Spielberg's The Pacific and the Omission of the Comfort Women

—A Small Piece of a Huge, Blind, Sexist Picture
Once again a war film omits a central horror of war — the abuse of women and children, often by our own "heroic" soldiers. In this way, war is passed off as a story about men — about their suffering and their glorification.

HBO IS STARTING TO AIR The Pacific this week, a multi-part WWII series, made by the same crew (Spielberg et al.) who gave us Band of Brothers. From the program description on HBO's website, it appears to be the standard gung-ho John Wayne-type war material, just like its predecessor. One episode will focus on the Battle of Okinawa. As you may know from my previous writings, I have my own focus: the sexual suffering of women due to war. So, instead of the same old 'flags of our fathers' story, I would like to see the Battle of Okinawa segment tell the harrowing and devastating tale of the women raped by those invading 'fathers.' Numbers are impossible to come by, given the clandestine aspect of what is done sexually to women during war; therefore, I will just rely on Wikepedia's "Battle of Okinawa" entry: it sources some of the experts in the field and many of its details correspond with what I have read elsewhere. According to one source on the site, roughly 10,000 women were raped by the invading allies during and after the battle. In one case, the Marines hunted out and raped an entire village of women and girls.

Few rapes were reported due to the shame the women felt (I guess the men didn't feel any — they seem to typically boast of rape to their band-of-brothers buddies — the old, tried-and-true proof of soldierly manhood). This would make for great drama: all the little 'gooks' the men managed to skewer as they were making the world safe for democracy and freedom. I am surprised that Spielberg would pass up such rich material in favor the clichéd ground he is reworking. Below is more information on this battle and other aspects of the war in the Pacific that the series might have touched upon — perhaps even focused on.

The Wikepedia coverage of this battle and also its pieces not only on rape by the conquerors but on the prostituting of girls for the occupation forces in Japan and Korea and elsewhere in Asia sounds like every war scenario since the Sumerians, 5000 or so years ago — and every one since WWII: nothing changes in the landscape of the massive sexual exploitation of the female body. Typical elements: shame for the conquered body, but none for the conquerors; raped girls sometimes becoming prostitutes due to feeling they were too worthless to be good for anything else. In other cases, hungry girls were broken and pimped to satisfy the conquerors. Many of the prostituted were young, still just children — it is very easy for pimps to pick up and break and sell undefended 13-or 14-year olds during any war. Or girls may have 'voluntarily' given their bodies over to the invaders because they were destitute and desperate. In Korea, for example, girls were digging holes in the sides of hills to sleep in. Allied soldiers would leave the base at night and fuck the hungry, desperate girls outside the fence, right there in the holes they dug for warmth and protection. Such is the nobility of the soldiers that we patriotically worship.

Wikepedia is careful to tell us that the information about rape and prostitution during wartime and during occupation is 'disputed.' I am not sure why this should be the case at this point since, by now, we have so much evidence of the sexual exploitation of women and girls during war and occupation that it should be obvious to even a blind crow lost in a dark barn that war inflicts tremendous sexual damage on women, particularly in the form of prostitution. I can see disputing the idea that there could be a 'voluntary' aspect to laying down with the conqueror if you are starving and there is no other way to eat. This is a form of rape as heinous as any other kind. So easy for the conquerors just to give the girls food. To force sex for food is brutal and dreadful. But then that is what almost all noble soldiers do.

Open to dispute certainly are really low, low statistics for rape, like some of the ones quoted in the Wikepedia pieces on rape by Allied forces in Asia during and after WWII. It would seem ridiculous to say that only a few rapes happen during occupation since the numbers are based on the very rare courageous women who might dare to come forward. Punishment tends to be light or non-existent for the conquering forces, yet another deterrent to women seeking justice. In peacetime, in countries like the USA, few women report rape: the police, the legal system, the courts--all are terrifying to face after rape and all are still imbued with daunting attitudes, also held by the general public, like 'she invited it since she was provocatively dressed' and 'sluts get what they deserve.' Given the way rape shreds you, it's tough to face the continuing violations that you will be subjected to if you report the crime. It is no wonder women keep the 'shame' (imposed by society) and sadness to themselves. And it is no wonder that even fewer women come forward in wartime or under military occupations.

I wonder if any of the episodes of The Pacific will be dramatizing the all-important 'rape- and-prostitution' side of war that I am outlining here. If not, then I would ask — why this huge omission?

Will The Pacific dramatize what is called the 'barrier' theory — a particularly pernicious sexist attitude that 'sacrifices' what are considered women of no importance. It is one of my particular points of 'dispute' — this dreadful attitude that you must provide a 'barrier' or wall — women deliberately forced into brothels for the occupiers — 'disposable' women who are supposed to protect the 'real' women outside the brothels from rape by 'sacrificing' their bodies. Such has been the thinking, not just in wartime, but in peacetime. The idea that you need a red-light zone where men can let off steam and get drunk and fuck whores — and the bodies and lives of the whores seem completely negligible. Non-human women serving as a seawall against all that semen, which will supposedly wash up against the Whore Seawall and leave all the 'good' girls, the 'real' women with 'real' bodies and lives, untouched. Such material would offer the makers of The Pacific rich ground for 'moral' and 'ethical' questions about sexuality — and the exploitations of wartime (and peacetime as well).

It is a dreadful and puzzling notion because I hold that if you allow men to rape in one zone they will rape in all zones since they are encouraged to think that women can be 'just for fuck' and nothing else. The man who fucks the whore body does not magically change into a 'gentleman' once he leaves the rape-zone of the brothel. If he is allowed to hurt and degrade a whore female body, without punishment and without regard for her humanity, then he will never be a 'gentleman' with any woman. He is just a brutal violator of the helpless.

Sadly, the Wikepedia article states some numbers from occupied Japan — ones like when the Allied troops had access to whores, they only raped a certain number of non-whores a day; when they did not have access to whores, they raped more civilian women. All such numbers are highly suspect, I agree — you can really dispute these kinds of figures: after all, if in a 'free' country full of 'liberated' women, like the USA, only one in ten sexual attacks is reported, imagine how much more difficult it must be to ascertain accurate rape numbers in an occupied country, with soldiers encouraged not just by light penalties but by censorship, such as that imposed by the Americans on the Japanese concerning topics like sexual assault. Or topics like the brothels. Did all the American journalists in occupied Japan send home blow-by-blow and fuck-by-fuck accounts of how the men lined up to get at the 'comfort girls' made available to them by the "Recreation and Amusement" officials.

What troubles me most is the idea that the Japanese civilian women outside the brothels were considered as 'legitimately' being raped; while the girls inside the sanctioned sexual assault zone, the 'comfort stations' set up for the fun and 'recreation' of the troops, were not. It is a huge puzzle that the worst form of rape imaginable — the ongoing daily sexual assault of these Occupation Comfort Girls — with most being used somewhere between 15 to 60 times day — that this was not considered rape in any way.

Here is the major illogical inhumane dilemma with the Whore SeaWall theory and the huge amounts of semen washing up against it, to protect the 'good' girls on the other side: why is what happens to the prostituted not regarded as rape? The situation needs to be phrased like this: when the GI's had whores to rape, they attacked fewer non-whores. But this was not a solution to the attacks perpetrated on the prostituted girls: they were destroyed by a form of rape far in excess of what the non-whore girls endured. Therefore, what happened to the whore girls must be defined as rape, not as 'recreation' and 'amusement.' And not defined just as rape, but as 'mass' rape. As rape that goes way beyond the ordinary kind of one man attacking a girl. How can you even put the one assault on a civilian girl in the same rape category as the multiple violations a day on the body of the prostituted? It is ludicrous to think there is any similarity, let alone equivalence. (That many assaults, every day, is too horrifying to imagine and renders the girl beyond healing.)

