Or: “Twenty-six minutes and forty-five seconds of hell”…

Watching Japanese women’s wrestling bouts is certainly enjoyable enough in itself, but to appreciate the true beauty of them, you need also to take on board the bigger picture. For this is not just impromptu brawling: no match stands in isolation, they link with others across time and space in a network of feuds, revenge and drama which would shame many soap operas and in some ways, resembles one directed by Akira Kurosawa. A greater understanding of this hyperviolent jigsaw puzzle can be gained by taking a single bout and trying to unravel some of the threads connected to it. In this case, we’ll take the battle for the WWWA Tag Team Title, in Sapporo on June 18th, 1997.

The fight was a rematch: three weeks previously, in Chiba, Tomoko Watanabe and Kumiko Maekawa had retained the title by beating Las Cachorras Orientals, the duo of Mima Shimoda and Etsuko Mita, after Shimoda was disqualified for bringing a foreign object into the ring. Now, this was a contentious decision, in that previously, such restrictions had been largely ignored. Indeed, extraneous objects are often part of wrestlers’ personas: Aja Kong has her can, Bull Nakano her nunchakus, etc. Admittedly, Shimoda brought in one of the steel guard rails which encircle the ring – not so much a foreign object as a totally alien one.

Glossary

Wrestling has a language all its own –here are a few commonly heard terms:

• Blade v. to cut, with the intention of provoking juice. Usually done surreptitiously, by a ringside attendant, under the guise of ‘assistance’.
• Face n. hero, someone regarded as a good person
• Heel n. villain, a wrestler for whom rules are an unnecessary inconvenience
• Juice 1. n. blood. 2. v. to bleed. May be either legit or produced by blading.
• Legit adj. real, true, honest, natural.
• Pop v. to make noise, usually by the crowd.
• Psych n. the backdrop to a fight: the intensity of the combatants and their interaction. Bruce Lee’s fights always had good psych.
• Sell v. to react to moves, in order to show their effect

The second major angle on this fight was Las Cachorras Orientals conversion to heeldom. Their first outing as bad girls had been the previous night in the same arena, when they took on, and destroyed, Manami Toyota and Toshiyo Yamada. Despite being perhaps the federation’s biggest star, Toyota juiced heavily, thanks to Shimoda wielding a pair of scissors on her scalp, and Las Cachorras also became enthusiastic users of chairs – and not from a relaxing, seat-based point of view. [a demonstration by Las Cachorras of the seat’s potential as an offensive weapon might change the minds of anyone who still thinks wrestling is “fake”. Football hooligans have a lot to learn.] Such extreme behaviour was, no doubt, necessary to get them over as heels, but woe betide their poor opponents – and Las Cachorras didn’t even have any particular reason to hate Toyota and Yamada. With Watanabe and Maekawa, because of what had already happened in Chiba, it would be deeply personal.

The scene was thus set for a spectacularly memorable (from the audience’s view) and painfully messy (from the participants’) event, at the Sapporo Nakajima Sports Centre, before an audience estimated at 3,700 – notably more than the previous night. There were several bouts as warm-up, including a horrible mismatch: Kyoko Inoue and Aja Kong, combined weight: 432 pounds, against Rie Tamada and Yumi Fukawa, combined weight: 255. It didn’t last long. The crowd also saw a severely taped- and gauzed-up Toyota return to the ring, only to juice some more. Then, it was time for the gladiators to enter.

At thirteen stone, Tomoko Watanabe is the Samo Hung of women’s wrestling; solidly built, yet her speed and agility belies her size. In contrast, Kumiko Maekawa is a lean, mean, fighting machine with a crew cut, and the lightest of the four fighters. Compared to these two, Las Cachorras are über-babes: Etsuko Mita is one of the tallest in the business, 5’8″ being well above average height; Mima Shimoda is the prettiest of the lot, but her smile conceals a streak of vindictiveness, now bursting into full bloom.

The bell rings, and Maekawa faces off against Shimoda, kicking away at each other: this is perhaps Maekawa’s area of greatest strength, so Shimoda brings in Mita. She pile-drives Maekawa instead, and has the better of the earlier exchanges, until Watanabe in turn comes in to help her partner. Mita takes badly to this, and hits Watanabe with the first chair of the bout. Time for everyone to meander through the auditorium -­ plenty seat-shaped ammo there – and by the time they return, Watanabe is juicing, and miffed. She tries to bring a chair of her own into the ring; when the referee blocks this, Shimoda kindly gives Watanabe hers – yes, predictably, across the head. Maekawa’s peroxide hair is already looking closer to strawberry blonde as the blood seeps through. Mita attempts to deliver  seat-flavoured justice to Watanabe; she ducks, and Mita biffs her partner instead. A second attempt is more successful, Mita hitting the target as Watanabe prepares to leap off the top rope. However, Watanabe has the last laugh, pinning Shimoda in just over nine minutes.

