The Golden Boys of Kobe



I knew they were trouble as soon as they walked out of the theatre--there were three of them, three Asian businessmen wearing nice suits, looking like they had just come in on a whim after downing a few at the nearest martini lounge.

I sat in my booth and watched them laugh and stumble down the hallway until they caught sight of me, sitting in a pair of trashy cut-off jeans and an obscenely cropped gingham top, which revealed just the hint of bare breasts at the bottom. I stood up in my seven inchers and twirled one of my pigtails with my finger, flashing them a devilish grin. They all stopped and stared up at me.

The one in the middle was noticeably taller than the other two. He was strikingly handsome and stylish . . . c o o l. He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and promptly lit up. He took a hit and leaned back--giving me a long, hard look and then exhaled, as he nodded.

The one on the right was short and round with plump red cheeks. He seemed the shyest of the bunch--not able to look me in the eye.

The one to my left had on round glasses and wore a serious look. I sensed he was the leader of the group. After a couple of minutes of them standing in the hallway, sizing me up, the one with the glasses finally came into my booth. I picked up my phone and peeked through the crack in the shade, trying to get his attention. He finally spied me and his mouth formed a slight smile. I showed him my phone and pointed to where his phone was, and said, “Pick up!”

He picked up the phone but didn’t say anything.

“Hi, baby,” I purred. “Ever been to a place like this before?”

“No,” he said. His accent was thick.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Kobe,” he said. “How much?” he asked.

“20 for nude,” I said.

“OK,” he said. He opended the door and waved in his friends.

The other two filed in fast and the tall one closed the door behind him. He then pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a twenty, which he promptly stuck into the machine. I closed the shade to the hallway and picked up the phone again. I said, “I mean twenty for one of you.” I pointed to the guy in the glasses and he looked at me like he didn't understand. “Twenty for me and you, baby. Only one person in the booth at a time or I could lose my job,” I said.

They all smiled and the guy in the glasses replied: “We like to watch all together.”

“Are you guys gay?” I asked.

They smiled blankly.

“Are you guys going to get it on?” I asked.

They looked at each other and started to laugh.

“No, we like you,” said the guy in the glasses.

It was well past midnight and the management had long been gone. The only clerk working was Keith and he didn’t give a fuck what we did. He was much too busy watching porn, which played on a t.v. mounted below the front counter. My biggest worry was the janitor. He was an old fart named Hank and he was a regular ballbreaker--mad at the world for having to come out of retirement because his wife ran off with all his money with that "fuckin' neeegro" down the street. He hated this place . . . the whores who worked here and the pervs he had to clean up after. We would surely all be fucked if he caught sight of eight feet underneath the booth door. But fate had been set. The money was in the machine and the time was ticking off the clock and these lonely guys were hungry for a show . . . although for $20.00, they weren't gettin' much.

I did a little striptease down to my g-string and pressed my pink tits against the glass. They all moved closer to the window, but none of them took it out. When the time was coming to an end, the one with the glasses pointed to my g-string.

“You want me to take this off?” I asked. They all shook their heads vigorously.

I slowly took off the g-string and crawled around the floor of the booth like a sex cat, pausing here and there to flash them some more pink. The short and round one in the middle spied the time. He started searching my booth, anticipating what I might whip out for the grand finale. When nothing happened, he asked,"You like toys?”

“Mmmm. . . I love them, baby,” I said. "But toys are extra."

The shade started to go down.

There was a long pause behind the closed shade. I heard a voice pipe up: “You pee?”

I wasn't sure if I heard right. “Do I pee?” I asked.

“Yeah, how much for that?”

I thought for a moment. I had always tried to avoid these type of shows in the past, but it wasn’t because I had thought it was gross or dirty, which I don’t (unlike defecating on someone), but it was more about the fear and anxiety of going to the bathroom under the microscope.

I figured the worst that could happen is nothing would come out or that I’d panic and stream a puddle onto the floor, both of which would be relatively easy to explain away. Besides, money and circumstance often trump ones will and it just seemed to fit that night that I would pee for them. It was like I was a pre-ordained player in a scene from a David Lynch movie, and they were my casting agents. It was practically theatre . . . art, baby.

“Yeah, I’ll pee for you,” I said. “But it’s gonna cost you sixty.”

There was more talking and I had to restrain myself from the sudden impulse to cry out, “Torah! Torah! Torah!”

I peeked through the crack in the shade again. The guy with the glasses took out the money, who then handed it to the guy in the middle, who then handed it to the guy at the end, who then pumped it into the machine. The shade went back up and the time started counting down. I looked around the booth, forgetting I needed something to pee in. I had left my mason jar at home that day, much to my sudden annoyance.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping out of the booth. I ran into the bathroom praying to God that the clear glass vase was still under the sink (“Dear God, I know I don’t go to church much and all, and make fun of all your fundie followers, but please, do me a favor and make sure this vase is there so I can pee in it in front of three Japanese men? Thank you, God. It’s me, Pagan.”).

The girls kept the vase under the sink, just in case . . . just in case of a pee show emergency. It was the perfect standing feminine peeing receptacle, practically designed for such purposes with a wide opening at the top and a long, clear shaft for optimum voyeuristic viewing. Plus, the tank at the bottom was ample.

I flipped on the light and bent over, and to my utter delight it was there. There was no time to check its cleanliness--I clutched it and ran. I was certain I had heard that urine was sterile, anyway, and that babies consume their own urine in the womb . . . or maybe I had misunderstood. Maybe it was only sterile for a short while after its initial release from the body.

Either way, I jumped back into my booth with the vase and the trio greeted me with a smile. They watched in amazement as I carefully placed the vase in the middle of the booth. They were entranced as if watching a magic show-- their eyes large, their mouths agape. I had some time to kill while I summoned the flow, so I danced around the vase feeling more like an Indian summoning the rains.

When the time clicked down to a couple of minutes, I gingerly squatted over the vase and raised myself with one arm. I used my free hand to spread my smooth lips and pulled back a little, aiming my urethra while simultaneously sticking out my clit like a tiny penis. I aimed and relaxed. I guess the dance had worked because the golden stream, weak at first, eventually blossomed and made its sustained way into its chosen destination.

Toward the end, the stream morphed into a dribble. I bounced over the vase a couple of times to shed the last droplets and then wiped my pussy clean with a baby wipe. The trio stood in silence as the shade fell. “Thanks,” I said, putting on my robe. “You guys were fun.”

One of them asked through the closed shade: “Do we get to keep it?”

“Keep what?” I asked.

“We keep pee?”

“You want the pee?”

“Yes. We want the pee. Please. Pee, please. We want your pee-pee, please.”

Well, he was being polite.

“If you want the pee, it’s gonna cost you more.”

“How much?” he asked.

“Fifty?” How much was pee going for these days? Maybe I shoulda looked that one up on the net first. See what the going rate was.

“OK,” he said.

Damn! I could have got a hundred, I thought. “Meet me at the back door,” I said. “It’s the one right next to the theatre entrance.”

“OK,” he said.

I jumped out of the booth and scrambled to find something to pour the pee in. I found a large McDonald’s drink cup in the corner, complete with straw and lid, and decided to use it. I emptied the vase into the cup as carefully and quickly as I could. Aside from a small pelt of urine on my arm, it went pretty well.

I opened the back door and the three men were standing there smiling. I handed the McDonalds cup to the man with the glasses and he handed me the cash. “Don’t drink it all in one place, baby,” I said.

He nodded politely.

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