All of the above material should certainly have offered Spielberg and Tom Hanks, those mainly responsible for The Pacific, many possibilities for telling us about the true side of war: what is does to women. The central fact of war is the sexual destruction of the female body. Will at least one episode of the series tell us the story of such a 'barrier' girl: perhaps a homeless 15-year-old in Tokyo forced to provide sexual services to dozens of GI's a day in the 'comfort' stations — until she kills herself before she has even had a life: suicide was one way out that some of the 'comfort' girls 'chose' — since they had no other choices. This is material for drama. Have the makers of The Pacific overlooked the fact at the center of war: the sexual destruction of women and girls?

It's not too much of a wonder that they missed this crucial fact. Practically everyone does. It is that huge, essential, forgotten, hidden piece of history — the largest piece, in fact--gone completely missing. The central fact of war — ignored. Hence, there can never be a 'herstory' — so long as the biggest dirty secret of war goes unnoticed. Not even hardly a footnote does it occupy. Women historians largely ignore the comfort women, the raped, the prostituted. They teach out of books that mostly ignore the biggest, most important fact of war: it sexually destroys women. A passing reference by a woman historian, known for her feminist slant, about the selling of young girls to Allies in post-WWII Italy, and then the historian gets on with the 'important' facts of war — as if this terrible sexual atrocity had none. Women feminist historians writing on Vietnam and not even bringing up the story of one pimped refugee girl: her typical tale would involve being sold when she was 13 or 14 and now she had VD and is dragging some sorry, ragged, sick half-breed baby around with her as she begs and eats out of the garbage. Not worth a footnote to the feminist historians. Their omissions are as great as those of series like The Pacific.

What gets me is that these women style themselves as feminists and frame what they do as retelling 'history' and turning it into 'herstory.' I can't really find a 'herstroy' anywhere amongst them. There is, however, at least one male historian — Yuki Tanaka — who deserves the title of 'feminist' (he styles himself as such) and he tells the stories of the Occupation Comfort Girls in such a compassionate way that I cried for hours after reading his account. I wish he would teach all the women historians how to be true feminists. (He is my hero.)

I say, in my more furious moments, how dare these feminist historians write about war pretending to be 'herstorians' when some of them do not even seem to know who the comfort women are. I have asked a lot of them. The answers are vague: some of them kind of know there was this group called the Korean Comfort Women but they do not seem to know the horrifying details of their captivity: the 50 rapes a day, the complete physical and psychological disintegration that this brings about. I could not find one who knew who the Occupation Comfort Girls were. If these educated women are supposed to be herstorians, then why is this subject matter — the sexual destruction of the female body--not at the center of all the war histories they teach and all the books on war they write?

Like the Mariner with his albatross, I, the Female Senior Citizen Mariner, tell the forgotten, hidden tales over and over — with futility and sadness. Here, I need to stress that I am well aware that rapes by Allied forces are just part of a bigger picture and that all armies rape, to varying degrees. Sexual violence is so commonplace by military men during all wars and occupations that it is hard to place blame on a specific group. Rape is simply a fact of war. As is prostitution. Sexual violence is what men naturally inflict on women as a result of war. I am well aware that during WWII, the Japanese probably carry the honor of being the most brutal and efficient of the rapists. Almost every one of them used the comfort women provided as 'gifts' of the Emperor. And most of the men were brutal and rough with the women (so the surviving Korean Comfort Women tell us in their testimonies). As cruel as the Allied forces were in their own use of comfort women, they were overall not as rough as the Japanese. Isolated incidents by Allied soldiers might have been as unimaginably cruel as Nanking, but no where do you have an entire invading force raping a whole city, girl children included, and then shoving broken bottles and bayonets up into the victims and taking pictures of the fun and festivities. Did those Japanese soldiers show the pictures of Nanking to their sons and grandchildren as war souvenirs and brag proudly about their own magnificent military tradition of rape and savagery? (Under these circumstances of Universal Military Rape, does it even do any good to assign blame or do counts of how many rapes happened to helpless or enslaved bodies or to say that one army was even worse than the next?)

Blindness is everywhere — not just in the world of feminist scholarship or in HBO WWII docudramas. Now that more women are in the US military and more are serving in war-torn places like Iraq and Afghanistan--and there are also female peacekeepers in conflict areas--you would think that the whole dirty ugly secret of sexual exploitation during war and occupation would finally come out. You would think that all the women serving on US naval vessels would expose the use of prostituted girls when ships dock. Not one word have I heard from these privileged military women about the women, girls, and children being sold for sex in Afghanistan and in Iraq. None of the female soldiers stationed at US bases in Korea or Germany seem to be protesting the sex slavery around those installations. I have not heard any female sailors concerned about the sex slaves available at the places the ships stop for R & R. (This applies to other militaries where women also serve, not just the US one.) Such silence, indifference, ignorance, blindness? — whatever it is — alienates me even more from other women.

Practically all the women journalists miss the central fact of war: it sexually destroys the female body. I could not find any accounts of women journalists during WWII who followed the men into the brothels and recorded the number of sex acts forced on the captives there. No female journalist during Vietnam seemed to find the 14- and 15-year-olds hawked like sex meat on Saigon street corners important enough to regard as human or noteworthy. None of them covering Iraq or Afghanistan are concentrating on the huge number of women and girls and girl children prostituted and raped as a result of those conflicts. There was one CNN story, quick and incomplete, about all the women who have to sell themselves on the streets in Baghdad to feed their children. That's it. As if this brief little account were all that was needed: after all, the sexual destruction of the female body by war is of no importance to anymore. Not even to the women who are being destroyed, apparently, since they are taught — by the men who rape them and the women journalists who ignore them--that they are dirty and shameful outcasts who don't matter to anyone. Not even a footnote to war.

Men make war; war sexually destroys the female body. The non-prostituted women who ignore the way war destroys the female body are as guilty as the men who do the raping and the using of the prostitutes.

In a huge irony, almost all the men who have gone to war to make the world safe for democracy have made it very unsafe for women by promoting a culture of sexual violence toward us. Growing up on military bases around the world, I always felt irreconcilable conflicts about attitudes toward women. My safe little world was the base and the PX and the snack bar and the commissary and the movie theatres and the libraries. It was, in many ways, a wonderful, secluded life and I have never really felt comfortable outside, in the big world. Once I ceased being a military brat, a 'dependent' daughter, with all the safety that implies, I had to face a bigger reality. I have never stopped longing for those safe bases, and my safe little world. Yet I was always aware that outside the gate, at those bases, there was a whole other world of girls who were not safe at all: they were the whores, the dirty jokes, the 'necessary vaginas' for all the soldiers. There was a continental divide between us — like I was on one side of mountain range--and all the lost, disposable girls who got fucked and beaten up when the guys had to go get drunk--were way over on the other side. I have never resolved this 'conflict of women.' It is still a distressing mystery to me — why some girls are treated well and others are dirt. The mystery has even deepened now that I am one of the girls who are thought of as dirt. That whole dark hard frightening world of sexual violence, created by this division of women into two types, hovers over me everyday and makes it hard to walk outside the door.

