I woke with a feeling of dread that invaded my entire being. All night I had been plagued by nightmares of rape and men with leering, beady eyes groping at my body—because of this my body was covered with an uncomfortable cold sweat and my limbs ached from my constant rolling about. I sat up slowly and put a hand to my forehead to feel that it was hot, and I sighed. There was the feeble hope that maybe in my current state Megumi-san would let me sleep through the day, but I know that there was no pity for whores. Living in Kyoto all my life, moving about those busy streets I had been fascinated by those women wearing the kimono much like what my mother wore, but I felt sad seeing them. Trapped behind those bars, reaching out at passing men, cooing and screeching. I felt sorry for them.

Now, I was one of them. Today I would be behind those bars.

I got up carefully and folded the sheets back on my futon, then shed myself of my sleeping robe and stood naked, shivering, and saw my image in the mirror. I had a skinny body with slight curves and almost no breasts to speak of—I had the body of a teenage girl with the face of a woman attached to it. Naked I looked so awkward and vulnerable, and I hated it, so I quickly fetched the kimono I had laid out for myself. By instinct I began to tie my obi in the back but I hesitated, remembering my position, then I sighed and slid it to the front. I sat in front of the mirror and did my make-up slowly and meticulously, added just a tiny bit of powder, just a bit of red to my lips, just a bit of black around my eyes. I had one asset as a whore and it would be my face, so I worked to bring out it out and make it noticeable. My life could perhaps depend on how many costumers I managed to snag.

Once I was done, I stood up and smoothed my hands down my thighs, getting rid of any creases that had managed to get in the silk, then I thought how ridiculous it was that I was worrying about wrinkles in my kimono when it would get wrinkled anyway, when some sweaty old man with big hands would tear it off my legs to get between them.

I winced, never having had such a vulgar thought before, and I went to the door and slid it open. I jumped upon noticing that Wakana-san was waiting for me, leaning against the wall opposite me with her arms crossed. She wearing a kimono black as night with a gold and red obi, and her breasts were almost exposed from the way she let the shoulders of her kimono slip. I blushed upon seeing it and immediately looked over her shoulder.

"You take a very long time to get ready, geisha," she sneered, unfolding her arms and standing up straight. "Megumi told me to come and show you where we work." She almost spat the word out. "Follow me." She started to walk, and I hurriedly slid the door shut behind me and shuffled after her. I hadn’t even bothered to put my hair up into any elaborate hairstyle, so it simply hung down my back at its full length, which reached almost the top of my thighs—it felt odd to have it swishing against the nape of my neck and my back as I rushed after Wakana-san. She had such long legs!

She opened a door and stepped in, and I followed. Many girls were already there, picking at their teeth, stretching their legs out in front of them—one woman was napping on the lap of another, her pink mouth open and her soft breathing accompanying the quiet chattering in the room. Not a soul glanced up to look at me, for which I was grateful; Wakana-san immediately went to sit down near the bars that looked out onto the dirty street, and I followed her, having no where else to go. "I’m not your mother, girly," she laughed, but it wasn’t mean-spirited, and she lowered herself gracefully, her ebony-colored kimono pooling around her. I could see the geisha in her, the way she folded her legs underneath her carefully. She still seemed vulgar, somehow, even with her simple and elegant posture. I sat myself down next to her and stared out at the scene before me—no men stopped yet, so I had to assume that perhaps there was a certain time the brothel opened. It was so dark I had to wonder how long I slept, so I turned to Wakana-san and asked. "Most of the day. I’m guessing you had an exhausting trip, in this horrid weather." She sniffed. "Look at them, huddled over there, standing in horse shit. They’re waiting to come over here and fuck us. They’re so disgusting."

I looked at where she was glaring and saw three men leering over at us, their dirty faces stretching in lewd grins and their hands waving and gesturing. I could feel my blood run cold and I looked away quickly, which made them laugh. "Don’t let it get to you, geiko girl," Wakana-san whispered next to me. "They love the new girls. You won’t be sleeping alone tonight."

I had nothing to say and merely lowered my eyes down to my lap.

