No one had come into this alley for an hour. Maybe because it was too dark. Maybe because it was Monday. But I had to eat. So I had to suck it up.
Luck came a few minutes later. In the form of a white foreigner.
I smoothed my navy blue skirt and army green parka. I was ready.
But before the salaryman could enter this alley, a girl with dyed red hair and a dress unsuitable for this chilly weather approached him and talked to him. Then she took him away.
I had to wait two hours for another client. He was a well-dressed middle-aged salaryman.
Before he could walk past me, I asked, “Would you like to have some fun?”
He stopped and, with his narrow eyes, looked at me as if I were trouble. Then as if I were a product. Which I was.
“How much?” he asked.
“10,000 yen,” I said. “Plus hotel fee: 3000 yen.”
The man wrinkled his nose. “That’s too expensive.”
No, you’re too cheap, I wanted to say, but the customer was God in Japan. “It’s the standard price.”
“Set by whom? Definitely not by any legal entity.”
I take it back. You’re not cheap. You’re a prick. “Sorry, but I can’t lower the price.”
“Sorry, but I won’t accept your proposition then.” The man strutted away.
I let out a long sigh. I was too frustrated to be furious.
Besides, I had to save time and energy to keep looking for clients.
The next one came around three, when I was about to call it a night. Short hair and small eyes, white T-shirt and blue jeans — his photo must be in the encyclopedia entry for average Joe.
“Would you like to have some fun?” I asked.
The man stopped and stared at me as if I were a leafleter. Finally, his eyes and mouth morphed into crescent moons. “Sure, how much is it?”
“10,000 yen plus 3,000 for hotel free.”
Side by side, I led the man to the only love hotel in this alley. Inside, on the touch screen, I selected room 104, the usual one. And we stepped into it.
“Should we shower first?” I asked, stopping in front of the bathroom.
“I don’t think that would be necessary.” The man flopped down on the edge of the queen-size bed. “It’s too cold to get sweaty.” He smiled.
Okay, I’d just wipe him with a wet towel down there.
After I was done, I set the timer on my phone. Fifteen minutes. Then, my hands resting on his jeans, I began fellating him. Looking at him straight in the eye. Letting out a muffled moan now and then.
Hearing him gasp and seeing him close his eyes told me that I was in control.
Until I wasn’t.
He clutched my head and thrust himself down my throat. Tears blurred my vision. The instant noodles I’d had in the evening tried to crawl up my throat.
I pushed the man’s hips — but they didn’t budge a centimeter.
“I want to hear you choke,” he murmured, his cordial tone gone.
I’m gagging. That’s not enough for you? I would’ve said if I could talk.
Fearing I’d asphyxiate, I squeezed the man’s balls. This worked. He got away from me.
But only for a moment; he straddled me on the floor and began strangling me. While my throat ached. My face burned.
Was I going to die? Wait, did I care if I died? All I knew was that I didn’t care if I lived.
But, apparently, fate — or luck — did care.
“What the hell are you doing?” the man yelled, wiping my vomit from his hand on my skirt. Frowning at his hands, he added, “No, what the hell I’m doing? I’m not a murderer. I just have a choking fetish.” He dressed and darted out of the room faster than a pedestrian with an onset of diarrhea.
Meanwhile, I remained sprawled on the floor, gasping, perspiring.
The next afternoon, I went to the park near my apartment to sit on a bench with a beer. To assess my situation. More specifically, my profession.
More and more girls were prowling the alleys. Which meant fewer clients for me.
More and more clients were rejecting my propositions. True, I was above average in the appearance department. Still, I was pushing forty.
Finally, what happened tonight … it’d never happened to me. And I didn’t want it to happen again.
So how could I reduce competition, increase my clientele, and minimize the danger?
I chewed this over while watching a thirty-something man being pushed in a wheelchair by an angry-looking woman. And an idea tugged at my mind.
What if I targeted the handicapped? Sorry, disabled people?
Many of them, especially men, spent a lot of time in the company of a nurse, maid, or female relative — but probably zero time enjoying the comfort of a woman.
So only a few of them would decline my services.
And I would have less competition.
And wouldn’t be in danger.
Okay, it was decided. But now the big question: where could I find disabled people on a daily — or rather, nightly — basis? Parks? No, a week could pass without me seeing a single disabled person. Should I post an online ad? Special services for those with special needs. Something told me that would attract the eye of the law.
I paused my pondering to go to McDonald’s. I was hungry. Hungry for a shrimp burger and pineapple pie with a Zero Coke.
