PLEASE READ. Be very, very aware that K.M. Warth and I are writing this for simple pleasure. If there is anything that is not historically correct please don’t hold it against us—tell me, and I will change it and inform my fellow author. We’re going by what I know from research and books and what we know of Japanese prostitute’s life from the movie Imprint, which was our inspiration. We’re trying our best here, folks.

It was the stench that first hit me—urine, semen, dirt. I had the impulse to cover my nose with my kimono sleeve but I resisted it, keeping my hands clasped in front of me instead, my eyes down, my chin tucked in. I was being shown into the mistress’s room by a petite, plain girl with her smooth hair tied back into a ponytail—her kimono was a deep blue and was obviously made of very fine silk, but was plain in appearance and made her status and a servant girl apparent. This place—besides the smell, of course—certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. The tatami mats were very expensive-looking with gold and green linings, and it was very quiet, broken occasionally by a giggle or the soft plucking of a shamisen.

It was a mistake to come so elaborately dressed—I was no longer a geisha so I shouldn’t have dressed like one. Some of the prostitutes’ peeked out of their rooms to gaze at me as I walked past—my kimono swished over the floor and I could hear them whispering about the scandalous dipping of the collar, to show the nape of my neck. I scoffed to myself quietly—whores, gossiping about me? They had their own things to worry about, not the arrival of an ex-geisha.

The maid kneeled before a door and slid it open with her hands, then turned to me so she could retrieve my belongings. I gave them to her, bowed my gratitude, and then entered the room. I could hear the door being shut behind me with a quiet hiss, and as I looked I saw a woman kneeling by a simple wooden table, pouring some tea with hands withered and gray from work. I made my way over to her, and sat with her, accepting the tea as she handed it to me. Her face was an oval, smooth and serene, with thin lips set in a line of nonchalance and eyes slanted and narrow like the curve of the moon; her hair was streaked with gray and it was tied up in a very tight bun that seemed to stretch her forehead.

"You must be Sato Mai," the woman said, pouring herself a cup of tea. I took my own sip—it was very bland but it was the most I had to drink in the past hours so I drunk it greedily, uncaring of my manners. The woman took a drink herself and watched me quietly, her eyes unsettling. "How was your trip?"

I set down the cup. "As pleasant as can be expected." Which was putting it lightly—I was traveling in a rickshaw with a rude, leering driver with a tanned back laced with scars and the seats had no cushions to speak of. My back ached slightly as I recalled this memories but I ignored it, taking a more practiced mouthful of my drink.

"I expect this must be quite a change, coming from Kyoto," she said politely. "I hope you’ll find your new home agreeable. I’m aware it’s nothing like a luxurious okiya with maids and cooks at your bidding but I think you’ll be very comfortable."

"Arigato," I replied, bowing again.

"I have a few questions to ask you, if you would sit for a few more minutes," she said before I could rise. "Oh, I am Inoue Megumi. I own this brothel." She set down her cup, stared at me for a few moments, then asked quite frankly and quite abruptly, "Are you a virgin, Mai-san?"

I almost spat out my mouthful of tea, and I stared back at her, my face turning red. Even though I was working at a brothel now…why did this question shock me so much? "I am," I replied, trying to keep my voice smooth and untroubled.

She smiled. "A geisha of your standing, a virgin?"

"I used to be a geisha, Megumi-san," I said quietly, stung by her comment. "Shouldn’t this be good for your business—a virgin in a whorehouse? The men won’t be able to resist."

She smiled again, and it was a very unkind smile. "Yes, well, we’re a very different whorehouse," she retorted, her voice just as subdued as mine. "I’m done with the questions for now," she continued. "I’ll have Wakana-san show you to your room." Megumi stood and made her way over to the door, slid it open, and yelled out, "Wakana!"

"I’m coming, I’m coming," I heard a faint voice reply—there was some shuffling, the sound of feet and cloth swishing against the tatami mats, and then the sound of voices quietly conversing. I kept my eyes trained on the door, and I watched as this Wakana entered the room and stood before me. Dark purple hair that was let down and fell around her exposed shoulders and a dark blue kimono made of the purest silk and an obi dark as night, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life, more so than my mother. Her face was made up slightly to look like a geisha, but her casual stance—one leg bent slightly, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—made her look like the whore that she was. "So you must be this new girl, Mai-san," she said, uncrossing her arms. "I’m Wakana."

"H-Hello…" I was unable to mutter much more, so stunned that I was by this woman’s external beauty.

She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Quite a shy one, aren’t you? Well, don’t worry about that—you spend too much time here and the shyness just kind of melts away. It comes with the job." She beckoned with her hand for me to rise. "Come on, I’ll take you to your room. Megumi-san was kind enough to put your room next to mine, so if you have trouble, you can come to me." Wakana leaned down a little, raised a hand, and I could see the beautiful white tips of her fingers as the sleeve slipped back. "The other girls here, they’re just whores. Me? I’ve been here since I was sixteen, I’ve fucked many men and I’ve liked it and made it fun, unlike these women who just spread their legs because they want the money. Don’t listen to a word they say." She leaned back, smiled, and turned around, beckoning once more with a pale, slender finger. I shuffled to my feet and followed her, my hands clasped in front of me and my head bowed, my eyes trained on the long, trailing skirt of her kimono.

"So you used to be a geiko?" Wakana asked, making a sudden turn—I stumbled over my own feet trying to follow her. "I used to want to be one. I wasn’t very good at being what they wanted me to be, though—polite and ready to serve. I can barely pluck out a tune on a shamisen."

"O-oh…hai, I was, until my mother died," I told her.

"Here’s your room," she said, sliding open the door. My belongings—my kimono, make-up, jewelry, books, and calligraphy—were all folded and stacked neatly on the futon. I entered, while Wakana stayed behind and leaned on the doorframe. "You’re going to have to start dressing less, if you ever want to attract any costumers," she said dryly before she slid the door shut to give me some privacy. I took out the boxes that held my kimono, slid them into the cupboards that were available, then took my books and aligned them carefully on the shelf—just one, tiny, but big enough. I hung my scrolls, on which I had painted and written poetry, upon the bare walls. When I had finished I stepped in the middle of my little room and admired what I had done.

I went towards the mirror and saw my reflection staring back at me—scared black eyes, hair unkempt from the long rickshaw ride, skin pale and wane with worry. I was no beautiful geisha—now, I was a whore. I looked down at my kimono, saw that my obi was still tied in the back.

With a sigh, I untied it then swiftly rearranged it until my bow faced the front. Wakana’s words flashed through my mind, and with curious hands I pulled the shoulders of my kimono down until my collarbone showed, then made sure my legs would poke out when I walked. But she was right—I was wearing too much, and it was difficult to achieve these things.

Now, I was playing the part—but that wouldn’t be enough. I was a relatively attractive woman, a virgin, and foreign with a different accent. It wouldn’t be long until I would have to show a body that had been concealed behind thick kimono to a stranger.

It was a terrifying thought; my hands started to shake and to distract myself I began to brush my hair until it was somewhat back in order. I took a deep sigh, then once I was calm enough I set the brush down.

Then put my head in my hands and grieved for what I had lost.

I’d still like to know what’s historically incorrect, but please be gentle with me. K.M. Warth’s chapter is next.