I couldn’t help myself. I was lost to Asian boys on the brink of becoming men, thus early teens, and I’d done without for far too long. I could hardly wait until I’d checked into my hotel in Tokyo’s Shinjuku district until I was down on the street, walking through the gay red light district to the male brothel I knew about and had frequented before that serviced men with the fetish I had, whore houses that provided boys for men. I didn’t often take my pleasures as cruelly as I did at the Shounenfooyuu House—the Boy For You brothel—just a few blocks into the steamy narrow streets between my Tokyo Stay Shinjusku Hotel and the Shinjuku Gyoen National Gardens.

I knew the small, berry-brown fourteen-year-old Japanese boy prostitute would easily take what my pent-up months of abstinence had wanted me to indulge in. This was an “anything goes” house; there were bruises on his arms and thighs and welt marks on his back, and his channel was slack—at least until I took measures. The age of consent in Japan is thirteen, which is why, in addition to my addiction to Asian boys, that I came to Japan from Hollywood to release my tensions and demons. Fourteen-year-old boys were my fetish, so I was good to go in Tokyo. I wanted them in the transition to being men, with some muscular development, but soft, pliable, yielding, and as fresh as possible.

I didn’t use him as roughly as many coming to the Shounenfooyuu House did. I didn’t beat him, but I wanted him fully under my control and subject to my whims, and I needed to do something about the slack channel many of the boy whores developed. I was built thick and I wanted a tight hole and passage, part of the arousal of fucking a small fourteen-year-old Asian boy. I wanted the feel and his reaction to be as if I was deflowering a virgin. To put the boy under my control, I did bind him. To tighten his hole and passage as much as possible, I bound his legs together, just above the knees and at the ankles. There were plenty of restraints provided in the small room with the bed where I fucked him to do as I liked. There were even hooks in the ceilings and frames around the bed and against the wall if that was my pleasure and fetish—but they weren’t. I just wanted him controlled and tight—the sensation of stealing his virginity.

The only other restraints needed were a harness to pull his knees up into his chest and restraints at his ankles to bind his wrists to his ankles. He was thus pulled up into a fetal position, but his hole was accessible—and tight and prominently displayed. A ball gag completed the accessories, and I spent a pleasurable forty-five minutes moving him from position to position, trying to do so without dislodging my thick cock buried inside him, and fucking him to a series of built-up ejaculations. His moaning sounded genuine enough and I left him fully satisfied—for now—and probably having given him the easiest and most satisfying lay he had that day.

I went on from the whore house, humming, to the event that officially was bringing me to Tokyo—a speaking engagement and consultation as a Hollywood casting director, with a gay actor’s studio school in Tokyo. I had accepted the engagement, though, because I was well overdue for indulging my fetish with fourteen-year-old Asian boys. The professor at the acting studio recognized my fetish because he shared it with me. When we had attended a Los Angeles motion picture production conference together and he had brought one of his fourteen-year-old acting school students, I had invited the pair to my house for lunch and the professor and I had enjoyed the student together in my bedroom. He had made clear in his invitation for me to come visit his school in Tokyo that I could indulge myself in Japan and that he would facilitate my fetish.

After our consultation and my lectures to his acting classes, the professor took me into the school’s theater, where a play was being practiced he said I might enjoy. I wondered how, since I didn’t speak Japanese, but he said it was an avant-garde play in which a fourteen-year-old actor would be fucked by an older man on stage. Both of the actors were students of his, he said. So, I happily followed him into the theater. On the way into the theater, he invited another small acting student of his to come into the theater with us.

“Tomei is fourteen,” the professor said, giving me a meaningful look. “Isn’t he a sweet boy? He’s a very good boy, and he told me after your lecture that he found you attractive. He will sit with us and accommodate us as we please while we watch the play.”

He sat Tomei between us about half-way up the bank of seats in the theater. We were the only ones in the audience. I took this to be some sort of dress rehearsal, but maybe it was been shown especially for me.

There were two actors on the stage, two males, one in his early fifties and one, the professor said, fourteen. It was a period piece, titled, the professor said, “The Lord Initiates His Vassal.” The set was simple: a tatami mat with a rice-paper-covered shoji screen behind it. The two actors were sitting, cross-legged, it appeared, and side by side on the mat. They each were so enveloped in colorful brocade kimono robes, though, that I couldn’t say for sure how they were sitting. I just knew that, as the play progressed, which apparently concerned the seduction of the boy by the older man, they rearranged themselves so that their hands went into the folds of each other’s robes and they fondled and made love to each other—initially the older man doing all of the petting and initiating the kissing until the boy got heated up—all done without showing much flesh, and certainly not genitals. The professor said that being fully clothed was meant to bring out the sensuality of the seduction, and it did that for me.

By the end of the play, it was clear that the older man had worked his cock into the folds of the boy’s robe, without it being seen by the audience, and he was fucking the boy.

By that time I was fucking Tomei too, the boy having unzipped and stroked and sucked me as the seduction was unfolding on the stage and, when the old man on stage ejaculated, I came as well, with Tomei sitting on my lap, sheathing my cock, but bent over toward where the professor was kneeling in his seat and sucking the professor’s cock off.

There had been rain off and on all day, and it started up again as I was walking from the theater in Tokyo’s Ni-chome district of Shinjuku, so I dipped into a small grocery store entered by a foyer in a small apartment building. The deluge, although heavy, hadn’t lasted long, and I could use some snacks for the hotel, so I walked the aisles of the store in search of snacks I recognized and liked.