March always brings despair to me since it is supposedly 'our month,' the time that all the feminists and the herstorians and the executives of companies and the academics and the 'take-back-the-night' women celebrate all the power and glory and beauty that is woman. There is no taking back the night. It is ruled by brutality and violence. So are the daylight hours. The omission, from that congress of voices, of the sexually destroyed women, is painful. The hidden dark world of their sexual suffering — whether it be in wartime or in peacetime--seems invisible to the privileged and safe women. All I have to do is look around me at the smug, intellectual women who celebrate their place in the world every March to see that they have not a clue.

I glance through a recent Newsweek and see a 'promotion' for a 'Women and Leadership' conference with pictures of a refined luncheon attended by women in outfits so tailored and stylish they look like they cost thousands of dollars. In attendance are all the privileged and safe who matter: titles like Special Diplomatic Correspondent and Chief Technology Officer and Senior Editor and President of Global Marketing and Executive Adviser to Universal Productions are attached to these women. Big smiles on all their faces in the pictures. Plans for another forum coming up. Another fancy luncheon at a posh locale, I guess.

What possible connection could there be between these tailored, self-congratulatory women eating expensive food at a refined luncheon and the hard, ugly, unimaginable world where young girls are gang raped without mercy by traffickers in order to render them completely submissive so they can service the millions of men who have to get fuck on degraded bodies — because that is what reality is. What would happen to those beautiful tailored suits if these women were broken for sexual use and what would happen to all their power and their fancy titles if they were 'rendered' only for sexual use: rendering-plant fuck where the body is slaughtered for sex so that men can get their fuck.

If the breaking process involved getting mounted every few minutes by a different rough hard brutal thing ripping you apart, how can you retain any dignity or your neat, stylish suit? Complete, naked, upended humiliation in front of a room of crude men who jeer at your spread body is what reality is. It is not a neat, refined outfit and a safe, expensive luncheon celebrating the power of women. We have no power if even one girl anywhere is naked, raped, and humiliated beyond repair. (Just the violence visited on her will make the world a dark, frightening night place forever, if she survives.)

I don't see any reality at all in the women with the fancy executive titles and their fancy expensive clothes. They are like those cardboard cutouts: their reality is negated by the sexual suffering of the helpless. Rather than focus on the top, we need to start with the bottom: journalistic coverage should zero in on the most wretched. Instead of stories about women executives (or perhaps I should say, 'in addition to' these stories), we need thousands of stories about, say, that one 14-year-old prostituted Slavic girl who is being raped 50 times a day by European men — in Athens, in London, in Amsterdam. We need the names and pictures and occupations of every man who has bought her, so that we can see she is not just a victim of a 'system' — prostitution--but of the actual men who do this to her. We need video coverage of her shivering and trembling and dying after her 50 rapes a day — for rape death is a terrible thing — and we need this coverage all over the world, blanketing all media. We need to see the 'truth' about the condition of women on this planet — thought this girl's eyes and through her body. Above all, we need to take her away from the men who are hurting her. We cannot 'save' her. We cannot 'heal' her after even one day of this treatment. But we can stop it from happening to her tomorrow.

That's the most we can do. Help one body. We cannot stop the 'system' itself. It is the normal way of life on Rape Planet Earth. You can only help one individual. Millions of more victims will follow the one you manage to help. Nothing can change that. This will always be Rape Planet Earth. But helping one girl is an immensely valuable thing to do.

I am on an island. It is off of a huge mainland. Really far away, on that mainland, I glimpse chattering smiling well-dressed women, all shining with feminist and CEO empowerment, all celebrating, in refined and intellectual tones, at a warm luncheon in a fancy room, the place of woman in the world. It is really cold on this island.

There is a scene toward the end of Nabokov's Lolita. Crazy sad lost old Humbert Humbert, his Lolita gone from him forever, is sitting on a cliff above a mining town at dusk. It is a warm, soft evening. He hears, arising from the valley, the voices of children playing — all the kinds of games kids used to play, before video games, when they would run around in the grass of a summer evening — hide-and-go-seek, tag. Simple games with simple innocent childhood voices.

Humbert says that what saddens him is not the innocent voices of the children — but that Lolita's voice is not among them.

When a new series on WWII goes over the same old ground, this is just a small piece of a huge, blind picture. The one voice that matters is not there, in any movie or coverage of war. Perhaps Redacted or Casualties of War makes up a bit for the omission. But even the latter movie presents us with the same-old scenario: the guys kidnap and rape the 'good' village girl because their leave was cancelled so they could not go to the nearest town and get laid by the 'bad' girls, the whores. Why is the rape of the 'good' girl the subject of this movie; why is it not about all the girls turned into sex garbage because of exploitation and prostitution during the Vietnam War?

When a female reporter for US News and World Report suggests that soldiers in Iraq are being brutal toward civilians because the men do not have 'reliable' brothels where can 'let off steam,' I wonder what she means by this. Is she implying that men have to have some place to stick their dicks, no matter what, even if it is into helpless, exploited girls' bodies? Do the men have to have some place they can get rough and drunk and terrify the girls forced to whore for them? So they won't be brutal toward civilians? Just toward the whores. And where are these whores to come from? Will they be, as they are so often, 'recruited' from the ranks of the helpless — perhaps homeless and undefended girls will be put in the brothels for the sanctioned brutality and drunkenness and roughness. Or will it be those women so hungry they will do this to feed their children — have sex with rough drunk men they don't know. The occupiers. The enemy. Sleeping with the enemy for food. What is this woman reporter implying? Does she think that the women and girls who will be forced to whore in the brothels don't matter, have no right to any kind of life or dignity beyond being fuck holes for drunk solders? Does this reporter want to go to Iraq and volunteer to be mounted all day so the men have a whore they can rough fuck and 'let off steam' on? You see the difficulty. The blindness extends everywhere. Did this women reporter not think at all before she wrote that statement? The sheer blind insensitivity of her attitude toward these exploited prostituted beings is amazing. Even though she has the same female body, her lack of empathy with their female bodies — used and hurt and fucked — is amazing. As a woman, does she have not an inkling of what it means to be fucked without tenderness by rough, drunk men?

It is not only the women reporters who ignore women. All I have to do is pick up almost any publication, look at any news show, read any internet news story, and rarely is the raped/prostituted woman part of the picture. Just at random, I glance through the latest Newsweek and find the latest story on Afghanistan: "The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight" by T. Christian Miller et al.(29 Mar. 2010) about corruption and incompetence in the Afghan police; I am told that most of the men are illiterate, among other facts, and that the American military defense contractors, DynCorp, are training these men to be police. First of all, no mention by Miller et al. of any mistreatment of women: corrupt police forces across the world tend to indulge in rape (as they have in Iraq, under US occupation) and even in kickbacks from brothel owners and sex traffickers. Is this also happening in Afghanistan? Was this aspect not important enough for Miller et al. to investigate (Miller is styled an investigative reporter by Newsweek)? The article does not go into DynCorp's own corruptions: they were implicated in sex trafficking in Kosovo. Why did Miller not investigate if DynCorp has any hand in sex trafficking in Afghanistan? My point: the raped/prostituted woman is seemingly not part of the landscape of war and occupation for any of these reporters. Invisible women. The women are as important as the men who hurt them, whether those men be local police and soldiers or occupying forces. Hidden, unnoticed, irrelevant beings: half the population of the planet with no meaningful voice or presence. Women as non-existent entities.