While I waited at the counter for my order, the man and girl I’d seen at the park passed by me. They didn’t order. What were they up to?
Standing on the corner, I peered down the hallway. The girl pressed the open button of the accessible toilet and glided in with the man.
As I stared at the stick figure of the wheelchair user against the blue background, cogs began turning in my mind.
This was the perfect place.
I couldn’t dress like a prostitute in McDonald’s (even though I was one). After some pondering in front of my closet, I decided on my white hoodie and blue jeans. Paired with light makeup. To be as inconspicuous as possible. I didn’t want McDonald’s staff to take notice of me.
As I stared at myself in the mirror approvingly, my eyes veered to the clock. Right, what working hours should I choose? Not the morning. True, McDonald’s served breakfast, but it wasn’t its main appeal.
So I had to get started at noon. At lunch. Until — maybe eight. Disabled people probably wouldn’t go out too late at night; the world was more dangerous to them than to — what was the term? — able-bodied people.
Having decided the essential matters, I sprayed on my rose perfume, shouldered my handbag — which contained condoms, lube, pepper spray — and stepped out of my apartment.
Ten minutes later, I was standing at the McDonald’s counter, choosing my main course. I settled on a chicken burger. Less smelly than its fish, pork, or beef version. For my clients’ sake.
When my order was ready, I sat at the back, the seat closest to the hallway.
To pass the time, eating and glancing around periodically, I watched a black comedy show on my phone. Since disabled people were less common than able-bodied people, I might have to wait a little longer than in the alley.
But not as long as I thought; before I could finish my corn soup, a man in a wheelchair made his way over. Large eyes, tall nose, defined jawline — he was the same one I’d seen yesterday. Without the woman. Maybe she was busy. Or maybe the man wanted a bit of autonomy. Or maybe they’d fought. Anyway, the reason didn’t matter to me. All I cared about was …
“Excuse me,” I said, quiet but clear, “would you like to have some fun?”
The man stopped pushing himself. Then he turned his wheelchair in my direction and stared at me as if I were a thief. “Excuse me?”
It took me a moment to realize that my proposition wasn’t obvious because of the setting and my clothing. “10,000 yen. Forty minutes.”
The man leaned back and rocked a little from side to side. Finally, he chuckled. ’Okay, I get it now. But in broad daylight? At McDonald’s?
“This line of work is getting harder and harder. So you have to think broader.”
His lips returning to their original position, he glanced around. There were countless people — couples, families — but no one was looking at us.
The man refocused on me. Maybe I was just imagining this, but he seemed to be suppressing a grin. “Could you do me a favor? Could you push me to the accessibility toilet?”
I smiled. “No problem.”
A few people saw me pushing the man into the accessibility toilet and sliding the door shut behind me. They mustn’t be suspicious of us; maybe the man couldn’t get out of his wheelchair and sit on the toilet, so he needed assistance.
Wait, maybe there was something else he couldn’t do? “Not trying to be mean,” I began as he turned to face me, “but can you get an erection?”
He laughed. “It’s my legs that are paralyzed.” He looked at his trousers. “Come to think of it, I’m not very sure I can. I haven’t had the chance to try this out in a long time.”
If he weren’t in a wheelchair, he surely would have plenty of chances to test this. He not only was handsome but also — at least so far — a gentleman.
“When was the last time?” I asked. Impolite. But I was curious. Also, I had to know as much as I could about disabled people — especially about their sex life.
The man stared at an invisible point above him. “Let’s see … six years.”
“You might as well become a priest.”
He grinned. “I’ve thought about it — but I’ve never seen a priest delivering a sermon in a wheelchair.”
Since he seemed to be easy-going, I asked, “But do you, you know, ‘relieve’ yourself?”
“It’s not my hands that are paralyzed.”
Since he was opening up … “How did it happen?” I sat on the toilet. This could be a long story.
The man looked at his leather shoes. “Driving under the influence.”
Then it was his fau —
“That day, I went to a Chinese restaurant to eat drunken chicken,” he continued, “Cooking burns off the alcohol — but not entirely. Add the fact that I ate a lot. Add the fact that even a little alcohol can impair your motor skills. Of course, at the time I didn’t know that.”
“They should put a warning on the menu,” I said playfully. “Please don’t drive after eating this chicken.” I brought my finger to my lips. “Okay, I’ll stop. You’re not paying for conversation.” I slid off my white sneakers and pulled down my jeans, revealing my red laced tanga. A hoodie and panties — did I look sexy or funny? “Do you want foreplay?”
