Date: Sat, 16 Jun 2012 17:34:28 -0700
From: Michael Kroll <mkmitigates@hotmail.com>
Subject: Welcome to Japan

Welcome to Japan
By Michael A. Kroll


	I couldn't believe I was really checking into the Tokyo YMCA! The
spurt of energy I always feel on arriving for the first time in a new
country - and this, my first new country! - was beginning to overcome the
exhaustion I refused to give into. It wasn't just the nineteen-hour series
of flights from D.C., but the entire ordeal of the past four days that had
wrung me out.

	Could it only have been four days ago that the roller coaster ride
began at the pinnacle of euphoria, then dropped precipitately into the
depths of anger and despair, and finally led me here, to the Tokyo Y, once
again triumphant? The experience seemed so much longer ago, in such a
different place. Here, I felt a surge of unexpected freedom, an
independence I had not known I craved until I found it.

	Four days before, I had been partying with the 50 or so survivors
of my Peace Corps training group in DeKalb, Illinois. We had survived two
brutal "Deselection" rituals, at which more than half our numbers were
decimated, never to be seen again. We, who were singing and dancing (and
not thinking about those who had disappeared), would board a plane the next
morning at O'Hare, bound first to Hawaii, and then on to Malaysia, our
ultimate destination. It had been my dream for so long to leave the country
and to teach, and now both were happening. Plus, I had survived a
"Deselection" recommendation, through a combination of cunning and sexism.
We were each assigned to a psychologist who led a "Selection Team" that
consisted of all the elements of our training, from Bahasa Malayu (the
Malay language) to some frankly propagandistic courses, but whose ultimate
recommendation lay in the hands of the psychologist.

	She and I did not hit it off from the beginning. By the end, she
told me she would recommend my deselection because I was too visible.
Appealing to his always-present ego, I spoke to her boss, the head
psychologist, and told him I thought she did not relate as well to me as he
did, and that I would be relieved to put my fate in his hands. He overruled
her recommendation, so being here now, knowing that I had made it despite
everything, was like looking down from a mountain you've just scaled. I
felt like Leonardo DiCaprio would fifty years later, screaming, "I'm King
of the World" from the bow of the Titanic.

	And then came the phone call from Headquarters in Washington, D
C. Jerry, our red-haired Program Director, called me to the phone in his
office. The giddiness I felt drained away after the first words came
through the line: "While your group boards a plane for Hawaii tomorrow,
you'll be coming here, to Washington, instead, to answer a few
questions..." The rest of the conversation had to do with my status ("You
have been on 'political hold' for months..."), my flight information, who I
was to meet and where, etc. I could not focus; Jerry would have to fill me
in again on the details.

	Early the next morning, as I stood on the tarnmac at the bottom of
the ramp, I could see my friends assembled not that far away, boarding
their own flight. The head of the Malay Language component of our training
was the only staff person there to great me before I boarded my own
plane. He removed the black songkok he wore (the ceremonial Malay hat for
men) and lovingly placed it on my head. It was too small for me, but I did
not take it off during the entire time I spent at Peace Corps Headquarters.

	In Washington, I was asked if I'd traveled to Cuba in 1962, as one
of their anonymous informants had alleged to the Civil Service Commission
employees who conducted the full-field background investigation of
potential volunteers for the Peace Corps. My unambiguous "No!" (and my
offer to telephone friends in California who could confirm that I had spent
that summer in Mexico with them) ended the very brief encounter. Furious, I
demanded to know why they couldn't have asked me the question by phone, and
allowed me to remain with my friends. Like good bureaucrats everywhere, hey
told me that my anger was misdirected, that they were just doing their
jobs, and that I would be allowed to join my group, by now assembled in
Kuala Lumpur. I would fly to Tokyo the next morning, my first stop.

	I completed registering at the counter, and bounded up the old
wooden staircase to my room on the second floor. It was even smaller than
I'd imagined, with a kind cot/bed along one wall, a simple bare desk and
wooden chair under a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and next to the
bed, a small portable closet where a white robe with stripes I later
learned is a yukata hung, a thin summer kimono, cinched by a sash called an
obi. On the floor of the closet/box was a pair of wooden sandals. On the
cot/bed there was a folded towel.

	Suddenly, I really was tired. I needed to shower and go to sleep. I
dropped my clothes quickly, not bothering to gather them up or hang them in
the closet. I put the yukata on over my underwear, tied the obi tight
around my waist, and practiced walking in the sandals, which supported
about half my large foot. My heels stuck out six inches, forcing me to walk
like I was wearing spiked heels, except without the heels.

	Down the hall from my room and around the corner I found two doors,
side by side. I concluded by symbols over the doors that one is for toilet
jobs, and one for bathing. I went into the first to pee, and was relieved
to relieve myself in a standard urinal.