Such attitudes are symptomatic of a much bigger picture. I see news coverage of trafficking/prostitution in major American cities — like Las Vegas or New York or Chicago--and the reporters and those who actually work with rescued girls will still use words like 'client' and 'sexual partners' and the 'sex trade,' even when referring to the buying and selling of children. It is 'the rape trade' that we are speaking of and there are no 'clients' here. A 'sexual partner' is an equal, not someone who forces himself into an already damaged, helpless body. Words like 'client' indicate a masculine-centric bias. In fact, the entire system of prostitution is impossible to stop since it is based on male privilege. Just look at the facts: few of the prostituted are ever rescued or helped; it takes law enforcement forever just to bring about a conviction or two, despite the large number of pimps and traffickers out there; the prostitutes themselves are usually the ones arrested, not those who hurt them; johns are almost never the focus of the news stories, although the man's inability to control his dick and the idea that it is okay to buy bodies for sex are two major reasons for the rape trade. We know girls are being trafficked/prostituted — everywhere. We know the problem is huge in certain places — like Las Vegas and New York. We know girls are pimped, beaten, broken, raped, tortured. Why should it take years for law enforcement to even convict one pimp? And why are the client/rapists not sentenced to long prison terms for their destruction of these helpless girls? Male privilege rules. Patriarchal thinking rules. Most non-prostituted women are part of the problem — they promote the male privilege of buying and raping us by doing absolutely nothing.

Then there is the idea that if the girl goes into prostitution 'voluntarily,' she is open territory for abuse, that she can be terrorized and raped and humiliated by her 'customers' because, after all, she is just a piece of dirt and gets what she deserves for daring to sell herself. Amazing! Any discovery that the girl is not 'trafficked' and apparently she no longer counts — her body is unimportant, the trauma she sustains from brutal 'customers' is 'her own fault.' What does this say about attitudes toward women? And how can the words 'voluntary' or 'choice' be applied in situations where, say, Asian or Slavic girls may 'knowingly' (another favorite word) go to Kabul or Toronto or Las Vegas or India (name any place) for 'sex trade' purposes, only to discover how difficult 'working' in this 'profession' is, particularly if they are under the control of others who may take away their passports, impose a harsh debt bondage system on them, restrict their movements. Under this typical scenario, how can words like 'voluntary' and 'choice' even apply? Inability to prove 'coercion.' That's another favorite. How could sex with multiple men under very harsh and degrading conditions not constitute 'coercion,' no matter how the girl got into this situation? (Until 'sex work' [the euphemism for the 'rape trade'] destroys you, you really can't tell 'what you've gotten into.' And then it's too late.) Under the current systems of prostitution, few women escape unscathed. This being the case, I would go so far as to say that no woman should be allowed to enter prostitution until we 'clean up' prostitution so that it is safe and pleasant for the woman. Any woman being degraded this way impacts my life and safety and dignity.

How to 'clean up' the 'rape trade' and turn it into a 'sex trade.' First, take prostitution out of the dark corners. No red-light districts. No underground brothels. Women need to sell themselves in clean, well-lit, safe, centrally located venues where all can see what is going on. No pimps. The woman must control herself and her money. No women under age 25 (bare minimum) allowed in the profession. I say 'bare minimum' since even by that age, a woman has not even begun to understand her own sexuality. And how can you sell your body if you don't understand it — or what happens to it when it is with a male body?

Let's take the Vancouver Olympics as an example of what could have been. Girls were trafficked for the sex tourists; this happens at all major sporting events: World Cup, Olympics, Super Bowl. I noticed that Vancouver has a lovely waterfront. Why not fancy yachts, right there were all tourists — men and women — can see, for the venue of sex-for-sale. Since it is out in the open, we could make sure no pimps were involved in selling the girls. We could try to find out if the girl is being controlled in any way, if she is getting the money, or if she is too afraid or brainwashed to speak out against her controllers. Brothels adjacent to all the Olympic venues, places where women work openly, with no controllers, and where their physical safety is assured. Mental safety, I don't know. Until we rid ourselves of all these ideas that female sexuality is there for exploitation, I really don't know how to turn prostitution into an activity that psychologically benefits the woman. This would require attitudes toward female sexuality so radically different from the ones that reign on Earth now, that we cannot yet imagine them. But, for openers, we could at least eliminate all sexual and physical violence and humiliation from prostitution.

It is odd that more and more women — calling themselves 'sexperts'--are writing books about female sexuality: many seem to focus on our physical satisfaction and achieving that elusive perfect soul-shattering orgasm. 'Babegasms'? "Ecstagasms'? 'Infinity Gasms'? I don't know what misleading phrases the sexperts label this imaginary female sexual satisfaction in their non-existence, deluded sexual empires. Why this focus on the orgasm, as if it could be engineered, on its own, as a valuable entity? It doesn't have any meaning if surrounded by the sexual violence that women either fear, or, in many cases, endure, just as routine. We women have no sexual empire since we have no sexuality — because we have no sexual safety. Any attempt on our part to express our beautiful sexuality can lead to rape and punishment — to making it seem ugly if we are open and willing and wet and wanting it. If a girl likes sex, she is a 'whore' so put her in a brothel: the men there will teach her not to like sex anymore. If she is 'hot' and 'needs it,' rape her till she doesn't feel anything anymore. This is sexual reality for large numbers of women on this planet — not those non-existent fantasy realms of imaginary 'babegasms.' My own experience bears out the punishment possibility: 'She's hot and she likes to fuck' was what I heard the men who raped me say; I was hot and I did like to fuck--until they raped all the feeling out of me. I had to be punished because I was sexual. Now there is no safe place I can be sexual. Even if I am with a nice, gentle man, at any moment he could treat me the way the rapists did: he could punish me again for daring to be sexual. So all my beautiful sexuality is in a pit somewhere — it was made ugly and I don't know how to get back the shining precious thing that I had.

If we are to be punished so severely for our beautiful sexuality, it's just not worth it, letting that beautiful sexuality out. Keep it hidden or you will be scorned for being 'hot' and willing and responsive. The vagina is a special, warm space that we women carry around inside us. Sadly, we have to keep it closed off or we will be blamed and punished terribly for having that magical precious special beautiful part. Even more sadly, so many women--like the trafficked/prostituted ones--cannot keep it closed off since they are forced to open it; and then they are blamed and jeered at and labeled 'whore' and dirty jokes are made about them — all because they have a special soft shining lovely space — that has been broken into. Another sadness, a very ironical one: we are outcast and ruined because of the most beautiful part of ourselves.

All the supposedly 'liberated' women's magazines that constantly print articles about 'bad girl sex tricks' and '100 naughty sex positions' are playing on the denigration of our bodies: it is as if the women who put out these magazines are incapable of thinking outside the good-girl/bad-girl dichotomy that has been so pernicious for so long. Although they try to reverse the polarities by considering 'bad, naughty sex' good sex, it's still the same old mode of thinking that has been enslaving us for 5000 years: whores in one area, good girls in the other. Then the good girls try to imitate the whores and be 'naughty' and 'bad' in a trendy way. But that does not in any way eliminate the millions of 'bad' girls being used and sold and exploited. In fact, holding on to such categories as 'good' versus 'bad' girls continues to keep us in sexual chains.

