought it could go, the gag was jammed hard between her teeth. Closing her mouth had ceased to be an option. I then revealed to her how wide her mouth could really open and the ball popped in. I strapped it firmly in place, buckle behind her head. The ball would be holding her tongue firmly in place; shouting for help was now impossible. Any noise she could make would be swallowed up by the Holiday Inn’s soft furnishings, thick carpet and stout, swipe-card-protected door. By this point, she would be wondering if this was such a good idea after all. Time to increase her doubts. I produced my flick-knife out of my back jeans pocket and popped it open. A Swiss Army knife would do just as well for cutting, if not better, but nothing beats the dramatic quality of a flick knife springing open in front of a helpless face. Her eyes widened and there was another sharp intake of breath. I took no notice but reached out and grabbed her T-shirt under her breasts where there was slack and pulled hard. She pulled back, naturally. The flick-knife cut through the collar and then I tore the shirt to the hem, cut the hem and wrenched the shirt sleeves down to her cuffed wrists. Her white, strapless sports bra was revealed, standing out starkly against her tanned torso. It had a clip in front so I put the knife away and unclipped it gently, kissing her nipples gently as they were revealed. I felt her relax slightly, so I nipped until she jumped and squeaked and tensed up properly for me to push her firmly onto the bed next my tog-bag. The next thing was to get a stout, leather blindfold out of the tog-bag, and fit it on. She’d seen the last of me. I held her down by the throat as I knifed my way down, hip to ankle, along the outside seam of her Levis, both sides, and hoped she felt helpless. A good geisha gives the client what is needed. This may not be what is requested. I roughly heaved the ruined Levis out from under her and threw them in the corner. She could take them away with her or leave the maid service to make up their own minds about what was going on. I did not touch the revealed panties. Mindful of the need to avoid marks, for Captain Vanilla’s sake, I took two sets of velcro cuffs from my tog-bag and applied one end of each to each of her ankles. I took the cuff keys from the envelope the receptionist gave me, took them off and placed them in my tog-bag. Why not? They were presumably Dick’s and, anyway, I’d be leaving plenty of equipment on her. Holiday Inn, God bless them, had become tired of being sued by geriatrics who put their backs out stopping over low suitcases. There was a sturdy, fold-down suitcase rack bolted to the wall at waist-height. With a bit of luck, she wouldn’t have registered it in her tense state as she waited for me. I quietly folded it down, noting that she cocked her head anxiously behind her blindfold, trying to figure out what I was up to. I picked her up from the bed in my arms, as if she were the bride I was carrying over the threshhold, and swung round three times, totally disorienting her. Then I carried her across the room and laid her down on the suitcase rack. Her arms hung down on one side and her legs on the other. I went down on my knees and stopped under the rack to bind left wrist to right ankle; right wrist to left ankle. This is totally disorienting. When I had done everything I could think of to ensure she was feeling appropriately helpless. I picked up the ’phone. “Hello, reception? Can you send a strong young bell-hop up to Room 220? Mrs. Wheeler needs a hand. Thanks.” And I left. A good geisha gives the client what is needed. This may not be what is requested. Oh, and by the way: any damnyankee who wants to make the effort to find out why you have to catch your own cricket will be most fortunate.
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This page last updated 1st September 2000 |