I was feeling a bit out of synch, caused I think by having watched live sex while I was having live sex when I hadn’t prepared myself for it. I hadn’t gone to the actors’ school that morning thinking I’d be put in that situation—not that I hadn’t enjoyed it. The two fourteen-year-old boys, the one I watched and the one who rode me, were luscious. The experience had been surreal, though. Everything in Tokyo was alien and isolating to me. And I was jittery as I’d come to Tokyo hoping to explore the kind of experience I couldn’t in Los Angeles.

The labels on the shelved packages were overwhelming to me as I moved down the narrow aisle in the small grocery store. I couldn’t concentrate on the items and I constantly had my eye to the front window of the shop and the status of the raindrops outside. I traveled extensively in Europe and was used to the euro and dollar ruling everywhere. Japanese money was beyond me—as were Japanese Kanji characters instead of an alphabet I knew and the exclusively Japanese chatter going on around me. Even the music wafting through the store in half tones was alien to my world. I could only pick out a few items and hope that I had enough money to cover them.

I was staring, blindly, at a shelf of snacks that looked like maybe an octopus was the origin of the chips when I noticed a young man standing at the end of the aisle with a basket of goods in his hand. He was familiar to me, although I couldn’t discern from where or why, and when he looked at me, he showed a surprise of recognition as well and smiled. He was, of course, Japanese and young, small of stature but beautifully formed. As he smiled, I realize that he had been the younger actor, the one who had been fucked inside an enveloping kimono in the school’s theater. I realized too that he had been in the class I’d given a lecture to that morning. He had smiled at me like that then—a smile of interest that I was quite familiar with and was frustrated at the time of not being able to pursue—and he smiled at me like that now.

He disappeared around the end of the aisle. In walking up and down the aisle, though, I encountered him twice more, and we nodded to each other and smiled each time. He was short and willowy. His fourteen-year-old body was beginning to show musculature—not in an overbuilt way, though. He was berry brown, had long, straight, lustrously black hair that was bound up in a ponytail, and his eyes were dark and expressive. He wore a T-shirt sporting a Japanese sporting hero cartoon on the front that so tightly clung to his body that I could discern the bars pierced in his nipples; cargo shorts, and open-toed sandals. He had been so convincing as an ancient character on stage in the kimono that it was a bit jarring to see him as a modern boy.

Tokyo was in a heat wave this summer, so I was lightly dressed too—a white, billowy, loose and open cotton shirt over a tight red athletic T-shirt, white cotton trousers, and sneakers without socks. I knew it to be a gay look, but I wasn’t hiding anything during this trip; I was open to possibilities, and I had nothing in appearance to be ashamed of.

Having gathered a few things I hoped I was recognizing as something I could eat, I approached the checkout counter with trepidation. He, the young Japanese actor, was there already and helped me count out the right money for my purchases, which was quite a bit less than I had thought it would be.

He smiled at me, pointed to himself, and said, “Hoshikawa Hiro.” He then said just “Hiro,” signaling that that would be enough for me to attempt. I would be able to remember it because the action hero on the front of his T-shirt. He pointed to me.

I responded, “Samuel Standish,” with a smile. And mimicking what he’d reduced that to, I added, “Sam.” It was obvious that we weren’t going to do much conversing with each other—not here, in a crowded, claustrophobically stuffed grocery store, with aisles spaced for small, trim Japanese bodies. Hiro’s body certainly was trim. I must have passed muster with him, as he reached out and put his hand on my forearm. If that wasn’t an invitation, I don’t know what was. In the States it might have been overlooked as a signal, but not, I was sure, in Japan, with its emphasis on honoring personal space even in a crowd.

We both looked out of the store window and viewed the renewed deluge. He shrugged, squeezed my forearm to get my attention, pointed toward the ceiling, and gave me a questioning look. Then he pantomimed going up stairs with his fingers. I understood that he was offering me refuge until the rain stopped and that he had access to somewhere above to wait it out.

He was cute and had made me go hard, so I followed him up the stairs—up six flights of stairs to the building’s attic.

The room he took me to was small. It was dominated by a sheet-covered mattress on a platform. A kitchen counter ran down the interior wall and two deeply recessed dormer windows were cut into the street-side wall. A doorway covered with a beaded curtain led to a small bathroom, with a shower built for a figure smaller than mine. Clothes were hanging on pegs on an opposite wall. They were of more than one size, some of them made for a larger man than Hiro, so he didn’t live here alone, if he lived here at all. The room was impeccably clean, and there was nothing here that wasn’t both functional and esthetic. It would have made a good theater set for a trysting room.

That’s what it became.

Motioning to the only chair in the room, a legless Zaisu chair, a classic Japanese design, he went into the bathroom and I squatted, cross-legged, on the chair, blessing all of the yoga classes I’d taken and how diligently I’d endeavored to remain flexible.

He used the toilet and undressed and redressed in the bathroom, all within my increasingly aroused eyesight through the beaded curtain. He didn’t look to see if I was watching, though. It all seemed quite natural, as if this was how it generally was done in Japan, with less privacy and more acceptance of the body’s functions than Americans demanded in their own world. I had the opportunity to confirm that his berry-brown body was beautifully formed. He was smooth bodied except for the long hair on his head and the beginnings of a pubic bush with, what I could see in glimpses, an erect cock.