Nureki Chimuo Archive

The light shifted from a bright rose color to a slightly darker bluish light, and next to appear on stage was Inariyama Konjuro.

He was tall, like many young people today, with slender, long limbs, and he looked quite handsome.

The outer corners of both eyes were slightly upturned and his jawline was narrow.

He wore a kimono with a lilac-colored ground and white floral patterns, a dark navy obi tied smartly, white tabi socks on his feet, and a folding fan in his right hand. The song was, “No matter what hardships may come my way, I’ll brave the rough waves and weather the storms, I’ll love on without defeat.”

It was a song expressing a man’s resolve.

The concept seemed to be dancing the emotions of a strong man while wearing effeminate, flashy costumes.

At the song’s climax, Inariyama Konjuro rolled up his kimono sleeves to his shoulders, baring his arms near the shoulders, and struck a dramatic pose.

Each time he nailed that pose, a female voice from the audience called out, “Kon-chaaaaan!” He was a popular actor.

I quickly grew bored with that dance.

I have a mean eye for those who perform the arts.

People have told me I’m stubborn.

Glancing at the stage, I leaned close to the ear of Rakka-san sitting to my left and whispered, “This man’s dance is all form, no heart.”

Before I even voiced that criticism, she must have been thinking the same thing.

She didn’t nod, she kept her face fixed straight ahead toward the stage.

Then, Konjuro’s dance became even more painful for me to watch.

I couldn’t bear to look anymore.

So, I whispered in Rakka-san’s ear again.

“This dance is like those modern SM magazines. It has all the outward trappings, all the flashy poses and showy moves, but the soul is missing.” I also said this.

“No matter how beautiful the printing or how lavish the content appears at first glance, if the people putting together the pages have no soul, they’ll never truly capture the reader’s heart. The worst thing about that magazine is how the editors look down on their readers. But the editors don’t even realize it. They think they’re serving the readers wholeheartedly. Yet the more they think that, the more condescending the content becomes.”

Rakka-san’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the stage.

I couldn’t raise my voice any louder either.

The surrounding audience seats had eyes and ears.

I took Rakka-san’s right hand in my left.

She sat with her coat neatly folded on her lap.

Beneath that coat lay both her hands.

I slipped my left hand under the coat and clasped her right hand.

The surrounding audience couldn’t see.

Inariyama Konjuro’s dance continued. Now, with vigorous momentum, he stripped off one sleeve, baring his shoulder, stamped his foot, and struck a dramatic pose.

With my left hand, I grasped her right thigh.

I savored the youthful elasticity of her thigh with my five fingers.

Her lower body was tightly wrapped in black fabric pants.

I spread all five fingers of my left hand to feel the curve of her thigh, squeezing and pressing to enjoy the sensation.

The warmth of her lower body traveled from my fingers to my wrist, up to my arm, reaching my heart.

The warmth and elasticity of her thigh became my immediate pleasure.

I immersed myself in the fantasy of embracing her entire body.

No, it wasn’t a fantasy. It was real.

Though her face was turned toward the stage, my heart was intoxicated, completely detached from the dance.

She didn’t move.

She makes no attempt to avoid the silent intrusion of my hand.

She doesn’t try to stop the movements of my palm and fingers, now imbued with even greater intensity of passion. She simply sits straight, accepting it.

She accepts it, but she doesn’t react. Not even the slightest flicker.

Her silent stillness makes it seem as if she, too, finds pleasure in the unreasonable movements of my right hand.

That’s it. She must be feeling it as pleasure.

But, Rakka-san is someone who doesn’t react to pleasure as pleasure.

Even if she feels pleasure, she doesn’t express it openly.

She is a woman who considers it vulgar to react openly and unashamedly.

That is precisely what I find so appealing.

Women who feel pleasure as pleasure, become clingy, and press themselves close, I actually can’t bring myself to like them.

I find such women tiresome. I suppose I’m just twisted.

This kind of contact, in this kind of place, that I perform on her, it isn’t the first time.

I’ve experienced it several times in the past.

It’s been about four years since Rakka and I became close, but counting the times we’ve gone together to theaters, movies, and other event halls, it must be dozens, no, probably over a hundred times by now.