The man averted his eyes, looking shy for the first time. “Just kissing is fine … Are you okay with that?”
“Some prostitutes think kissing is too intimate.” I peeled off my hoodie, exhibiting my red-laced bra. “To me, taking a tongue in my mouth doesn’t feel more intimate than taking a penis.”
The man’s lips curled up. “Thank you.”
Chuckling — who thanked prostitutes? — I set the timer on my phone, catwalked to him, bent down forty-five degrees. And kissed him. Meanwhile, he pushed through my lips with his tongue and clutched my head with both hands. He was less kissing me than drinking my saliva. Drinking like someone who’d wandered in a desert for days.
“Sorry,” he began, releasing my lips and head, wiping saliva from his lower lip, “but it’s been a long time since …”
“No need to apologize,” I said, cleaning my lips too. “This is nothing compared to, say, being choked.”
“If we continue talking, your time will be over.” I crouched and removed his belt. Staring at his two limp legs, I added, “Maybe just unzip your pants?”
“Good suggestion,” he said in an apologetic tone. “I don’t think you’re interested in seeing my hairy legs anyway.”
“I am. I have a hairy-leg fetish.” I pulled open his fly and released his penis from its confinement. “But I like this more.” Fully erect, it was on the big side. Maybe it’d grown to compensate for the uselessness of the man’s legs.
I wiped every nook and cranny of him with one of my wet towels and threw my hair into a ponytail. Then I lowered my head and wrapped him between my lips. My eyes fixed on his. Like with yesterday’s psychotic client. Experience had taught me that men came faster and easier this way. Maybe because it showed submission. Or acknowledgment. Or acceptance.
And this wasn’t the exception.
I took a tissue from my handbag, spit into it, and tossed it into the trash can. Then I rinsed my mouth in the sink. Needless to say, I only swallowed boyfriends. Not that I had one.
“It seems like your penis works well,” I said, stepping back to the man.
“Your lips too.” He let out a deep sigh. “I’d completely forgotten this sensation — and I’m not just talking about blow jobs. Or sex.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
The man’s mouth moved, but it only let out a chuckle. “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about either.”
“It’s okay, as I said, we’re not here to talk.” I sat on his lap. It was sturdier than I thought. “Do you want to go all the way? I won’t charge you extra.” Clients had to add 1000 yen for coming again.
The man smiled. “No, that was enough.”
I tilted my head. “Are you sure?”
“You’ve satisfied me. Believe me.”
With a nod, I detached myself from the man and checked my phone. “Okay, your forty minutes are finished anyway.”
“Okay, then …” He zipped up and fished his wallet from his trousers. “How much is it again?”
“10,000 yen. But just give me 3,000. That’s what a blow job costs.”
He pulled out two 5000-yen notes and held them in front of me.
My right hand clenched. “But …”
The man beamed. “You didn’t just give me a blow job. You didn’t just give me forty minutes of your time. You gave me a memory that will last … maybe forever.”
I stared at him as if he were a bright star in the sky I’d never spotted before. Finally, my lips curling up, I said, “Thank you.” And I took the money.
“Is everything okay in there?” asked a boyish male voice.
We turned to the door simultaneously. Probably with the same thought. The same fear.
Well, I wasn’t that scared. I was a professional after all. “Leave this to me.” Before the man could say anything, I dressed faster than a wife caught cheating at home. Then I grabbed the push handles of his wheelchair and directed him to the door.
When I slid open the door, a boy was standing on one side. Black cap, red sleeveless shirt — one of the clerks. His pimpled face was scrunched.
“My husband had a ‘little accident’ in his pants,” I began nonchalantly, “so I was changing him. You know how long it takes to change a wheelchair user — okay, maybe you don’t.”
“Sorry for disturbing you.” The clerk gave a low bow and trotted to the counter.
The man turned to me. “You’re good.”
I grinned. “At doing bad things.”
Outside of the McDonald’s, we stood — okay, I was the only one standing — face to face. This was that after-sex moment where none of the parties knew when it was the right time to leave. Or if it was okay to leave at all. After all, sex, even the paid kind, was one of the deepest experiences in life; in fact, the very experience that created life.
“Thank you again,” the man said, smiling.
My lips mirrored his. “You shouldn’t thank me so much. You’re the client after all.”
As I watched him wheel himself away, as he became smaller and smaller down the sidewalk, a thought popped into my mind. Or rather, it slowly drifted to me like an autumn leaf.
I’d stick to disabled people — and maybe not just because of the money.