Seattle – 1993

That new something that is stirring in me is my vulnerability. This woman may be naked, but there is no teasing, nothing sexual coming from her. She is certainly not doing what I and most clients pay for.

I am the only one really exposed and I now just give myself over to it.

The funk of "Can't Get Next To You" slides into the swinging B-3, horn section, strings, guitar changes of "Take Me To The River" and she watches me with a new intensity, but still anchored by her arms to the frame, grey/blue irises locked on mine.

She has a job where she watches guys void their ball sacks all day long. Yet, here she is playing voyeur with me as though she has never seen it before.

Something about her disconnection is spurring me on, I hook a finger into my lorum and start pulling hard on my shaft and balls, on the verge of coming but now needing her to allow it.

She smiles and nods her head in "Yes", and I begin ejaculating all over my belly and chest.

Al and the band aren't done yet and she drops her hands from the frame and begins dancing, backing into her room. She is smiling and still watching me as I clean myself up with the paper towels and pull up my pants.

It's not stripper dancing, almost hippie dancing, just enjoying herself, the job over. Halfway through buttoning my shirt, the window slides shut.

I feel a loss and immediately think about getting some more tokens and............... and what? See if she will come back out? Invite her to dinner? Dude, you are in a whack booth for fuck's sake.

She is a stripper, maybe a hooker. I am a john, a mark. And while this was unique for me, maybe that WAS her playbook and I just got played.

What the hell am I thinking?

While it does remain a secret pleasure on my part, I have never been embarrassed about attending peep shows. I am now.

I have easily shoved the obvious sexism of this behavior aside for years. I cannot tonight.

I have never left wanting anything beyond the sexual release that I usually leave on the floor or in the rubbish bin. Tonight I feel a bit empty and lost, not sure what I want, but know that I lack something.

Seriously disoriented, I walk out of the booth. I am more than mildly disgusted with myself for the first time in this environment. The bucket man and security guy both give me a nod and a weird look as most of my fellow denizens are in and out in 10 or 15 minutes. I just spent 40 minutes in there.

I push my way into the summer afternoon, blinded after the dank dark of the Lusty Lady.

Turning left, I head up to the Pike Place Market. When in Seattle, I always stop and visit Left Bank Books. It's a habit that I have been keeping up for nearly 20 years. About as long as I have been attending peep shows.

The store is filled with quirky content and takes me back to an era when we thought we were going to change the world and before book purveyors were chain stores.

I burn about an hour in the store, leafing through a variety of periodicals from around the world. I peruse some new authors, finding nothing that resonates. They also have a great used book selection, but I don't find anything to purchase.

It looks like Abbey will suffice for tonight and I decide to find a sushi bar and dive back into the fantasy of bringing about ecological justice using high explosives.

The Monkey Wrench Gang was a favorite of mine when published in '75, even if I had abandoned my revolutionary thinking several years prior.

I am enjoying re-acquainting myself with Bonnie Abbzug, Seldom Seen Smith and Doc Sarvis, as quirky a trio as any author has ever conjured up.

Pike Place Market began as a spot that farmers and fishermen could sell their produce and catch. So it's a logical place for a sushi restaurant and there are two to choose from.

It's just past 7:00PM, still a bit early. But since sushi bars can get noisy quickly, I ask to be seated at the far end, where the bar terminates against a wall.

The hostess seats me, asking if I bought the book at Left Bank, saying it is her favorite book store. She is an impressive woman. No taller than 5' 5", she commands a unique presence, her muscular arms are fully sleeved with what looks like real irezumi, legitimate horimono, and I wonder where it was done.

Even with vascular forearms and chiseled biceps, her figure is feminine and full. She has shoulder length bobbed hair with a blue streak died into her auburn tresses. She has 0 gauge tunnels in her lobes, and an 8 gauge horseshoe nose ring. She is an intimidating, self possessed woman.

I can see in her eyes that she is wondering what the hell a guy dressed like me is doing reading Abbey and coming to HER sushi bar.

I laugh to myself wondering what she would have thought if she had seen me 90 minutes earlier.

Regardless, Abbey seems to make me okay in her eyes and she actually protects me by seating newcomers at the other end of the bar. It gives me a full 30+ minutes of quiet privacy as the world begins to intrude.