Anyway, we go to those kinds of places quite frequently.

“You know, when I get bored watching movies or plays, I have this habit of running my hands all over the woman next to me.” I think I told her something like that when we first met.

Of course, I wouldn’t do such a shameless thing in situations where other patrons might notice.

Because we carefully select the movies, plays, and other events we go to see beforehand, in our own way.

Or rather, our tastes are quite skewed compared to the mainstream. We avoid anything that seems likely to be boring from the start.

So we rarely get bored, but we also seldom encounter anything that keeps us tense throughout the entire thing.

When a boring scene drags on and I can’t stand it anymore, my hand starts fidgeting, all the while checking the surrounding situation.

The elasticity of her thigh is good. It’s intoxicating.

The softness of the curve near the top of her thigh is good.

I trace the inside of her thigh meticulously with the tips of my fingers. I savor the supple elasticity with the pads of my fingers. My soul is sucked into the space between her inner thighs.

Though all eyes in the audience are fixed on the stage, this is a thrilling act, and thus the sensual pleasure is supreme.

It’s more than just a way to stave off boredom.

Applause erupted from the audience.

Inariyama Konjuro’s dance had ended.

Even if his soul couldn’t be felt, he danced earnestly in his own way. In short, he was inexperienced.

Applause of appreciation. The audience at this theater is kind.

I slipped my left hand out from under the coat draped over Rakka-san’s lap.

She showed no reaction whatsoever as I withdrew it.

The lighting and music changed, and next to appear was the troupe’s leader.

It was an onnagata dance, portraying an older woman in a period piece.

A kimono of deep purple, adorned with navy-blue birds in flight, a color scheme that was rather subdued. A pure white nagajuban. White tabi socks.

Within the quiet movements lay the heart of a woman tormented by forbidden love. Her entire being was enveloped in emotion, leaving no gaps. The birds within the costume’s design seemed to stir to life.

Even the tips of the fingers reaching toward the sky conveyed the agonized nerves of a woman in love. It was dignified and magnificent.

Rakka-san really likes this actor. I was dragged here by her.

“In the end, dance is an expression of the soul, isn’t it…” It was obvious, yet I marveled and murmured softly, loud enough for Rakka-san to hear.

The dance of the onnagata, the troupe leader, poured her soul entirely into every movement of her body. It was a movement that concealed within it the passion of a woman yearning for a man.

That artistry lay in the alluring charm that, though restrained, overflowed outward, captivating the audience.

The dance of the still young Inariyama Konjuro, however, was conscious of the audience, striking poses to please them, an art, you might say, performed with a condescending air.

In contrast, the leading lady’s onnagata performance portrayed the intense, heart-wrenching passion of a woman’s love purely from within. That was what captured the hearts of the viewers.

There was not the slightest hint of that overbearing, condescending gaze.

said.

After watching the entire show, I shook hands with the troupe leader. “Good work,” I

Then, I went with Rakka-san to Komegata Dozeu, where we had a bowl of loach hot pot, a cup of sake, and dinner.

As she ate the loach hot pot, “delicious,” Rakka-san said with a smile.

The pleasant stimulation and excitement we felt from that troupe’s passionate performance still lingered within us.

From Komegata Dozeu to JR Asakusabashi Station, we walked hand in hand through the night streets, now dark.

I recalled walking this same path chatting with both R-san and Nakahara Rutsu-san.

The street is called Edo-dori.

When we parted at the station, I always bowed to Rakka-san and said, “Thank you for your company today.”

It wasn’t just a formality. I truly meant it.

I never once spoke to Rakka-san, R-San, or Nakahara Rutsu-san from a position of superiority.

No matter how old I am, I never considered myself “superior” from the start.

A week later, I met Rakka-san again.

And, as usual, we talked about all sorts of things.

We suddenly started talking about how we’d walked hand in hand, chatting all the way from Komegata Dozeu to Asakusabashi Station.

“That was fun,” she said, her big eyes sparkling and her voice full of joy.

More than seeing the show, more than eating the loach hotpot, those fifteen minutes walking to the station were the most enjoyable. That was the tone of her words.

“Then, let’s walk again,” I said.