Oddly, some see me as a prude for daring to criticize this trendy way of thinking — as if it were good to be 'naughty' and 'bad.' Far from being a prude, I would welcome a world where we women can be as open and sexual and loving as we like, with hundreds of men, if we choose — all willing, of course — never any 'against our will' — the phrase would no longer exist — all of our sexual openness accepted and celebrated. Where can one be like this? Not in the fantasy paradises constructed by the women's magazines and their sexperts. Find me a space, a country, a city, even an apartment, where a woman can be free from all sexual fear and violence. I would have to create a whole new vocabulary to express a whole different reality: words like 'good' and 'bad' and 'whore' and 'naughty' would no longer apply.

Also, I rarely find any reference to the prostituted in the writings of the 'sexperts.' Why do they never deal with the worn, the dead, the raped-to-pieces women of the world? Or with all the little girls being forced in every country — right in their own cities, in fact, since no place is free of this misery. Child sexual slavery is endemic, lucrative for the pimps, deadly for the children. How can the fantasy realm of wonderful sex or a 'babegasm' matter to these girls, with their bodies messed up even before they reach puberty? On occasion a 'sexpert' will make a passing joke — some little cutesy witty phrasing about the 'dirty joys of the oldest profession,' or some such nonsense. But mostly I, and my kind, are not in their world at all. (In a contradictory way, I mind. Although I pretty much cringe when I am around normal, safe, privileged women, some stubborn side of me still wants to be part of that world. You would think I would be happy to be outcast from a world I do not respect. I guess we all want to belong and to find a warm, safe place.)

I remember a Marie Claire article on 'sex tricks around the world' and one of them they chose was 'dry sex' — the way certain African women are taught to dry out their vagina with hot peppers so that their partners can have a tight fit and a great time in there while the women die of pain and tearing. How on earth is this a 'sex trick'? Didn't the editors of Marie Claire have even an inkling of the pain that dry sex causes a woman? Wouldn't these privileged café caramel latte women editors in their safe fancy offices be horrified if this were done to their vaginas?

Voices not heard. I also note a lack of fundraising for trafficked/prostituted women. Nicholas Kristof, columnist for the New York Times, comments that we jump on the charity bandwagon for disasters like Haiti but ignore the ongoing disaster for women that is the Congo, which is currently one of the most savage rape grounds on the planet now (along with Darfur). Some funding is actually going to the Congo, and I am not saying that Haiti is unimportant; but I cannot find hardly any enthusiastic widespread fundraising or charity efforts for the trafficked and the prostituted. Not on the local level — for girls enslaved in one's own city — or to stop the big brutal international problem that crosses borders and takes Asian girls to be sold in Australia or New York or that transports enslaved Slavic girls to everywhere: Western Europe, Mexico, South America, China, India, Korea. In fact, it would be good to start an organization that works exclusively on raising funds to help the Slavic Sex Slaves in all countries.

Kristof focuses on trafficked/raped Indian and Asian and African girls, which is good, but if he ever has time, I would like to see him include the Slavic girls in his agenda. (As an aside, I really worry about this man — he is constantly going to dangerous places to uncover sexual brutality. What if he gets killed or hurt? What will we do without him? The man is a miracle: one of the few consistent strong wonderful powerful influential voices for oppressed and terribly damaged women. What will we do if we lose him? He really seems to care. He never gives up. He keeps the cause of suffering women in his sight all the time. Equally important, his columns appear in the influential New York Times, a publication that largely ignores the suffering female body — except for his one voice [and an occasional piece by another columnist, Bob Herbert]).

Back to the fundraising, I notice numerous charities for sponsoring underprivileged girls in Asia and Africa and India so the girls can go to school. They always seem to be ones who already have some protection, girls with families to care for them. I'd like to see the charities include the orphaned, defenseless girls living and eating out of garbage sites: these are the ones pimps will pick up and drug and sell since no one cares about them. And I would like to see the charity extend to girls taken out of prostitution: usually they go back in due to psychological damage and no alternatives. How about huge charity efforts, high-profile, that assist all the 'rescued' girls who never get rescued since we haven't yet figured out how to help girls this damaged. Part of the money could go toward solving this problem: how do you keep the girl from being re-trafficked or escaping back to her pimp since she is so mentally and physically messed up, she has no where else to go. If the rescued girl doesn't feel that she fits into the normal world, she will try to get back to the prostitute world, where at least she has some sort of home. It is a complex psychological problem and one that may speak against that notion of 'resilience' that we are so fond of. Indomitable human spirit and all that. Maybe it is not so indomitable. Maybe people cannot heal from certain forms of extreme torture — which is what the beatings, humiliations, and continuous rape that the trafficked go through are — extremes of torture. After all, many concentration-camp survivors killed themselves. There are high-rates of suicide among prostitutes and ex-prostitutes. Maybe the human spirit and human body and not so indomitable.

Why is it so hard to actually rescue girls from prostitution? My theory, based on my own experience, is that you don't believe you can be rescued once you've been prostituted. There is no going back. You can't fit into normal reality ever again, and all the non-prostituted women you meet will seem so normal that it is very painful to be in their presence. Even going to the supermarket is painful — because you are surrounded by normal, non-prostituted women. The cereal boxes have pictures of non-prostituted women and girls on them. So do most of the magazine covers. Family magazines are full of safe, privileged women smiling happily at piles of brownies and chocolate chip cookies. The frozen dinner section calls up images of all the cosy families in TV commercials, enjoying those quick-to-prepare meals together in safety. These two types of women — the prostituted and non-prostituted--belong to different species.

Being physically invaded against your will seems to cause a lot of weird psychological quirks in women. I'll use my own crazy, neurotic self as an example. After being raped, I was in a state of permanent shock and withdrawal. So I pretty much hid from the world and read Tarzan books, until I ran out of savings. Then, the only thing I could think to do was to sell my body. That was the only path possible for me. I could not see any other way to live. There were, actually, many other things I could have done since I live in the West, where there are jobs for women, lots of them. But I was blind to the possibilities — like working at Macy's or at a bookstore or for a fancy restaurant — due to having a damaged, invaded body that made me feel too vulnerable to leave the house. I found it impossible to apply for work since it would have meant facing normal women. How could I sell a scarf at Macy's to a normal woman, or how could I wait on a table of safe, expensively dressed, unraped women? The world of 'normal' was closed to me forever. Still is. I do all sorts of things — I work and write and walk out the door — with great reluctance — since leaving any enclosed space seems so dangerous. The forces of violence are out there. Hovering, like Dementors, and I don't have a wand or a protective spirit. I call on my animals all the time to protect me. Before I leave the house, everyday, to go to that terrible place called work where I am surrounded by normal women, I ask my animals to protect me and see me home safely. Actually, my work environment is not terrible at all — people are very polite to each other — but all the polite, normal women I must come in contact every day cause extreme pain — like always rubbing a wound that never heals. Their very normality hurts.

I ponder and puzzle over sex. What happens when my body is with a male body? Aside from those dreadful rapes, most men have been kind to my body. Not much intentional violence, just the necessary roughness that is the hard male — a nice type of roughness if not accompanied by fear of the male. But even kindly-intentioned, chivalrous sex with a good guy does not make me feel sexually liberated or safe. Why? — because the little island that is the bed gives only an illusion of safety. I never feel an authentic sexuality inside of me — something beautiful and free. Female Sexuality is too mixed up with fear and sadness.

Even the men who bought me and behaved kindly were still promoting a system that exploits all women; they were saying it is okay to buy a body. I read a story of an Iraqi prostitute who was happy when a GI customer was kind, and gentle with her--so happy that she forgot to notice how much money her pimp took from the transaction. Her happiness was a sad illusion. What if the pimp sells her next to men who are not so kind — like a group of Iraqi police — who will rape women taken into custody — so imagine how cruel they would be to a prostitute? Sexual safety and kindness are always an illusion for women on Rape Planet Earth.