Finally, there is just a single seat left next to me and I hope that there are only couples enroute and I can maintain my buffer zone. I have no interest in striking up a conversation with another solo diner.

Abbey and the gang are doing a great job of distracting me from the personal confusion that I carried out of the Lusty Lady. I will do anything to avoid all that for the time being.

A woman's voice says, "Thanks Ash." as my hostess pal fills the last seat in my buffer zone with a new customer. I rotate a quarter turn away to make it clear I am not looking for contact.

I hear my neighbor greet the itamae by name and place an order for the house specialty roll, and nigiri orders of maguro, sake, hamachi, ebi and tamago.

I note that my orders so far have included the same, except that I spaced out my orders rather than gauchely ordering a pile of sushi. However, tamago is for desert and I have not yet ordered mine. Plus, my buffer zone is gone, so it's time to get out of here.

I turn to our itamae before he heads down the bar and place my tamago order. Intentionally looking over and past the maladroit intruder next to me.

"The Monkey Wrench Gang, now that is a quirky choice in these times" my neighbor remarks.

"Yeah, it is. For me, more than you can imagine." I turn to face her and find myself blinded by a pair of grey/blue irises that flare wide open as her pupils dilate, taking me in as well.

I feel as though I have been punched in my solar plexus, I am having trouble breathing, all my organs are on overload, On the verge of blacking out. I begin hyper ventilating, gasping for air, struggling to get oxygen moving again.

"Shhhhh, shhhhhhhh, it's okay, just breathe." She has one hand on mine and is gently stroking my forearm with the other.

Ash appears. "Hey, Gina what's the matter with him? Should I call an EMT?"

"No, I think he just swallowed the wrong way. He's okay, I got this"

"He sure doesn't look okay and that noise he made freaked out half the restaurant."

Noise? What noise, all I did was almost black out and start hyperventilating.

I gradually regain control of my breathing as my solar plexus reboots. My aorta finally gets enough oxygen north of my neck that I no longer feel on the verge of blacking out.

My other organs return to functioning and I begin taking inventory. Apart from a slight tremor still running through me, I seem to be returning to normal.

My chin is in my chest, looking into my lap. I feel exhausted. I pull long breaths into my lungs re-fueling myself.

She stops stroking my arm, but leaves the other hand on top of mine.

Dropping her head almost to the counter, she looks up at me. "Hey, now don't make me a liar. Are you going to be okay?"

I lift my head and she follows suit, we are now facing each other.

"What noise did I make? What was she talking about? I just freaked out when I recognized you."

"Well, actually, you cried out. I don't know what you would call it but it was feral, painful and plenty loud. Then you started gasping for air."

"Thanks for covering for me." I look down at her hand on mine.

I feel like I am about to burst into tears. What the fuck is going on inside me?

"I'm going to order some sake, would you like some?"

"No, I'm a recovering addict, I don't drink. But you go ahead. It's the one liquor that I truly miss, so please, go ahead. I like to watch people enjoy themselves."

There is a huge, stunned pause as we both hear what I just said and extrapolate it into where and how we first "met".

Simultaneously, we both start laughing. Naturally, fully, freely and loudly. The whole restaurant is now on alert for the weird guy with the pretty woman at the end of the bar.

"Oh fuck, who would believe this scenario? What's your name anyway? I'm Gina."

"I'm Tom and I'm embarrassed as hell!"

"You shouldn't be, I am sure you are not the only bourgeois reader of Ed Abbey." She teases. "You do realize that you are in the heartland of the American anarchist uprising, don't you?"

"Gina, you of all people know I may not be what I seem. And thanks for yet another diversion, as you know that's not what I was referring to."

Ash slides in between us to serve Gina her sake. She seems to intentionally block me out as she does so. It's not hostile, but it is protective and I realize there is more to this relationship than hostess / customer. She finishes pouring and walks back to her station by the door.

Lowering her voice, Gina leans a bit closer. "So what were you referring to? That my friend Ash might change her opinion if she saw without your hand made boots and haute couture clothes? With your tattoos and piercings on display? Or that you're a closet exhibitionist and get off being naked in front of others?....... No, let me rephrase: You like getting off in front of others."