"You’re not saying much," Wakana-san observed, titling her head to the side and narrowing her eyes at me. "You want to get money you’ve got to lose your high and mighty act and bring yourself down to our level. Eventually you’ll learn that you’ve got to reach out there and grab anyone that passes by. You’ve got to beg for them to screw you. You sleep alone every night and Megumi will kick you out onto the streets and what’ll happen to you then?"

"I’m sorry," I whispered.

"Shut up," she said calmly. "The men will start to come up here in a few minutes, once Megumi comes and tells us to get our lazy asses up and go to the front."

As if she were summoned, Megumi-san came in the room, her smooth face slight creased with her frown. The girl sleeping was awoken by her friend with a slap on the cheek, and everyone straightened and looked at Megumi. "Must I always come and tell you when to begin?" she said in the same cold voice I heard yesterday. "You know what time to start. You don’t need me to come and make you move, you stupid whores."

With some slight grumbling a few girls moved towards us, and Wakana turned away from the scene and immediately transformed into the whore she was—she reached out with a long, slender arm and crooned at the men she had been insulting earlier, curling a finger at them and beckoning them to come towards her. One did, and when he came close I was overwhelmed by the stench of him—he smelled of urine and grime, but Wakana reached out and took his hand and smiled at him as if he were the most beautiful creature in Japan. I was so fascinated by this that I did not notice the other males coming up and howling at me. I turned reluctantly to face them, and I tried to copy Wakana-san. I reached out with my arm and touched the shoulder of the cleanest one I could find, and when he turned to look at me I smiled my best smile and lowered my eyelids to create a sultry kind of look. The man grinned and faced me fully, leaned forward so that I could see his yellowing teeth and the creases on his face. I wanted to flinch away from the smell and his closeness but I forced myself to stay where I was. "Hello," I cooed, grabbing his hand and dragging him closer. He laughed at my fake-eagerness, and grinned a toothy grin at me.

"You’re a new girl?" he asked me, and I smiled at him again, forcing myself to scoot closer and my thumb began to stroke his knuckles slowly.

"News travels fast," I replied.

"You’re very pretty," he told me, taking a long drag of his tobacco pipe, and I stared as his disgusting lips closed around the wood—I knew that soon those lips would be on my body, my breasts, my mouth, and I visibly shuddered. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Wakana-san had stood and was about to exit the room, but on impulse I grabbed her sleeve to keep her where she was.

"What are you doing?" she hissed at me. "I have a costumer. I have to go."

"W-what do I do?" I stammered, but she pulled away and glared at me sharply, then left me alone with the man who was moving to hand me the pipe. I had seen this happen before on my adventures when I was a child, and had wondered what it meant. I took the pipe from him gently, and, staring at him with wide eyes all the while, I inhaled. I automatically coughed, because it burned my lungs and the man laughed at me. I hastily handed it back as if it held a curse.

"What’s your name, pretty?" he inquired.

"M-Mai," I said, still calming down.

"Ah, dance," he said, and laughed. It was a response that I always got from men, when I was a little girl, a maiko, and a geisha. Even now, it seemed. I could never escape who I was.

A few minutes later I was walking down the hallway to my room, and I was completely surrounded by the laughs, groans, and grunts of men and women in their separate rooms, and I started to shiver—the hallway seemed to go on for forever as I went to my first costumer, that disgusting, smirking male with the dirty clothes. I felt the urge to vomit, and nearly did so; I supported myself on the wall, raising a hand to cover my mouth. I breathed deeply to calm myself. Just do it, I thought. Just put on your paper smile and lie still. I straightened and entered my room. The man was sitting there, sipping a cup of sake. When he saw me, he put it down and motioned for me to come forward to him, which I did. He kneeled in front of me and began to untie my obi, and I looked over the top of his head and examined the calligraphy that I had slaved over in my spare time, the art I had been praised for. I felt his hands, hot and coarse on my thighs, his head pressed in between my legs. I closed my eyes when I felt his tongue reach out, and a shudder of disgust rolled through me. He must have taken it for pleasure, though, because his tongue started to roll around. I put my hands on his head and ran my fingers through his greasy hair—he must have liked this for he began to purr, almost.