Attitudes. We would have to bring about drastic changes in these in order to help the prostituted. I just don't see it happening. When girls commit crimes against 'johns' so as to avoid beatings and torture by their pimps, it's the girls who are arrested, not the pimps. Utterly fucking friggin' amazing, as they say. The girl will do anything to avoid more torture and beatings — yet she is the one punished, even more, by the police — for her desperate attempts to protect herself?

Attitudes: the male norm of buying bodies, even child ones, and hurting those bodies — sometimes beyond repair, in the case of child prostitutes — is just that--a norm. Where is the punishment for the thousands of 'johns' who may have hurt that child prostitute so badly--since her body was not at all ready for sex — that her reproductive system can't be healed? You find child prostitutes everywhere — but it is more common to sell little 8- and 10-year-olds in places like India and Cambodia: sex tourists are part of the problem but it is largely local men who make up the buyers. Often the child prostitute is kept drugged so that she will be able to endure the pain and drugged to make her passive so that she will not scream all the time during the rapes. But the men who use her are called 'clients,' and their rape-time with her is called a 'visit,' as if they were just partaking of a cup of tea? And are the men arrested and imprisoned for this dreadful crime? No, they just go home — to their wives and daughters. That this brutality is a norm — not even considered worthy of punishment — says a lot about how we will never stop the rape of the body this is euphemistically called things like 'the sex trade.' These little girls have bodies not at all ready for sex: girls before puberty are not producing the lubrication they need during sex and their tissues are still thin and tearable: so sex for them must be excruciating. But the crime of forcing it on them is not even noticed? Do all the privileged women and girls of Bombay and Calcutta and New Delhi just walk on by — even though some of the rapes take place outside in public since it costs more to take a girl to a room to fuck her.

Attitudes: books on the male-at-war come out all the time and they seem to ignore the consequences of the wars he makes, that deadly impact on the female. A reissue of The Things They Carry is coming out now. In one section, the author mentions how the soldiers would invade village huts at night to frighten the girls. As if these poor girls didn't have enough to contend with, living in a war-torn country. Didn't the author think that maybe if it was his sister back home, would he want strange men rushing into her room at night to frighten her? Why do we continue to exalt men who hurt women in Vietnam?

Another Vietnam war memoir, The Matterhorn, was just published. From what I can tell of the reviews, it looks like yet another male-centered war tale. It is puzzling and painful that the stories of these soldiers matter and that mine is irrelevant. The soldiers (all of them Vietnam vets) who raped took away my life forever. I can never go back. I knew, during the rapes, that there was never going to be a me ever again. Since the rapes, I have written books and gotten lots of education and yet I still don't exist. My only existence is as a raped being. Why is my story, recounted in my Raped Vagina book and in my many novels, not important? Why are The Things They Carry and The Matterhorn and The Pacific the only war stories we hear — or see? The horror stories of the women sexually slaughtered by war are way way way way more painful than any male recountings.

Attitudes: I wonder why we might need yet another academic article from a pampered Women's Studies prof on the entrenched empowered feminine psyche in Shakespeare (or whoever) while young girls, 14- and 15-year olds, are being sold at truck stops in Africa (and America) and given AIDS before they are twenty. Girls who are so ruined they will hate men and sex forever. Girls reduced to nothing. Girls looking for some small space of safety in their pitiful lives. What good is another article on Shakespeare by some woman scholar at a conference in a posh hotel in Paris (or London, or wherever) going to do this girl who needs immediate help and rescue? Yet the academic woman is regarded as valuable — useless as her words are — and the truck-stop girl is just a throwaway human being? Major attitude adjustments are needed. Not one more worthless article on Shakespeare until we get those suffering girls out of there!

Also, just while we are on the subject, not one more baby made or born until we feed and care for every baby now alive. That kind of attitude adjustment will solve practically everything: no more exploitation since there will be no more 'surplus population' to exploit. It is so simple. Just stop making babies. Give women power and dominion over their own bodies — and joy and safety in those bodies — and you will not have one disposable human being on the planet

I am grateful every day that I wake up and no one is going to rape me all day. What kind of a world of complete male privilege and domination do I live in that I should be grateful that I am safe for a few minutes or a few hours. Will my safety last for at least one more day, I always wonder as I go to bed at night — and devoutly hope my animals can protect me if the violence of the world bursts into the room. My motives for wanting to eliminate prostitution/trafficking are purely selfish. My safety depends on all other women and girls being safe. If even one girl is being sexually hurt, that could be me next. Or any other woman in the world. Attitudes, again: This safety issue is one reason why it is so harmful to say, 'oh, she chose to be a prostitute, so if men hurt her, it's her own fault.' Even the girls working under the most protected of conditions are still subjected to some violence and humiliation — and they are certainly subjected to massive social censure in every culture, no matter how liberal. So how could going into a 'job' where sexual and other kinds of violence are practically a norm be considered a 'choice'? The whole 'choice' debate/attitude is harmful and irrelevant and needs to be jettisoned — so we can get on with saner attitudes: like it never okay to physically harm a woman. A woman cannot 'choose' to be mistreated without it affecting me. The 'client' who buys and hurts her will take his brutal male privilege out into the world, where the 'normal' women are — and he could hurt them, too. And he could hurt me. He doesn't just go and mistreat a prostitute and then magically transforms into a 'gentleman' when he is with a non-prostituted woman--after dumping his violent garbage on the prostituted one. He is the same brute violent male that he was with the prostituted girl.

Attitudes. I live near a number of major universities who bring in many speakers from many fields, and lectures by political scientists and historians on Afghanistan and Iraq pop up all the time. I have yet to note one speaker mention the massive prostituting of women as a result of these two conflicts. They will tell us that 50% of the people of Afghanistan live in poverty, but that never leads to any exploration of the starving women who have to sell themselves. What little I know of the prostitution situation in the Middle East comes from a handful of women in Afghanistan and Iraq who have e-mailed me: and they all say that prostitution due to conflict and desperation is widespread. All the historians and political scientists (male and female) seem to understand that the heaviest toll of war is on the civilians: why, then, I wonder, do they overlook one of the worst forms of violence — the sexual kind--committed against women during war and occupation? Their attitudes are so exclusively patriarchal that the suffering prostituted raped female body is not even something they are capable of noting? Or do they note it but consider it irrelevant to human affairs? Drastic attitude changes within academic circles are called for.

I have a theory, and it supports my notion that we live on Rape Planet Earth and that no female feels safe here. The theory is based on the enormous popularity of the Twilight books, particularly among young girls. A major theme of the books is the helpless fragility of the female. Bella, the Helpless, requires protection every second. And the males who protect her from outer violence (Edward, Jacob) also have to protect her from themselves — from the possibility that the strength inside them will accidentally break loose and harm her. All of us girls are Bella — we just don't have enough Edward's and Jacob's to protect us.

Granted there are myriad forms of violence in the world. I focus on violence toward women because I don't know how I'd tackle all the dangers and brutalities out there without being so overwhelmed I'd become immobile. Torture, land mines, biological weapons — where do I start? All equally important, and needing action on the part of all humans — to eliminate this insane savagery from our species that causes us to hurt each other and the helpless. I can't tackle everything so I concentrate on one thing — sexual violence — since it is not only under-reported but pretty much ignored as simply a given. (This focus does not mean I discount all the other forms of injustice and suffering in the world: I just would not know how to proceed if I let them all swamp me, like an avalanche of misery and brutality. And it is about time that the world speaks up against the hurting of women — and other helpless creatures.)