Phase II sees Maekawa largely on the receiving end. First, Shimoda holds her, allowing Mita free access to her head – open that scalp wound! The bottom rope is slowly loosening, and eventually lies on the ground. Shimoda unties the turnbuckle padding in one corner and tries that as a weapon: brief tests conclusively prove it’s less effective than, oh, kicking Maekawa repeatedly in the head. Maekawa, in the de-padded corner, slumps to the canvas. Given the lack of a bottom rope, this is a bad move: she topples gracefully back, out of the ring, head first onto the floor.

The mats, usually placed round the ring to cushion impacts, are missing for some reason. Maekawa’s skull thus meets solid, bare floor, and she is not happy. Shimoda somersaults off the top rope, down ten feet onto both her opponents – neither look happy – then joins her partner, who is piling chairs up in the middle of the ring, perhaps hoping to save time by dismantling the arena while the fight is still going on. Naturally, this also provides a large pile of scrap to which Maekawa’s back is introduced, and for good measure, a guard rail is thrown on top of her. A hugely pissed-off Maekawa gets on top of Shimoda, and starts raining blows down on her head – referee Bob Yazawa can’t get her to stop, so has to disqualify her and award the fall to Shimoda, who becomes the third member of the match to become an involuntary blood donor, while Maekawa attacks the ref in a frenzy. It took nine minutes, fourteen seconds for the equaliser, setting things up perfectly for the final session.

Maekawa is still furious, and Shimoda is selling her ‘concussion’ big-time, looking as stunned as a Norwegian Blue. Mita saves her with chair-fu, then introduces Maekawa to the guard rails again, before taking her off into the darkness. A rapidly recovering Shimoda piledrives Watanabe into a table, and Mita and Maekawa reappear, brawling on the front row of the balcony while Shimoda gouges Watanabe with scissors – as if there wasn’t enough blood already. Mita dumps Maekawa off the balcony, and she drops to the concrete below, where Mita then tries to hang her, using the now completely detached bottom rope. Watanabe pins Shimoda but the ref is dealing with the Maekawa/ Mita war, and by the time he returns, Shimoda is free – a chair announces Mita’s return, and prevents any immediate re-occurrence. By now, the crowd are popping like mad for each near-fall, regardless of who’s on top: in the end, it’s Mita who hits a Death Valley Bomb on Maekawa for the decider, to give Las Cachorras the title, though Watanabe still wanted to fight on.

In the post-match interviews, Shimoda looked like a poster child for the local women’s refuge – “Just Say No to Domestic Violence” – even if, beneath the caked blood and the bruises, you could still sense a wolfish delight in the carnage and the adrenalin buzz. Mita, on the other hand, was almost unscathed, like the accident victim who miraculously walks free when all around her are maimed. Her day for bloodshed would come. Notably, there were no post-match interviews with Maekawa and Watanabe. Just shots of the ambulance taking them away.

This was one fight on one night; a title bout, sure, yet rated by Mike Lorefice, an authority on such matters, as only worth four stars out of five. Nor was it even especially raw or bloody: in particular, three months later, Las Cachorras would appear in a cage match – a bout where the ring is surrounded by a twelve-foot high steel fence, and victory goes to whichever team escapes first – which would make tonight’s encounter look like a garden party.

However, it isn’t just thrilling and engrossing on a visceral level. Although the agility and skill on view can certainly not be denied, the sheer complexity, not just of the mayhem, but the set-up which surrounds it, also deserves much respect. This background effort is not generally apparent to a casual viewer: the more I watch, the more I am able to delight in the hidden labour which goes into planning, scheduling and promoting the best bouts.

