Mom was at work. The nice part of going to sento early is that the tubs aren’t so crowded and you can always find a place at a faucet
where you can observe what’s going on. In our neighborhood at that hour, it was mostly just really old grannies and the bar hostesses who were getting ready for work, and they were both fun
to peek at.
It was kind of amazing, really. In Sunnyvale, California, you don’t get a lot of chances to see naked ladies, except for porn stars on magazine covers at truck stops, and they’re not
exactly what you’d call realistic. And they never show you pictures of really old naked ladies because it’s probably illegal or something, so it was interesting to me in a scientific
kind of way. What I mean is, the hostesses were slim and smooth-skinned, and even though their breasts and waists and hips were different sizes, they were all young and looked pretty much the same.
But the old ladies . . . omg! They were totally different sizes and shapes, some with huge fat boobs and others with just flaps of skin and nipples like drawer knobs, and bellies like the skin
on top of boiled milk when you push it to the side of the cup. I used to play this game, matching up the hostesses with the old ladies in my mind, trying to imagine which young body would turn into
which aged one, and how this cute breast might wither into that sad old flap, and how a stomach would bloat or sag. It was weird, like seeing time pass, but in a Buddhist instant, you know?
I was especially fascinated with the hostesses and all their beauty routines. I used to follow them into the sauna and study the way they scraped dead skin off their bodies with brushes and
sticks and shaved their faces with tiny straight razors on pastel-colored wands. What were they shaving? It wasn’t like they had beards or anything. When they walked in, you could tell
they’d just woken up, because they yawned a lot and said good morning even though it was late afternoon, but mostly they didn’t talk much, and their eyes were all puffy and bloodshot
with hangovers. But after an hour in the bath, they were all warmed up and pink and dewy again, and by the time they were dried off and sitting in the dressing room in their lacy underwear and
putting on their makeup, they were laughing and talking about their dates from the night before. After they got to know me, they even teased me about my breasts, which had started to grow, and
you’d think I would have been ashamed, but I wasn’t. I was secretly flattered that they even noticed. I admired them. I thought they were pretty and bold and behaved in a liberated way
and did exactly what they wanted, which is probably why Mom decided it wasn’t a wholesome environment for me. She started making me wait to go to the baths until after dinner, which is
absolutely the worst time because it’s all the boring mothers with obnoxious little kids, and nosy middle-aged aunties with metal-colored hair, who stare at you and make comments about things
that are none of their business. And sure enough, one of them noticed my bruises, even though I was hanging back and trying to keep myself covered, and she said in a really loud voice,
“Oh! What happened to you, young lady? Do you have a rash?”
At first Mom didn’t pay any attention, but then the old bitch actually called to her and said, “Okusan, Okusan! 45 What is wrong with
your daughter’s skin? She’s got butsubutsu 46 all over her. I hope she doesn’t have a disease!”
Mom came and stood next to me as I hunched over my bucket. She took my wrist and raised my arm and turned it over, looking at the underside, where the bruises were most dense. Her fingers dug
into my wrist bones and it hurt more than when the kids at school pinched me.
“Maybe she shouldn’t be going into the water,” the old bitch said. “If it’s a rash, it could be contagious . . .”
My mom let my arm drop. “Tondemonai,” 47 she said. “Those are just
where you can observe what’s going on. In our neighborhood at that hour, it was mostly just really old grannies and the bar hostesses who were getting ready for work, and they were both fun
to peek at.
It was kind of amazing, really. In Sunnyvale, California, you don’t get a lot of chances to see naked ladies, except for porn stars on magazine covers at truck stops, and they’re not
exactly what you’d call realistic. And they never show you pictures of really old naked ladies because it’s probably illegal or something, so it was interesting to me in a scientific
kind of way. What I mean is, the hostesses were slim and smooth-skinned, and even though their breasts and waists and hips were different sizes, they were all young and looked pretty much the same.
But the old ladies . . . omg! They were totally different sizes and shapes, some with huge fat boobs and others with just flaps of skin and nipples like drawer knobs, and bellies like the skin
on top of boiled milk when you push it to the side of the cup. I used to play this game, matching up the hostesses with the old ladies in my mind, trying to imagine which young body would turn into
which aged one, and how this cute breast might wither into that sad old flap, and how a stomach would bloat or sag. It was weird, like seeing time pass, but in a Buddhist instant, you know?
I was especially fascinated with the hostesses and all their beauty routines. I used to follow them into the sauna and study the way they scraped dead skin off their bodies with brushes and
sticks and shaved their faces with tiny straight razors on pastel-colored wands. What were they shaving? It wasn’t like they had beards or anything. When they walked in, you could tell
they’d just woken up, because they yawned a lot and said good morning even though it was late afternoon, but mostly they didn’t talk much, and their eyes were all puffy and bloodshot
with hangovers. But after an hour in the bath, they were all warmed up and pink and dewy again, and by the time they were dried off and sitting in the dressing room in their lacy underwear and
putting on their makeup, they were laughing and talking about their dates from the night before. After they got to know me, they even teased me about my breasts, which had started to grow, and
you’d think I would have been ashamed, but I wasn’t. I was secretly flattered that they even noticed. I admired them. I thought they were pretty and bold and behaved in a liberated way
and did exactly what they wanted, which is probably why Mom decided it wasn’t a wholesome environment for me. She started making me wait to go to the baths until after dinner, which is
absolutely the worst time because it’s all the boring mothers with obnoxious little kids, and nosy middle-aged aunties with metal-colored hair, who stare at you and make comments about things
that are none of their business. And sure enough, one of them noticed my bruises, even though I was hanging back and trying to keep myself covered, and she said in a really loud voice,
“Oh! What happened to you, young lady? Do you have a rash?”
At first Mom didn’t pay any attention, but then the old bitch actually called to her and said, “Okusan, Okusan! 45 What is wrong with
your daughter’s skin? She’s got butsubutsu 46 all over her. I hope she doesn’t have a disease!”
Mom came and stood next to me as I hunched over my bucket. She took my wrist and raised my arm and turned it over, looking at the underside, where the bruises were most dense. Her fingers dug
into my wrist bones and it hurt more than when the kids at school pinched me.
“Maybe she shouldn’t be going into the water,” the old bitch said. “If it’s a rash, it could be contagious . . .”
My mom let my arm drop. “Tondemonai,” 47 she said. “Those are just
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