Sexual violence fits in with a much bigger picture that sanctions the beating of women, to keep them submissive and in-line — common in many cultures; and the forcing of girls into marriage in their early teens, or even younger; long before their bodies are even ready for sex, they are forced to have babies. The sheer idiocy of a 15-year-old with two babies when she herself is not even past her own childhood staggers the mind. Yet it is commonplace. Attitudes: the female is for fuck and to have babies — so start screwing her when she is only thirteen. Barbarous, yet commonplace.

Jonah Goldberg's "Where Feminists Get It Right" (Tribune Media Services, 12 Mar. 2010) opens with an account of another barbarism: breast ironing in Cameroon to keep girls from being attractive to boys. The process mutilates and disfigures the girl. He quotes an ob-gyn in Cameroon who says it is rare to find a girl past age 13 there who is a virgin — and Goldberg blames this on boys not being able to keep it in their pants. One focus of his article is that no KPIP — keep pecker in pants — seems to be expected from men. No self-restraint. It is an idea I have long written about — the sexual savagery of the male as a sanctioned norm. To quote Goldberg: "Around the world, women--girls — have to pay the price for the brutality of boys." He goes on to say that "in Saudi Arabia, and across the Middle East, men can't handle seeing a leg — or even an ankle — so rather than putting a blindfold on the men, they throw a tarp over the women." Particularly interesting is his idea that "throughout vast swaths of the Muslim world, men can't compute dealing with women as equals, so they lock up the women."

My first response to Goldberg's article is "you go, guy!" — you hit the target, just right. Arrow, feather, bull's-eye! His views seem irrefutable to me. Men can't keep it in their pants — and we women suffer greatly for this — especially since the raped girl is scorned for own rape and the boys strut around like proud cocks and, universally, female sexuality is a sad, oppressed, bedraggled thing (my words and views, not necessarily Goldberg's).

Goldberg also touches on one of my favorite ideas: that the liberation of women can lead to great things. I have long held that female sexual liberation will pretty much free the world from most of its problems. Grant complete and beautiful sexual freedom to all women, so that those sensual embers, slumbering inside of us all these thousands of years, become glorious and gorgeous wild fires and, my gosh, what would the world look like? No sex forced on women or girls ever again would lead to changes so tremendous, we would not recognize the world: no over-population; no AIDS orphans since there would be no AIDS; no war, since there would be no tanks or guns or missiles; no prostitution since there would be no war or poverty to force us into them — for the privileged sexuality of the male. In fact, no male sexual privilege at all--dominating us, taking us, crushing us down. It does not mean masculinity would be gone from the world: it just means the male would never dominate or hurt the helpless. It means masculinity would be unfailingly chivalrous. Never again does the mere fact of superior male physical strength rule the planet. Men hold back. They never use force against us — ever again.

There is too little space here for my new world to occupy, but you will be able to read about it in my sixth novel (The Freshwater Mermaid) — not published yet. Meanwhile, my other five novels are out there: they are the precursors to the sixth. All the heaviness and sorrow of Earth give way, in this sixth book, to a featherlight planet. Feathers. Lightness. Everywhere.

Every time I get caught up in writing about the suffering of others, I realize that I cannot pretend to understand the plight of those living under extremes of torture. I am too fortunate and have not seen enough darkness (which is what is so scary — I have not even touched the surface of the darkness). This part seems clumsily written because I am trying to express what is most important. It's not my ranting along, writing articles making little difference, barely a ripple. I think the helpless are important. Not just fragile humans. Animals are more helpless than humans. What is really important to focus on is some poor injured calf being dragged to slaughter or some poor pig in a cage barely bigger than she is, where she can't get away, being beaten with an iron bar. Or a dog who lives his whole life chained to a post. Those images of helpless animals are wake-up moments for me. They leave in the dust all the silly words I have just put on the page.

I will swing around at the end of this pieces to where I started, war stories. A current (15 Mar. 2010) Newsweek review by Caryn James, "The Pacific: Hollywood Goes to War (Again)," does hold that this latest series goes over the same old war territory as before. But she fails to note the omission of the comfort women; the omission of the sad, sold bodies of vulnerable hungry girls forced to whore; the leaving out of the pathetically raped; the ignoring of the helpless, the prostituted, the trafficked — in short, the way, like Band of Brothers, this series seems to miss the tremendous sexual toll on the fragile female body that is, I hold, at the center of war. Now, HBO just began to show the series. I may be wrong about the omissions. Perhaps Spielberg and Hanks pay tons of attention to the story of every Occupation Comfort Girl in post — WWII Japan and to every girl raped during the invasion of Okinawa. It just doesn't look like this is the case from the HBO website.

If the series does omit the essential raped war-ravaged female body, I can supply a story. The one The Pacific should have told.

Here it is…



Comfort the Comfort Women"Takita" is an except from one of my novels, Comfort the Comfort Women.

Takita's story is based on what happened to the Occupation Comfort Girls, women conscripted to sexually service Allied troops in post-WWII Japan. The details are based on actual facts — turned into a story by my imagination. For some of the details, I relied on testimonies from the Korean Comfort Women because we do not have similar testimonies, translated into English, from the Occupation girls. Very few were able to get past the barrier of shame and speak. I also had to rely on the Korean women since I could not, for example imagine on my own what it would feel like to be violated 50 times a day — my mind won't go there — despite the vulnerability of my own body to rape.

Here is "Takita."

*          *          *

Takita was sold, when she was just a child, to a house where she was trained to be a pleasure slave. It was one of the traditions of her country, that the pretty daughter be sold to appease the Goddess Phuddenda. Sacrificed for money on the sensual altar fires of lust and fuck. And Takita was more than pretty — a delicate little darling with a fine-featured face and a sweet tiny body that showed voluptuous promise. From the time she was small, she had had long, long hair, silky and thick and shining. Her big eyes were golden brown, her skin fair, and her lips and tiny nipples the palest rosebud pink.

In her mid-teens, she did her first sexual entertaining of a customer. At first frightening, this invasion of her softness, she soon grew used to it, to some extent. Most of the customers, though, she privately thought rather overbearing, concerned only with their own needs, and heedless of her delicate body.

Most, too, were 'old' to her youthful eyes — prosperous men in their fifties, with fat bellies. Little there to stir the fires of her young body. So, she endured — what they did to her. Sometimes, though, a man would come along who was kind, who treated her like a father would. Then all the longing to be loved, by a daddy, cared for, by a strong man, would come welling out of her. Sometimes she cried in the arms of these kind men, and they understood. Poor little things, bereft, having to lay down under men they didn't like, when what they really wanted was to be held by men they did like.

These kind ones pampered Takita and her sister sex slaves, treated them like daddy's little girl. Brought them little presents. One of Takita's treasures was a gift from one of these men--a lovely comb, to hold up her hair, fashioned in the shape of a bouquet of violets.

Takita was very popular because she was exceptionally lovely. Her long hair, which fell to her knees, was blue-black, and she had huge liquid golden eyes, ivory skin, dainty wrists and ankles, and a perfect body — like that of a shapely little doll. Perfect mounds for breasts, perfectly rounded buttocks, and the smallest of waists. Add a tiny nose and luscious shapely pink lips and you had an apparition of supreme beauty, almost too delicate and evanescent for this world.