"Both I suppose, but I was actually talking about my younger days in particular and how I spend my personal time now. Neither would lead you to a fellow looking like me."

Another sardonic grin from Gina.

"Well, from what I saw of how you spend your personal time, I would say you are correct that you may not be what you seem. Who made that shirt anyway, Hugo Boss?"

"Okay, nice dig! The shirt is Zegna. You have a good fashion eye for a ............."

Shit! I turn beet red and try again...."for a......."

"For a stripper? For a professional coaxer of cocks? For a fisher of semen? You only know what you saw as well. Lusty Lady is not exactly a career move on my part. But I am not ashamed of it either, I just wish I was more comfortable."

"Yeah, 'for a stripper', sorry, that's where I was going."

"Chill, Tom. What else are you going to call me, knowing what you know? So what do you do to earn your living? My Zegna mystery man?"

I notice that she used "my" and while it certainly means nothing, I hold it close as I am beginning to like this woman.

"I put together concerts for corporate events. We are here in Seattle to do a show for Microsoft's annual summit."

"Hai!" The sushi chef presents her with a 'to go' box of her sushi. He also deposits my tamago in front of me.

"Hai, Hontoni arigato gozaimasu" she responds in the simultaneously emphatic but casual form of 'thank you' that only someone who has lived or spent a lot of time in Japan would know.

"I think we may have more than one mystery sitting at this bar."

"Yeah, I thought that might get your attention. Those waves and iso bars on your quads are not from American machine work, are they?"

"Iso bars? Really? No, they are not. Pretty good eye for a fisher of semen!" I am truly more than impressed at this point.

She laughs, and to be completely honest, my heart melts a bit -- she is a delight!

"I lived in Tokyo for three years and while it seemingly took forever, I finally became somewhat fluent for a gaijin. I am going to guess that it was Horiyoshi III, since Horihide and most of the other's wouldn't be accessible to a gaijin like you."

"Okay, you got me. How does a flamed crotch coaxer of cocks know about Japanese horimono masters, when most Japanese don't?"

"You love alliteration don't you?"

"I am just recycling your own witticisms. And trying to impress you."

"Tom, why don't you take your desert, put it in my box and escort me home, where we can finish this conversation."

I don't hesitate for a second. This woman is fun. I wave for the bill and Ash comes over with fire in her eyes and the bill in her hand.

"Ash, it's okay really." Gina stands, pulls her aside and whispers in her ear. Ash laughs and looks back at me again, this time with more of a look of pity. Gina continues and Ash's look changes once more, this time to something I cannot read, but at least it's no longer hostile. Taking my card, she struts back to the register.

"Great, I am guessing that your hostess friend knows your job and how I met you."

"Don't be silly, Ash works there too. For that matter she is my mentor, even though I am a shit student. I just told her I already learned something from you today and thought you might be able to help me a bit more."

I don't even know how to respond. I have no idea what she learned from me and am nonplussed as to what I could do to help her.

Ash returns with my bill, I sign it, leaving a healthy tip as an apology for my outburst. I take my card and hand the plastic folio back to her. "Okay, Mr Thomas Davies." Her eyes bore into me as her nostrils flare around that 8 gauge nose ring............... 'Don't fuck with my friend' is unsaid but clear as a bell.

"Ash, just stop, he's benign." Gina steers me around her protectress and we walk into the Seattle summer dusk.

I'm benign? Wow, I might as well be pathetic. The word means gentle and kind. But it also means harmless in a medical sense. Not exactly how someone who considers himself an Alpha male yearns to be perceived.

"My car is about two blocks away, all uphill." She smiles as we turn left out of the Pike St Market complex.

She is taller than I thought, probably about 5' 10" and has a spirited, long stride -- she gaps me as we head up the hill. She's wearing a light cotton skirt with a batik print blouse, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, intricately wrapped sandals on her feet. Gina might be the visual definition of a casually affluent Wasp woman out shopping, certainly not a dancer at a peep show.

The hair that seemed dull and flat in the lights of the booth, is shining in the waning sunlight, her skin is flushed and radiant. The pony tail bounces as she continues to leave me in her wake.