But if watching the fight proves one thing, it’s probably this: anyone who denies that violence can possess a terrible beauty, has clearly not met Mima Shimoda and Etsuko Mita…

[2021 update: Thanks to the wonders of YouTube, you can now see the match]

I have fond childhood memories of happy Saturday afternoons spent in a best of three falls contest versus our draught excluder (no mean opponent – it’s tricky to apply arm holds on a long cloth sausage stuffed with kapok). These enthusiastic, albeit somewhat one-sided, battles were inspired by a ferocious devotion to ITV’s coverage of wrestling, and even now, names like Big Daddy, Giant Haystacks and Kent Walton will provoke misty-eyed nostalgia in a large percentage of my age group. Wrestling vanished from our screens in the eighties, a victim of Greg Dyke’s attempt to move ITV upmarket – yeah, I know it sounds  implausible in the light of ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ – yet still survives in suburban halls, between Xmas pantomimes and T’Pau concerts. And I’ve become something of a devotee over the past year, even if there’s little chance of seeing anyone even faintly resembling Takako Inoue.

I initially ventured out with trepidation. Some landmarks on the map of childhood memories have stood the test of time (The New Avengers and Kate Bush); others are best consigned to redevelopment (Blake’s 7). Into which camp would wrestling fall? I had little to lose – even the most expensive seat was just £6.50, not bad going for an evening’s live entertainment. And on balance, I was pleasantly surprised. Though not as exciting, excessive, or indeed, cute as the works of JWP and Arsion, I had a fine time, purely from a trashy entertainment perspective.

Crowd numbers are increasing, but a couple of hundred would be typical; almost entirely white working-class, but from kids and teenagers (supporting the villains, with a firm grasp of post-modernism) right up to OAPs. The real hardcore fans sit ringside, and it’s worth joining them. Their exuberant enthusiasm is infectious, occasionally a little too much so – I’ve seen one incensed spectator strip his shirt off and suggest, shall we say, a little amateur bout. However, the eagle-eyed bouncers are always ready to dissuade such individuals, gently but firmly.

In the foyer beforehand, you can buy a selection of ephemera: I just stick to the program, though its worth is questionable – the bouts listed often fail to materialise for one reason or another. However, inside are various bits of news which tend to confirm the current status of wrestling in Britain. Learning that one wrestler suffered a serious knee injury working on a building site proves there are no fortunes being made here.

The most striking thing is how small the ring seems. Maybe it’s a mini-version, or memory and the angles of TV were playing tricks on me, but it hardly looks big enough for two people to sit in, never mind pull the sort of stunts performed by Akira Hokuto. For the opening bouts this is perhaps not a problem, as the wrestlers concerned are often of the sort you might politely describe as “highly experienced”. Or put another way, geriatric. I remember the likes of Skull Murphy and Alan Kirby from my childhood (Kirby was the deaf-mute), and so nowadays their combined ages must be near 100. The result is perhaps like watching two uncles struggle drunkenly at a wedding, or an OAP getting mugged, and unsurprisingly relies more on psychology than stunning action. But equally, these veterans know how to work an audience, and this kind of bout is a nice blast of nostalgia to ease you gently back into things.

On the other hand, people like Jody Flash and James Mason (insert obvious cinematic joke) are notably faster and more athletic, with obvious skills which are only a little short of what I’ve seen on tape. Some of the impacts made the ring shudder, and when sound, vision and position work together, the result is impressive and highly convincing.

However, singles bouts seem a little one-dimensional; what generally works the best, in terms of atmosphere and audience reaction, are tag bouts: the two in the ring wrestle, while the other two act as impromptu cheerleaders, whipping up the audience with practiced ease. In this classic, Manichean struggle, the referee stoically argues with one or other face, while his partner is illegally creamed by the bad guys, to the loud disapproval of the crowd. It’s what I remembered it being all about; pantomime, neo-slapstick and larger-than-life characters, a million miles away from Megumi Kudo crashing face-first into barbed wire, but none the less entertaining for it.

With regard to the female variety, it’s less common than I’d like: as mentioned elsewhere, the GLC had a long-standing ban on such bouts, and the women wrestlers largely avoided this area. They do appear occasionally and the refreshing thing is, unlike the tawdry sideshow of the WWF where contests have been decided by the first to lose their evening gown, these bouts are taken just as seriously as the men’s, by promoters and fans. They also provide no less in the way of skill and entertainment – Miss Syria is a personal favourite, in looks and attitude resembling a dark-haired version of Callisto, albeit with a strong Northern accent. I fondly remember one bout, where her opponent was being carried off ‘injured’, and Syria grabbed the mike and said, “I’m really sorry…for kicking your arse!” You just gotta love a good bad girl.

