All Your Fates (Currently editing/updating)

Chapter 8: RAW

Once my hair was blow-dried and an on-staff make-up artist did my face, I wrapped myself in a silk robe and made my way to the banquet hall: a gross neon perversion of Japanese décor. Out of the five of us models, I was the most disciplined to endure lying still the longest; so I went first only to find out they weren't ready for me yet. I tried flipping through a magazine while waiting for my table to be moved into position but my mind was all a jumble with the happenings of yesterday: my aggravated conversation with Gran, the blackout, and the nightmare that still sent chills down my spine. On more than one occasion, my mind returned to the warming memory of the hipster's soft brown eyes that I decided reminded me of the color of burnt toast.

Soon enough, I disrobed and hopped up on the table to lie down on my back. Some of the other naked sushi models would lie on their stomachs, and the sushi would be arranged down their spine, onto their derrieres, and down their calves. Hanna, a tattooed red-headed aspiring Suicide Girl, believed it was because she had the nicest ass out of all of us, but I happened to know it was because management had had complaints about her dead, cold eyes that freaked out clients when she was turned up the other way.

Before I could be "arranged," my body first had to be dabbed with cotton swabs soaked in vodka in order for my skin to be sterilized by Miko (a feisty Filipino-American whose real name was Anna) while other quick light hands brushed and curled my hair with hot irons so that my long hair would flow over the table's edge. Naturally, there would be no food served in my hair. Instead, the "headpiece" was a giant floral arrangement: huge waterlilies artfully swimming in the curling waves of my locks enmeshed with long ropes of seaweed. From above, I imagined I appeared as a beautiful drowned fay entangled in fantastic garlands of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies and long purples (also known as "dead men's fingers").

Then came the platters of food, and Miko went quick to work setting the first sushi roll at the apex of my sternum, continuing the arrangement down my cleavage and curling into entrails on my torso, and then onto my thighs. The spread included not only sushi, sashimi, and artfully curled pickled ginger, but flowers and fruits as well. A banana leaf was modestly placed over my nether region that was then artfully hidden by a bouquet of giant tiger lilies. Pansies were blanketed between the crevices of my legs, pressed firmly together, only to be topped with small boats of chocolate-dipped strawberries. A large white saucer of soya sauce was placed down on my torso. Last, but not least, two dollops of wasabi were swirled over several sheets of nori pasties so that I wouldn't suffer from any burns. Finally, the makeup artist did a quick touch up of gloss on my lips and powdered my nose matte before scurrying over to the other tables. Now it was my job to lie as still as possible. Even a sharp intake of breath could cause sushi to roll off the chest and onto the floor.

I could feel the electricity of the crowd's growing excitement brewing behind the large banquet doors. This would be a treat for them, and I knew they expected me to play the part of a tasty dish. There were rules, of course, that governed the patron's behavior during nyotaimori (female body presentation). Legend has it that the practice of nyotaimori arose from the Samurai days of old, but many assert it is the bastard child of the West's fetishism of all things Japan. Nonetheless, I will tell you "the rules": first, the patrons were never to speak to a naked sushi model or use "colorful" language in our presence. They were not allowed to touch us or harass us in anyway. They would not interact with us any more than they would interact with a highly expensive and fragile place setting. We were not to be touched by their chopsticks, or eaten over. And anyone violating the rules would be quickly tossed out. Nyotaimori was about art, not sex (unless it was set in a strip or sex club – and then, well, it's wasn't really true nyotaimori in my opinion). 

I could hear the staff begin to rush the now empty carts out of the room. And then silence. A few moments of peace before the doors were open to the party. The only other sounds now were the quiet, shallow, meditative breaths of the other models and the cheesy new age "Zen" music over the sound system. Even the models had stopped speaking to each other, all scattered about the room in their disparate corners like chilled bodies in a morgue strewn out on cold slabs.