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Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Okane Club

Okane Club
Far from the wistful ambiance of a buddhist garden with its intricate horticultural serenity or the snow-kissed mountains of pagodas dressed in cherry blossoms, I was assaulted by a caffeinated metropolis bent on out- Westing the West.
I was shuttled to the Airwait Hotel at Tokyo International where I stored my gear, showered, ironed my finest suit, put a fresh polish of shine on my shoes, wet my body with a gorgeous fragrance, and hailed a cab. I must have looked like a million yen!
I jumped in the backseat, “Jazz... party...get high... marijuana... take me!”
“Marifauna?” “Yes, take me!” The driver turned around inspectingly then sped off. Little did I know but marijuana was ultra-taboo in Japan. During the Buccaneer days the British Empire imported boat loads of
both opium and marijuana to Hong Kong as a gift of welcome, providing the perfect conditions for conquering the lands just as the party was getting started. Still, every demand automatically produces a supplier.
We drove at breakneck speed through the garishly glowing neon of downtown Tokyo. The city seemed to be wearing a petitely gaudy halloween costume of New York City with three times the populous. People atop of people blending into yet more people.
The driver took a few back alleys where the stench of meat markets ruined my previously acute appetite.
We stopped outside a black brick building, the driver ran up to some distinguished yet dangerous looking gentlemen in tuxedos. They gave me that same glance of inspection while speaking to each other in deep abrupt rumbles of dialogue.
One of the penguins knocked on the door, another tux motioned me in.
In broken English my host welcomed me to the Okane Club. Okane means money and that was an apt description. The club was an ultra-exclusive joint run by the Japanese mafia, the Yakuza
My feet sunk gently into a deep paisley carpet, which seemed to be massaging my feet. Suddenly I found myself in the height of Western opulence with an all-Asian cast.
Like an outlandish and very expensive halloween replica of the finest five-star restaurants in Manhattan, the place was elaborate beyond elaborate. It was a labyrinth of every decadent delight only the fabulously wealthy could conceive, let alone birth.
The first layer was a majestically appointed French-style restaurant with dim lighting, white linens, and an arsenal of a wine list. Leather bound menus, big and luxurious as a coffee table book, rested under the arms of a small army of impeccable servers in immaculate black and white who behaved as if catering to your every whim was the sole purpose for their existence.
As I was ushered in, I noticed a whirl of whispers greeting me with an excited curiosity, “Tony Tawny? Tony Tawny!”
Tony Tawny was a famous actor of Japanese and African-American extraction whom I evidently resembled. So these sublimely coutured Asian ladies began nudging each other, eyeing me with unabashed sensuality.
I was totally in my element.
This section gave way to an ascending spiral staircase where a dance floor as hip as anything in Harlem awaited you with a fully-loaded bar for jet fuel.
On the bandstand, a jazz combo was blazing. To the rear, in the depths of smoke, was another enchanting layer.
Here, I witnessed the classical mythology of Japan. The tea ceremony of Sado was enacted on a polished tatami floor of amber. Ornately intricate kimonos adorned the geishas, who resembled tranquil female ghosts to me. They served the men tea as well as hot sake.
Only now did I really feel like I was in the Orient. The rhythms of jazz were but a forgotten hum behind the softly cascading fountains of water which disoriented me into feeling like I was visiting a Shaolin temple.
My host gingerly stopped against the back wall, knocked, and gave me an approving grin.
The door opened to a pharmaceutical everafter. The room was occupied by small groups seated on futons each supplied with a water pipe and a bowl of hash, opiates, marijuana, and anything else under the sun.
I thanked my host as he seated me to my own personal cubicle. I refused the opium and hash but joyously indulged in the marifauna.
After satisfying my jones, I walked back down to the bar area with an appetite to rival Godzilla.
The entire time businessmen and charming little starlets were receiving me like I was Tom Cruise or Tony Tawny or Orion Roberts.
One of the geishas handed me a huge leather bound menu, thankfully written in English. Another gave me a gentle hot towel service. Everyone had their own personal iron chef who stir-fried opulent delicacies to your specifications.
I ate like a king then returned to my little cubicle where a never- ending supply of enlightenment was waiting. I could of danced atop Mt. Fuji I was so high.
I was then introduced to my escort for the evening. I don’t believe in no religion but maybe I’ve ended up in some sort of sensual hereafter. A delicately exotic creature stood before me. She resembled the achingly beautiful Chinese actress Ziyi Zhang in her boundless yet youth sensuality.
Evidently she’d been specially selected for me and I did not hide my satisfaction. The tuxedo cats looked at each other happily and grunted to each other in a flurry of Japanese.
These tuxedo cats were some ultra-macho dudes. They reminded me of some Italian cats I’d met in New York.
I was their royal guest. My manner, good breeding, or maybe just good luck, had impressed them. They were going to show me the time of my life.
I communicated the best I could. If they spoke English (probably so) they spoke very little to me.
Ziyi took my hand, escorting me to the jazz level of the establishment. Here was a very refined creature who moved in graceful fluidity, like smoke. She must have been groomed from girlhood as a courtesan. Her response to the most subtle of my whims was that impressive.
Her anticipation was impeccable - she’d pour my drinks as soon as I thought about. We spoke not one word to each other, wasn’t necessary. We related on a completely sensual frequency. Like one of my fabulous babes in the city she held her own with me on the dance floor. Eventually, she made it quite evident she wanted me all to herself.
She escorted me to yet another level, where a king-size bed, plush and crimson, awaited.
There we completely exhausted one another.
When I awoke I found a new suit hung against the wall. On cue, she came in, looking just as staggeringly beautiful as she did the night before. She dressed me (the suit fit me perfectly) and we walked outside to catch a cab.
I hadn’t spent a dime on anything, this was cart blanche treatment.
She took me to one of the famous Japanese bathhouses. Never have I seen such uninhibited folks.
This was a unisex place, both men and women together stark naked. Women bathing women, women bathing men, men bathing each other.
Even though I witnessed no copulation, no one was hiding their pleasure and no one was shy. Each human body was an extraordinary phenomena to be treasured with admiration and touch. In fact, it was common for folks to pause their eyes on each others’ privates without embarrassment between them.
So when Ms. Zhang and I disrobed and walked through I heard all the curious whispers of “Tony Tawny?” in addition to the delighted exclamations of “Okee Chimpo!”
Chimpo means penis, okee means big. Women and even some men pointed at it in fascination.
My escort lowered me into a lusciously warm and sunken tub. She bathed me, massaged me, kissed me, bit me, massaged me, and washed me all over. It was rapturous. I’d completely lost myself in the expertise of her tender affection.
That night the Okane Club again opened its diamond encrusted arms and hosted me to another Dyanisian escapade of pleasures.
At last I had a plane to catch. I bid my escort ado, exchanged my appreciation to the gangsters, starlets, tuxedos, and the filthy rich of Tokyo.
The same driver that brought me here shuttled me back to my hotel, from there I was off to Okinawa.

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