In the middle of the show, there’s a fifteen-minute interval, which seems largely a chance to buy more souvenirs and tickets for the raffle in the second half – some of the prizes in which appear to whatever has been unsold (no opportunity for promotion left unused!), or alternatively, tickets to the following month’s show… Then it’s back to the action once again, culminating in the headline event – perhaps a title fight, grudge match, or gimmick bout, such as an ‘Over the Top Rumble Match’. This starts with two wrestlers in the ring, and another turns up every couple of minutes; the only means of elimination is being put over the top rope. Now, I said the ring seemed small even when there were only two combatants present: with ten wrestlers in there, it is more like a Central Line train at rush-hour; you could almost hear the “Ouch! Mind my foot!”, “Sorry, is that your elbow”, and “Excuse me…EXCUSE ME!“. The MC acts as a commentator, trying to whip the crowd up, with variable results, depending on whether there are any truly convincing heroes in the ring.

Inevitably, victory in the final bout is never unanimous; the loser will claim a rematch because of alleged cheating, interference or whatever. This is done largely as a cliffhanger, to set things up down the line, and build anticipation. It does feel somewhat optimistic to think that the crowd will manage to sustain their interest for a couple of months until the fight gets arranged, but it does at least show an appreciation of the elements required to make a good contest. It’s just that, as in most other areas, the execution is a little shabbier than the Japanese or even the American version. Yet there’s still something quintessentially attractive about the ordinariness of it all.

The appeal is perhaps truly explicable only if you  stand on a rainswept Division 3 terrace, laugh at Carry On films, own a Jaguar console, or drive a Skoda, and do so out of choice. You know a more polished commodity is available; you just don’t care. So it is with British pro-wrestling. There’s a huge gulf compared to its overseas cousins, or even the glory days, yet die-hard fans go to Croydon every month. And long may we continue to do so. Now, where did I put that draught excluder?

Central Park Media,
NTSC Import, approx £15.

From a British perspective, it’s almost impossible to grasp the penetration of wrestling into Japanese popular culture: there are two weekly magazines devoted to the topic, the leading stars are treated with a reverence that would shock those who sneer at the “sport”, and there are nods to it in all manner of fields. In anime, for example, it’s a matter of record that the Dirty Pair had both their names and their costumes based on those of wrestling tag-team the Beauty Pair, while their organization, the WWWA, is also the name of a federation. Once you start looking, you begin to see this kind of stuff cropping up all over the place.

‘Ayane’s High Kick’ is, however, more obvious than most. Though its central theme is cliché #4 – “schoolgirl heroine overcomes obstacles to achieve her dream” – the dream in question is to become a pro wrestler, and fight Manami Toyota. The obstacles too are a little unusual, since they include a manager who insists she’s only good enough for kick-boxing. While there is nothing really new in the execution, it’s notable for the in-jokes, which will delight any fan, and completely baffle everyone else.

For example, in one fight Ayane’s opponent antagonises her by disparagingly referring to her idol Toyota as a circus acrobat, which if you’re unfamiliar with Toyota’s high-flying style, will simply not be funny. This kind of thing runs through the two episodes here: there are quickfire nods to the likes of Yumiko Hotta, Aja Kong, and the various federations, as well as a cameo appearance by Toyota herself. And there are probably a bunch more that even I missed.

These help to diffuse the tedium, caused by the fact that… well, there’s not much else here of note. Neither the characters not the plotline are especially memorable, though you do get a certain feeling for the tough training that the fighters go through. It’s giving little away to say that Ayane ends up with a 2-0 record, as you never feel she’s in serious danger of losing – ­the animators could have done with some lessons from the WWWA in the art of making fights look realistic. Still, I’d be inclined to watch future episodes, largely for the pleasure to be had in spotting the references to wrestling. Hence, it deserves a rating of C+ for wrestling fans, D- for anyone else.

[Here seems a good place to thank some people for their help with this section: Brian Bower, for introducing me to the delights of such things and sparking my enthusiasm with his, Hideyuki Shimura and Jeff Lynch for tapes, the residents of the women’s wrestling mailing list, Miko for pics, Kim Lyon at Quantum Leap, Andrew Walmsley for beers and chat, and housemates Steve+Abigail for enduring barbed-wire deathmatches above and beyond the call of duty.]

Let’s clear up one preconception right away: this brand of female sport has absolutely nothing to do with mud, jelly, custard or any other semi-liquid substance.  It’s even light-years removed from the things you may remember seeing on World of Sport, and GLOW is but the finger-paintings of small children in comparison. This is the nearest thing you’ll get to gladiatorial combat in the 1990’s.

But you might say, isn’t it all staged? And the  obvious reply is, don’t be stupid. Of course it is.

