I had, in fact, heard of love hotels. They were places for short-stay sex, useful in a country where privacy was hard to find. If the Fifteen Love was a love hotel, we’d crossed some threshold I wasn’t aware of. Momo tugged me through the door into a lobby that reminded me of a McDonald’s back home. A grid of illuminated pictures covered one wall, each with a name and a price. But they weren’t pictures of donuts and coffees.
And there was nobody to take your order, only a neatly lettered, framed sign. It said, The visitor who cannot speak Japanese withholds entrance into a room. I am sorry.
“Never mind that,” Momo said. “You are with me. You like this one?” She pointed to an image of pink and fluffiness, a roomful of stuffed toys and mirrors. Hello Kitty, the label said. A life-size stuffed cat wore a leather garter belt. “Maybe not,” I said. The next one was Disney-themed, with a leering Mickey Mouse painted on the ceiling. Next was the Bad Girl room. It featured a mini classroom with table, school desk, blackboard and a convenient bed for naps. A pair of leather wrist restraints hung from crossed wooden beams.
“Occupied,” said Momo, pointing to a small red light in one corner of the display. “Very popular, I think.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m kind of a traditionalist,” I said. My mental image of what those businessmen on the trains were dreaming about was getting rapidly revised. “How about this one?” I pointed to a room where two walls were covered by immense blowups of traditional Japanese erotic woodblock prints. The couples were in postures that looked more like yoga poses than sex, but at least they were managing without handcuffs. “I always liked the classics,” I said.
Momo punched Rest on the screen. “Room is open now,” she said. “We pay later.” I followed her down a soothingly lit hallway to the elevator. Next to it was another lighted display, this one of women’s costumes. There were dozens of them, each model smiling cheerfully. Schoolgirl, nurse, flight attendant, office worker. One young lady beamed from inside a full kimono. The only flesh visible was her face and hands.
“We don’t need,” said Momo. She pulled me into the elevator, and we headed up toward my first date in Japan.
As dates go, my “rest” in the Fifteen Love with Momo went quickly to the top of an admittedly modest heap. For one thing, there was no tiptoeing around the issue of sex. We were surrounded by life-size images of sixteenth-century Japanese maidens being ravished by men with their hair in a topknot. A couple of them were doing it in a wooden hot tub. We weren’t expected to disappoint them.
For another thing, sex for Momo seemed perfectly natural. The Fifteen Love had its own version of the samurai’s hot tub, with jets, bubbles, black lights and a shelf of lotions and oils. Momo had a rare ability to communicate exactly what she wanted from me, to ask me what I liked and to make both happen. She gave me hints and giggled when I took them. After two hours under the watchful eye of the couples on the walls, thoughts of yakuza and dead brothers had been obliterated. I was tired, happy and hungry.
“We still have to pay,” Momo said. We were both dressed again. I felt out of place amid the tangled sheets and the still-churning hot tub. “Watch.” Momo unscrewed the top of a metal tube that curved out of the electronic command center near the head of the bed. She inserted a roll of banknotes, recapped the tube and pushed a button. There was a whoosh. “Old style,” she said. “Very Japanese.” Another whoosh, a faint ding and Momo unscrewed the top again and extracted a single bill. “Change,” she said.
I’d heard that Japan was a society where discretion was what kept millions of people from rubbing each other raw. Now I knew what discretion was. The door clunked electronically open. We’d been locked in the whole time.
“I’m hungry,” Momo said.
“I know a place,” I said. We rode the elevator down and walked back up the narrow street. It was still all systems go in the bars and clubs and restaurants. Momo clung to my arm, and I tried to keep my feet on the ground. Somehow we navigated back to the little restaurant where I’d left a grilled mackerel half eaten two hours earlier. We ordered the same, this time with pork dumplings that exploded in my mouth and battered octopus balls with mustard. The hot sake had bits of grilled fish fin floating in it. It tasted smoky and superb, and I got quickly drunk. We wolfed the food and gave ourselves over to the smells and shouts of a Japanese tavern in full swing.
Finally, Momo folded her paper napkin into a wedge. She rested her chopsticks across it. Then she took my elbow in both hands. She leaned into my shoulder and spoke into my sauce-spattered shirt. I had to lower my head to hear her.
“Can I ask question?” she said.