Where to Buy
Celebrated sex columnist Violet Blue put Amorous Woman at the very top of her top ten sexy reads of 2008. If you missed out then, you still have a chance to travel to Japan through these e-booksellers.
If you like the novel, please write a review on Amazon
You can hear a podcast of me reading one of the hotter scenes. Also, you can watch me read an excerpt at Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “In the Flesh” erotica reading series.
For those of you that prefer to read, here is an excerpt from Part Six: A Monk’s Wife in a City of Worldly Temptations
Eagerly I pulled out the next comic, the cover adorned with a drawing of a foreign woman, her enormous tits spilling out of a bustier with cups so pointy they could function as a deadly weapon. The stories in this volume were kinkier, with elaborate shibari bondage and writhing women stuffed with double-headed dildoes. I blushed, glad Chieko wasn’t here to see my reaction. Since I’d come to Japan, my fantasies had definitely wandered into S&M territory, one of my many adaptations to the culture.
In this story, a curvaceous young receptionist at a construction company shared a few cold beers with her gangster-like boss at day’s end, then headed off to the co-ed restroom to relieve herself. When she opened the door of the stall, she discovered to her dismay that the man was lurking by the sink with a wicked grin. What a naughty girl you are, to let a man hear you go pee-pee. Now that you let me listen, I have a right to see what you’ve got down there, too. Pushing her down on all fours beside the squat-style toilet, he yanked up her mini skirt and examined her pussy and asshole with a penlight, demanding she describe her own private parts to him. She protested—I can’t say it, I’ve never looked at myself down there—but the boss refused to believe her and threatened to fuck her with the penlight if she didn’t obey orders. Delirious with arousal and shame, the receptionist stuttered out the words: My pussy is red and slick with my juices, the lips are quivering with excitement and when I push myself open they’re all puffy and swollen, oh, please, I can’t go on. I’m so embarrassed, I could die. As a reward, the boss soothed her with his tongue and the tale ended happily with the couple screwing doggy-style on the restroom floor.
I rolled my eyes, but I also felt I’d gotten a glimpse into a couple of other Japanese sexual taboos. I’d noticed over the years that my Japanese women friends always flushed immediately when they entered a toilet stall and, in fact, I’d never once heard the sound of urination. Even the easygoing Chieko was careful to preserve this custom. With the cleanliness fetish in this country, fucking on the floor of a public restroom would surely be the height of depravity. More brazen still was the young woman’s courage in speaking the unspeakable. She actually described what the Japanese censors wouldn’t allow us to see, the visible evidence of her sexual desire, not to mention her tacit admission that she’d studied her own pussy in a mirror when she masturbated.
Now I was definitely turned on.
But what really got my mind racing was the thought that my own friend had imagined and created these stories. In her presence, I hadn’t allowed myself to think about what it meant to her to draw these pictures day after day. Now the questions swirled through my mind like the wild serpentine locks of her lesbian lovers. Did an editor assign the stories or did she make them up herself? Did she ever feel dirty catering to men’s fantasies for money? Was she excited by her own work? Did she imagine me—us?—in the throes of sexual bliss as she drew the two women together? Did she masturbate at her desk, legs spread wide around the chair, finger wiggling as she gazed at the lewd image that had sprung from her own head?
I jumped up from the sofa, determined not to masturbate again today. It was time for dinner, although I wasn’t hungry, not in that way. A salad seemed right for such a hot evening. I pulled a package of cucumbers from the refrigerator and removed one from the plastic wrapping. I washed it under cold water, rubbing its slightly nubby length with my palm.
I thought of the housewife in Chieko’s story and her vegetal yearnings. Japanese cucumbers were smaller than the American variety, just the right size for a little self-comfort on a lonely evening.
Already, the saintly intentions were fading…