Catching up to her and trying to catch my breath, I ask where we are heading.

"Why, do you know the Seattle area?"

"No, not really."

"Sorry, that was a bit curt of me. We are heading south, near Brace Point, it's about a 15-20 minute drive, that okay with you? Damn, there I go being abrupt again. It's Tom, right?......... Tom, I suddenly am not sure what we are doing...... and yes, I know I was the one who told you to put your desert in my box............."

We stop in the middle of the sidewalk. The street is steep enough that her position has her eye to eye with me. This woman is quick, empathetic, uniquely erudite on a variety of topics.................. Where the hell did the bored stripper go?

"Look, at this point, I am just along for the ride. To be honest, I have been on my back foot since you stopped "working" and started watching me in the booth. Then, I apparently had a minor meltdown in the restaurant. After that, you told Ash that I had helped you in some way and could possibly do more, and I have no idea what that means. I am as lost as I can be"

"Okay, fair enough. I did not mean to be so presumptuous. From what you have told me about yourself, I'll bet you are in charge all the time and this has to be freaking you out, unless you are just going along because you think you will get laid, which I can assure you is not going to happen."

While not in the forefront of my mind, I have to admit, that fantasy was lurking somewhere -- and she obviously knew it.

"So what is it that I taught you and what can I do to help you?"

"I don't mean to be obtuse, but I am still formulating that for myself as well. AND I am starving. I have not eaten all day and tend toward hypoglycemia. Just come back with me, we should just make the sunset. I'll get some food in my belly and if I can't put my thoughts together by then, I'll just drive you back to your hotel."

The hell with getting laid. I really like this woman, spending an evening talking to her is a fascinating prospect.

"I'm in. Lead on."

We walk another block. At the lot, she greets the attendant by name and he actually throws her the keys from the booth, a good 15' toss. She catches it with a flourish, laughs and tells him she will see him tomorrow. My interest continues to grow as I climb into her vintage, but well maintained Toyota Land Cruiser.

As we head south on Rt 509, she fills me in a bit on herself. After graduating from Bard, she got a job as a copy editor with Conde Nast. She spent most of the 80's in Manhattan being bounced around the CN roster, mostly The New Yorker and Vanity Fair. She even spent some time at Architectural Digest.

Her last years at Vanity Fair, she finally got her own byline and reported her own work rather than polishing that of others.

In 1988, she did an article on the Japanese appetite for all things American with it's focus on American models brought to Japan to model Japanese products to the Japanese public.

It was a combination of a business exposé, an examination of cultural appropriation and a feminist manifesto. It stirred things up a bit on Madison Ave and in Japan.

The multi national ad agency who she wrote about in the article offered her a job, essentially saying, "help us fix it" and included a top tier position and salary to go with it.

She accepted and spent the next three years attempting to do exactly that, overseeing advertising copywriting that was inherently sexist and attempting to alter the misogyny of woman sold products.

While she also wanted to take on the cultural imperialism of using blonde, blue eyed models as aspirational examples for Asian women, she knew that she was on the wrong side of the fence to lead that charge.

Like my time in the vanguard of revolutionary action in the early 70's, she admitted to considerable naivete regarding what she would actually be able to accomplish.

While she felt they were sincere in wanting to be less sexist, less culturally imperialistic, etc. The reality was that money dictates when it comes to fashion, alcohol and the other products they were pimping.

She left there with a comfortable nest egg and an unwillingness to compromise on her next endeavor. That endeavor is to work on her novel and do stringer pieces for magazines that would keep her visible and bring in some money.

As she tells her story, I run the math and realize she is even closer to my age than I originally thought when I had my confessional epiphany. For a moment, I become embarrassed again, but shrug it off quickly. We have moved well beyond that.

We pull into a driveway on a point poking into the southern edge of Puget sound. The point is narrow enough that the only neighbors sit behind her property, closer to the access road. The sense of privacy is amazing considering how close to downtown Seattle we are.

Her "house" is a large block building with an oversize size garage door, and an outside staircase to an upper deck running the width of the house. The lower area has one opaque window and looks like a bunker. I'm guessing it is concrete block at it's core. It is covered with vertical, weathered wood panels laid on each other like the lapstrake hull of a clinker built boat.