However, let’s distinguish between “staged” and “fake”. Once you see Dynamite Kanzai wrestle, her blood streaming out in a way Peter Jackson would reject as excessively gory, or watched Yumiko Hotta kick her opponent repeatedly in the head, then you’ll know the difference. If you still have doubts, in April, rookie Emiko Kado died as a result of brain injuries incurred in the ring – and is not the first to die for her art. As “fakes” go, this would seem to be pretty convincing, if you ask me.

Sure, they know beforehand who’s going to win, but that’s true for every Jackie Chan fight, and nobody whinges about that. It’s missing the point, like calling ‘Macbeth’ a whodunnit. To fans, the result is less important than the route by which they reach the end, though the best wrestlers will tend to ‘win’, simply because they are who the crowd wants to see. ‘Exhibition wrestling’ is probably the most accurate term, and certainly, you can’t deny the skill necessary to pull off moves when the margin for error, without seriously hurting your opponent or yourself, is so small. It’s as much spontaneous ballet as martial arts, though Jackie has the major advantage that he gets second takes, instead of having to ad-lib a continuation.

Queen of the Pain Barrier Megumi Kudo, now retired, looked like an archetypal Japanese lady, but gave more blood than most transfusion services. Regular wrestling wasn’t tough enough: she upped the ante by, for example, replacing the ropes with barbed wire. Her retirement match combined a load of these enhancements into the wrestling equivalent of a pizza with everything on. It was billed, in typically understated style, as a “No rope, 200 Volt, double hell, double barbed-wire barricade, double landmine, glass crush, electrical barbed-wire death match”. She ended up in hospital with concussion and 3rd-degree burns; more memorable than being given a gold watch, I suppose.

Kudo was a superstar, and the top women often make as much money, if not more, outside the ring through products ranging from CDs to “Lifestyle videos” which, for example, portray the wrestlers on holiday. However, following the collapse in the Japanese economy, most leisure pursuits have suffered, and wrestling is certainly no exception: TV coverage has become limited, and shows that previously played to five-figure crowds now struggle to reach a fraction of that. As a result, the federations which run promotions have been springing up, going bankrupt and reforming at a whirlwind pace. AJW,  for many years the #1, have recently endured financial trouble; they are still perhaps the strongest around, but there are also plenty of up-and-coming groups including Neo Ladies and Arsion, both of which are headed by veterans, Kyoko Inoue and Aja Kong respectively.

Kong’s name is self-descriptive: when she hits opponents off the top rope, they tend to stay hit. She represents the “blunt instrument” school of wrestlers, who concentrate on strength. This works, however, because unlike men’s wrestling, there is a huge variety of styles and forms on show – far more appealing than endless contests between steroid-bloated pretty-boys – plus the better participants have an amazing  spectrum of skills, with timing and agility still required. The contrast of speed and power usually makes for a good contest; even though there are weight divisions, they are so broad as to be ineffective. But I personally feel this poses interesting questions: how do you deal with someone a hundredweight heavier than you?

There is no strict correlation between beauty and morality; at her peak, in the early 90’s, Akira Hokuto sometimes resembled a cheerleader, but it was a distinctly psychotic one, with a nasty grudge. She gave the disturbing impression that she genuinely enjoyed inflicting pain on her opponent, even when it involved a blatant disregard for her own personal safety – she had her neck broken in one bout, thanks to a miscued pile-driver. There are plenty of others whose looks belie their attitudes, though in the fluid world of Japanese wrestling, good becomes bad with baffling frequency, probably linked to the continual flux of groups, federations and organizations mentioned above. Alliances form and dissolve with the phases of the moon, before, after or even during fights. A laid-back approach to viewing is essential, together with a touching optimism that whatever happens would make sense, if only you knew Japanese.

Despite what some think – in London, all women’s wrestling was banned by the GLC – sex has little to do with it. The costumes are utilitarian and, unlike ‘Foxy Boxing’, do not “fall off”. While undeniably nice, beauty is no prerequisite for employment; physical ability and the willingness to go several extra yards in the name of entertainment clearly are far more important. Some no doubt will claim exploitation, or that it’s demeaning to women; I defy anyone to watch without acquiring deep respect for the wrestlers. It’s notable that a significant percentage of the audience is schoolgirls, and there’s a case for them being better role-models than, oh, say certain Spice-shaped persons. But regardless, it’s irrelevant, since anyone seeking  role-models in the entertainment industry is very badly misguided.