	As I entered the washroom, I expected to find a wall of
showers. Instead, I saw a row of low faucets against two walls, with low
wooden stools, like milking stools in front of them next to wooden
buckets. Brushes and ladles hung on hooks next to the faucets. Against a
third wall lay a shallow pool, less than four feet across and about six
feet long. An old Japanese man with sparse whiskers on his wrinkled face
lay in the pool against the far side, serene and apparently unconcerned
about anyone else in the steamy room. Through the steam, I saw three or
four men at intervals, each on a low stool, and each thoroughly scrubbing
himself. The ritual began by ladling hot water over their heads from the
buckets, followed by thoroughly soaping up and scrubbing themselves, and I
do mean thoroughly. Then they ladled out more hot water, or poured it over
themselves directly from the bucket multiple times, until all the soap was
washed away. And then they started the process again.

	I undressed slowly, watching to make sure I did what they did. I
hung my yukata and towel on a small peg, dropped my underwear as
unobtrusively as I could, and hid them under the towel. I sat quickly at
one of the unused faucets, and began to fill the bucket with hot water. As
I did, I noticed that one of the men, now having washed and rinsed
completely twice, stood and made his way to the tub, a large belly hanging
over and almost covering a small patch of black over a small dick . As he
stepped into the tub, the old man who had been soaking there stood and
stepped out, his gray pubic hair matted and clinging to his thin frame. I
wondered if this was also part of the ritual - only one-at-a-time -
although the tub was wide enough for two bodies.

	The man who got into the tub only remained a few moments before
getting out, toweling off, and leaving the room. That left just two others
in the room with me, and they, too, entered the tub, one after the other,
quickly finished their soaking baths, side-by-side, (thus, answering my
question) before getting out, one after the other, drying off and leaving
me alone to ladle hot water over my head. Alone, Ahhh. I took my time
soaping myself up all over, rinsing off, then repeating the process. I
stood and poured the entire bucket of warm water over my now squeaky clean
hair and shoulders, watched the clear water make its way to the drain and
disappear, and walked over to the bath. I put my foot in.

	"Wow that's hot!" I said out loud, even though I was the only one
there. It took me several minutes to get used to the steaming hot water
before I was finally able, little-by-little, to submerge my entire body,
lying where the old man had been against the wall. My earlier exhaustion,
now deliciously warmed, overcame me, and I began to drift into a dangerous
sleep. Suddenly, however, I was wide awake - and no longer alone. Someone
had just come into the steamy room, although it was close to two the
morning. I looked quickly, and then quickly away. He was young, not more
than 20 (but then, I was only 22), dark and slim. He had short-cropped hair
that accentuated his high cheek bones, the beautiful structure of his
face. I saw all of this in the split second between looking and looking
away.

	Now, I looked studiously straight ahead, but he was well within my
peripheral field of vision. I watched him carefully untie the obi holding
his yukata loosely at his slim waist, and hang it on a small wooden peg
next to where my own yukata, towel and underwear hung. He was not wearing
underwear. He removed the towel from around his naked shoulders and laid it
over the collar of his empty kimono, found a stool to sit on in clear view
of where I lay, and began to bathe.

	My first thought was to get out of the water, to dry off, to leave
the room to him, to let him bathe in comfort and privacy. But the
opportunity to do that evaporated the moment he removed his yukata,
revealing a beautiful hard, brown body, slim but not skinny, with a round
but muscled ass that, even now, excites me to conjure in my mind. I
concentrated on not looking at this beautiful youth, now sitting naked on a
wooden stool six feet from where I lay soaking. I tried thinking of
something else - my grandmother's funeral - but the harder I feigned
indifference , the harder I did NOT think about him sitting there, the
harder I got.

	Now my panic rose, which should have had the effect of diminishing
the growing tug of my cock to push through my covering hands, but which did
nothing of the sort. All my senses were acute - no sense of exhaustion
remained. Not knowing what was coming, or what was expected of me in this
situation, I remained paralyzed, tingling with anticipation, and wondering
if it was only the product of wishful thinking exacerbated by sleep
deprivation.

	By the time he stepped into the ofuro bath alongside me, I managed
to cover most of my profound erection with my hands, preventing my cock
from breaking the surface of the hot water as it strained upward, but not
quite completely hiding the source of my embarrassment. I hope it doesn't
sound like I'm bragging (since I had nothing to do with it), but I'm a
little bigger than average down there - not enormous, just bigger than
average - and while my hands are also large, I still can't quite completely
cover myself when I'm as hard as I was by now. He appeared not to
notice. While my hands did their best to keep my dick, now fully engorged,
from jumping up, as it wanted to do, I studiously kept my eyes straight
ahead, But even so, I could not help but see that, unlike my rather sparse
and very curly pubic hair, his was smooth and very black, and from where
his uncircumsized penis met his stomach, it swept upwards, covering his
tight, flat stomach, then circling his navel, dark, sweet.

	He made no effort to cover himself. His cock, though perhaps not as
large as mine, was still clearly larger than when I first saw it. He was in
the process of getting hard, and as I saw that nearly imperceptible growth
happening, I had a sudden, desperate desire to help him. I had to
consciously restrain myself from reaching out and taking him in my
hands. He climbed in beside me, still holding his washcloth. Slowly
lowering himself into the hot water, he slipped easily next to me, careful
not to let his beautiful bare legs touch mine, until only his head lay
above the water next to me. I hoped he could not feel the pounding beat of
my heart through the two inches of water that now separated us.