He pushed me down onto the futon, and I let myself fall. He crawled over me and peeled the kimono off my body as if I was some prized treasure, and his mouth went down to my breasts, and his lips closed over one of my nipples and he suckled. I lay silent and still, squirming occasionally to give him the illusion that I was enjoying his ministrations—when he bit down suddenly on my breast I gasped aloud and tried to move away from him but his hands gripped my hips to secure my body to his. I could feel the bulge of his arousal against my thigh, and I moved slowly against it; he shuddered and groaned, and I stared up at him in disgust and amazement. Just one simple touch like that and he had to pause and grit his teeth?

"Fuck, you stupid whore," he hissed at me, tugging down his pants, and his erection sprang out. I wanted to look away from it so badly but out of morbid curiosity my eyes stayed on it. It stood so proudly, and looked so…out of place, so odd! I had seen them in paintings and read about them, of course, as any teenage girl had, but seeing one in the flesh was an entirely different experience. It looked big and it frightened me—stories from other geisha about their first night with their danna, or their first boyfriend, the pain, the blood. It all flashed through my mind, and I tried to scramble away again by instinct, but he grabbed me and spread my legs apart. Without warning he shoved himself inside of me completely. I felt like I was being cut open with a dull knife, and I flinched and yelped. He was going wild, thrusting in and out without even looking at me, making these terrifying animal noises—I began to cry in response to my fear and the pain down between my thighs.

He shuddered with his release and I felt his warmth spill into me—for a moment he just hovered over me panting, until he noticed the blood that stained the sheets of the futon that I was resting on. "Virgin?" he whispered the word as if it were some kind of curse, and I let out a shaky "yes".

He let out a huge laugh and stood up, pulling his pants up over his legs. I stayed still and closed my eyes, unwilling to look at him, unwilling to show the tears that still threatened to spill. "Thanks for the fun, dancing girl," he said, then left.

I cried. Sobbed is a better word. I felt his dirty lips all over me and I had the intense, desperate urge to drown myself to wash away the feeling of it all. I curled up to try and ease the throbbing between my legs. Eventually my tears slowed and I forced myself to stand and tie my kimono back together. I wiped away the wet tracks that fell down my cheeks, and, not even bothering to straighten my hair, I slid open the door to my room. I stood for a minute, breathing deeply to calm myself—I nearly cried out when I heard a banging noise near me. I paused, listened, and another one came—from Wakana’s room. Surely she must have been done with her costumer by now? I hesitated, then crept towards her room and opened the door just a crack. I was about to back away until I heard a groan, which stopped me. The voice was familiar, and it was not Wakana’s own soprano voice—it was distinctly male. I peeked in again, drawn by my own curiosity, and I tried hard not to scream.

Wakana was kicking my costumer in the side viciously as he groaned his protests—his clothes were soaked with blood and the tatami mats, so beautiful before, were now dyed crimson. I could see Wakana’s hand, her white skin dotted with red blood, the hem of her black kimono drenched with liquid. "Stupid bastard," she hissed at the man. "Stupid, evil bastard." She leaned down close to him, and he tried vainly to scoot away but she reached over and grabbed a fistful of his filthy hair and secured him to where he was. Wakana held up a small knife, stained with red, and smiled sweetly at the man as he began to hyperventilate, begging her for mercy. She almost lovingly ran the tip of the knife down his cheek, a small line of blood following the knife’s wake, and without warning she swiped it across his throat. I covered my eyes, unable to watch anymore, and I could hear the man gurgle as he choked on his own blood.

"Mai?"

Wakana.

I lowered my hands from my face to look at her, and I felt as if I were about to faint. Her beautiful face was speckled with blood, the knife was clutched loosely in her hand, her black eyes narrow and angry. "What the hell," she whispered, "are you doing here?"

I didn’t deem her with a reply—I stood and began to run, ignoring her voice calling my name. I ran and ran and ran—I had no idea where I was going but eventually I ended up in a little garden that was completely abandoned. I collapsed near a little pond and watched the fish swim about gaily, and I felt the tears spring up. I did not try to stop them, and I let them fall freely. My body was shaking uncontrollably—I could feel the blood on me, on my face, in my hair, in my mouth…

I turned away from the pond and vomited into the bushes violently until my body was spent and I blacked out.