People round the globe are slowly discovering that the popular image of subservient Japanese cute is a shallow myth – any lingering doubts will last about five minutes into your first barbed-wire death match. I think it’s safe to say that Japanese women’s wrestling certainly has the potential to join anime and Hong Kong films as Asian imports into Western popular culture, and indeed, after a spell in the doldrums, American federations are picking up on the distaff side. Characters like Sable and Chyna are increasingly popular, albeit with any actual wrestling usually well in the background, while ‘Celebrity Deathmatch’ proved that women – or claymation versions of Monica Lewinsky and Hillary Clinton at least – and violence do mix. The Japanese model would be ideal for Granada Men & Motors, alongside their LPWA shows, or any other enterprising cable channel [Bravo have apparently screened some]. If they need a presenter, the address is at the front, and my rates are very reasonable…

Until then, it will no doubt continue at a cult level, where the informal trading of tapes and information is a throwback to the heady days of 1980’s genre fandom. Except that when Customs drool wildly over a tape labelled ‘Japanese Hardcore’, this time the laugh’s on them…

I know what I am before what I am has a name. If I reveal too much up front, then you will know what that name is before you are ready to assimilate the repercussions of meeting somebody owning such a name. And, then, you may not stay to meet me.

Where did we meet? Don’t you remember? I suppose, remembering is not really relevant, because we haven’t yet met. Well, to make things easy, think of a coastline not outside a radius of seven miles from here, then, oh yes, a rundown hotel situated at the rough end of the promenade, as far from the pier as it is possible to be without leaving town. People who stay there listen to the sea at night, begging its soporific ways to lull them into a false sense of security: whilst knowing it’s false somehow makes it seem more real, because, at the bottom of your heart, you know that there are only false things in life, including, even, the self itself.

Despite the hotel’s distance from the main tourist enclaves, there is an electric advertisement hoarding which pulses a glow to and from your bedroom. In shades of red and blue. But mostly red. This strictly alternate illumination partially irritates you with the shape of the room’s ill-decor: the dull brown-greens of the blistered wallpaper, the devil-shaped knotwood of the wardrobe door, the islands of linoleum and the snaggly bed-quilt. They thus blend in with half the night, if not continuously. Hence, only a partial irritation as you stare waking in the pulsing eye.

Now, you’re here, it’s time to reveal my self if not, quite yet, my name. It’s too late for you to leave the hotel, because it’s safer in here with me than walking out along the rough side of the dark sea-end where things roam that do not even have names at all.

I can see that your gossamer nightgear, whence the bedquilt slips down like waves of cotton pores, is teasingly more beautiful than bareness. Do you mind if I touch you all over? Touch is far more sensitive than sight, especially during half the night. Let me lower the bedquilt further. Ah, the dunes of your lower limbs cascade with half-seethrough silky satiny lace.

Let’s now ease off the teasing lace. There’s no point in screaming, since I am deaf. Didn’t I tell you? Somebodies like me cannot hear. Cannot speak. Cannot smell. My sole harmonic is with reflection – that very same reflection which my body traditionally cannot make. And such harmonic means, of course, that I can see and touch – but only like glass.

Is that why you shivered when I first set my eyes upon your eyes first setting upon me? And as I fondle your upper parts, is that why your shiver becomes a shudder? But not exactly a shudder. Too violent for that name. More a body-jack.

That accounts for half the night. The rest, which rests in the utter impenetrability of the pulse’s other side, we switch roles, and it’s you fondling me with your icy glass fingers. Reversed. Me your upper parts. You my lower. Then we change tack. You my upper. Me your lower. Time to feel. Then time to be felt. As if each pulse is its own mirror image. Naturally, foreplay wears thin after a while. During my share of the night, my own breasts feel like balloons of blood, ready to burst rather than backfire embolisms into the circuit. I need them milked.

And you take a soft suck from the left, then right. It’s tantamount to the Platonic Form of sensuality made incarnate. Your mouth is soft and warm because its teeth have taken on its glass touch.

Then, at the split second of the pulse’s turn, I take suck from you, from right, then left, sending the undiluted curds of crude blood to the refinery of my soul.

At the end of this process of delight, we kiss properly, icy tongue to warm tongue, and versa vice, where communication is passion not words. The only way to talk.

So, you see, my dear, if I’d come out earlier with my name, you would have missed my visit. I can now reveal it, before I leave you to some shop-soiled holiday romance by the sea. Remember me. Remember me forever. Remember your sweet Ona, Vampire of half the night.

DF Lewis