	Then the most delicious thing happened, which immediately shattered
all my preconceptions about the uptight and regimented Japanese. He reached
across me as if to deposit his washcloth on my side of the tub, but
"accidentally" dropped it just short of its destination. It plopped into
the water, and slowly slid down, coming to rest on top of my hands. I let
my arms slide down to my sides, removing my hands from under the washcloth,
allowing it to lie on top of my dick, which, now that I was no longer
restraining it, was waving near the surface, a white cloth covering it like
a soldier surrendering his weapon. He reached down to retrieve it...

	Gently, he let his fingers encircle the cloth around my dick, and
lifted it, making sure that his fingers lingered up my shaft. At last, I
looked into his face, so close to mine. With an incredible surge of passion
as he continued to stroke me, I stared into the darkest, most beautiful
almond eyes I'd ever seen. He had almost a little boy's slightly quizzical
look, cocking his head, as if wondering what my reaction to this overt
sexual overture might be. I can't describe the flood of emotions except to
say I let them happen. Like magnets, we drew even closer, until he pressed
his lips against mine.

	My eyes rushed to the door, fearful, but even the fear heightened
the intensity of emotions I was feeling. I think I was less afraid that
we'd be caught than that any intrusion would interrupt this completely
unexpected moment - a moment more passionate, more sexy, than anything I
think I had ever even imagined. This was my first real kiss. His full lips
were yielding, soft but insistent, both gentle and firm at the same time,
and it brought me near to orgasm there in that ofuro bath. Oh, I'd kissed
girls before, but it had never felt like this. With my left hand, I reached
out across the short distance to his balls, feeling the silky smooth nest
of black hair they rested in, then sliding my hand up to his foreskin and
gently sliding it down. With my right hand, I reached around him and pulled
him even closer. Our lips parted slightly as our tongues touched. How could
I have waited so long to experience this, to feel this?

	Slowly, he pulled away and indicated the door. I nodded, though had
he made love to me there in the public bathroom, I would have let him. He
said something in Japanese. I shook my head to let him know I didn't
understand. I said something in English, and then it was his turn to shake
his head. Quickly, I stood, stepping over him as I tried to leave the
tub. As I did, the tip of my dick, sticking straight out and throbbing, wet
with something other than just hot water, brushed against his lips, and he
quickly but only momentarily took it into his mouth. Had I remained a few
more seconds, I would have cum, which he seemed to understand, and we could
not let that happen here, where we might be discovered at any moment. As I
finished getting out, he reached up and caressed my bare ass.

	I went to one of the steamy mirrors and, with my finger, wrote my
room number: 223. He nodded, and then exited the two-man pool himself. For
one delicious moment, we stood face to face, hard cock to hard cock, my
hand in his hand, his in mine. We were about to kiss again when we heard
approaching wooden sandals clopping along the corridor, and quickly grabbed
our towels and covered ourselves, turning toward opposite walls. Another
fat old man entered. I rubbed the number off the steamy mirror, dried off
quickly, put on my robe and clogs, and left the room ahead of my new
friend.

	When I got to my room, I quickly scooped up my clothes and hid them
in the closet. I sat down on my small bed and wondered if he would come,
wondered if he would have second thoughts the minute he got back to his
room, wondered if he had been as powerfully attracted to me as I was to
him. And then there was a gentle knock at the door. I opened it quickly,
and he came in. We sat on the bed, both in our robes and both feeling a
little shy. I tturned his face to mine, took it in my large hands, and drew
him to my lips. The kiss removed any vestiges of shyness either of us might
have been feeling, and in seconds, we were writhing naked together under
coarse sheets, our mouths and hands eagerly exploring each other's
bodies. We kissed again, bringing us closer to the brink. How he managed to
maneuver his body in that small space, I don't know, but I felt his mouth
take in my cock, and I shuddered in anticipation and pure animal
pleasure. His wonderfully hard brown cock, lying now in front of my face,
was irresistible. I took in a deep breath, and the smell of sex was like an
aphrodisiac. I smelled him, then put my lips around his foreskin, and
slowly slid down his warm shaft, pulsating with hot blood.

	I was about to cum. I couldn't hold it back any longer, though I
wished I could prolong this moment forever. I made a guttural sound from
somewhere deep inside, as if to warn him that I was about to spurt a load
of cum that I knew would be huge, partly because it had been so long but
more because of him, because of us. I didn't want him to stop, but I didn't
want it to end with just one of us spent and satisfied. The thought passed
as quickly as it came because as I began to cum into the warmth of his
eager mouth, I felt the warmth of his semen spurt into mine, more and
more. He was amazing. His cum was warm and it tasted slightly sweet. I
swallowed for the first time, overwhelmed and overcome by the unexpected
satisfaction of having him inside of me.

	And then, like a dream you want to hold onto but which evanesces
into the air as you wake, he stood, donned his yukata, bowed at the waist,
and said in halting English that emphasized each syllable: "Wel-come" (he
pronounced it like comb) "to Jah-pahn." And then he was gone.


Welcome to Japan		11