At the house, her main comfort lay in two other indentured girls like herself. All three were exceptionally petite, even by tiny Asians standards, and they looked adorable, mincing along together, on their tiny feet, in their tiny kimonos, blue and pink and yellow, like a bouquet on the move. One was named Miki, the other Yoko. Takita usually dressed in pale silken pink, Miki, in robes of sky blue, and Yoko wore kimonos the color of fuzzy chicks and duckies.

When she was not doing the bidding of big, heavy men, Takita giggled and played and laughed with her sisters. Because of their smallness, everyone called them the Tiny Trio.

At night, in warm weather, the girls liked to sit near the lake by their brothel, and watch the moon wash its silver over the water. Frogs and crickets made a comforting chorus in the background.

About this lake, the girls wrote poems, and they did delicate little drawings, with small brushes, of its beauty, and the beauty of the frogs and the crickets.

The Big War came, and with it, a diminishment of customers. Hunger, too, and no new clothes. Sometimes soldiers who passed through the town were allowed to use the girls. It was rumored, because of hard times, that the girls' owner was going to sell them, to the army.

Takita and her two sex-pleasure sisters grew very frightened. From the soldiers they had been forced to lie with, the girls knew they liked these customers even less than their previous ones. Drunk and rough and smelly was mostly how the soldiers were.

The girls overheard their owner negotiating with a procurer, haggling over prices for the Tiny Trio, saying they were available right now, to be taken to the nearest barracks, where soldiers were training.

In a panic, the girls tied up a few precious belongings, in big silk handkerchiefs, knotted at top, and, after stealing what food they could from the kitchen, ran away.

They had no idea where to go. The brothel was their only home. Tokyo, huge, they had heard of, and it seemed the place to head. There maybe they could lose themselves in the crowd, find another brothel to take them in, where they would not be sold to soldiers.

On the trip, on foot, the girls stayed on unbeaten paths as much as possible, to avoid being noticed, and so they got muddy and dirty. After a few days of travel, they were also starving, since the food had run out.

Once, they barely missed being detected by a huge column of soldiers, marching. In nearby reeds, the girls held their breath and tried not to shiver since they were knee-deep in water.

For hours after the near encounter, they trembled, having heard of this thing called rape, where soldiers forced themselves into you. How this was different from what the soldiers had been doing to them, back in their brothel, they weren't sure. But, then, they were only innocent country girls with a sheltered view of the world. Their little nest had consisted of enduring what men did to their bodies, and trying to take pleasure in the small things of life, like good food, and pretty kimonos, and the lake, and the frogs.

Just after the encounter with the soldiers, massive clouds of black ash invaded the reed and marsh lands where they were walking. They had no way of knowing that this was the aftermath of huge bombs that would guide their destiny.

A couple of days later, they reached Tokyo. Sore, starving, dusty, frightened. So lost and terrified, that they clung to each other tightly for comfort. For Tokyo was no better than where they had come from. A bombed-out mass of shards and ruins, with others as hungry as they were.

The war was over and their soldiers had lost. After having been mistreated by their own men, back in the brothel, they felt little sorrow for that loss. Food was what was important. Not sorrow for soldiers who had hurt their tiny bodies.

For the next couple of weeks, they begged and scrounged and ate mashed remains of food they didn't even recognize, when they could find patches of it, in alleys, near garbage bins — that is, if other starving girls didn't beat them to it.

It was August and still warm, so sleeping beneath overhangs, or in bombed-out ruins was not too bad, but they knew that in just a couple of weeks, the winds of autumn would be blowing in.

By this time, the girls were so filthy and bedraggled that you would not have recognized them for the clean, tidy little geishas they once were. Maybe worst of all, they were barefoot, for their thin footwear, not designed for long-distance travel, had worn out on the trip. A few strips from their socks still remained on their feet, but that was all.

Giant soldiers, the ones of the conquering enemy, terrifying and pale, were everywhere in the city, and the girls hid from them constantly. It was their main goal, to not let the huge monsters find them — that and the quest for food.

One night, a group of their own soldiers grabbed them up roughly, carried them off, from the pile of stones they had been sleeping in. The weak girls kicked and cried as much as they could, but the men just laughed. Was this going to be that thing called 'rape' went through their terrified minds?

But, no, these men didn't rape them. Instead, they took them to a big building with a sign over the door saying 'Amusement and Recreation Recruiting Center' (the girls didn't know this is what it said, since they couldn't read the strange language), where there were several of the pale monster enemy soldiers sitting at a table, and a lot of others standing around, smoking cigarettes. Actually, to the girls all men, almost, seemed liked the enemy — except for their father substitutes back in the brothel. But these giant unknown monsters were particularly frightening to the girls because their imaginations did not want to know what kind of weapon lurked between the legs of men so big. It was too miserable, to let the mind even go there. Darkness, panic, sweating hit, to prevent the girls from even thinking of a fear so huge.

Their own soldiers set the shivering, terrified girls down, in a row, in front of the strangers at the table. Eyes down, shaking with fear, Takita only caught a glimpse of the big men's pale ice blue eyes. They were looking at the girls with disfavor, disgust.

A big man spoke, in a voice that sounded flat, like a machine hammering out nails. One of their own men was near the table, and he translated for the sake of the other procurers: "This the best you can do?"

"Prime fuck girls," laughed the soldiers who brought them in.

"You fuck 'em?" asked the big man.

"No," was the response. The 'recruiters' knew that the American army had said to bring the girls in unraped. Keep their holes in shape for what was to come.

"Alright," said the big man, with disgust. He paid the equivalent of about five dollars for each girl, and their abductors left.

There were many soldiers in the room. All those strange-colored eyes, boring into them, made the girls feel even weaker than hunger. The hardness of the lust, in those eyes. Most of the men were sizing the girls up, as fuck targets. But one, unknown to Takita, felt sorry for them. Especially sorry for their tiny, dirty feet, bare except for a few strips of white cloth wrapped around them.

When some of the men came toward them, the girls tried to run, but they were grabbed, and their hands and feet were bound. The men laughed, as they carried them to an adjacent room, put them beside about a dozen others, all bound, terrified, eyes wide with misery.

Girls here and there whispered amongst themselves for comfort. Takita, Miki, and Yoko, lying all bound and bunched together, talked about what the soldiers were going to do with them. Bad idea. They started crying, and then so did the rest of the room. A soldier opened the door, stepped into their midst, shouted, harshly, "Shut up, you little sluts." Due to the hard admonition of his voice, he needed no translation. Sobs turned to sniffles and pitiful mews. The soldier who had felt sorry for their dirty little feet felt even more pity now, for their sad little sounds. He knew what was going to happen to them.

"Are we going to feed them anything, given them anything to drink?" he asked a superior officer, just to have some outlet, for his kindness. He tried to keep his voice neutral, so as not to betray any feelings toward the girls. It was considered a sign of weakness, to feel any compassion for the 'recruits.' After all, they were 'fuck meat,' meant for pleasure, not the object of any kind of gentlemanly behavior. It was rough — this soldier had been brought up to be a gentleman where the ladies were concerned. But, then, what if these weren't 'ladies'? How could you tell? If some of these kids were virgins — and they sure looked young enough, scared enough, to never have known men, then were they 'ladies.' And once all the soldiers starting fucking them, well, then did that mean they weren't ladies anymore. It was very confusing.

"No food or drink yet," answered the officer. "Hunger makes 'em more docile, easier to control." These girls already looked hungry enough to be plenty easy to control, in the compassionate soldier's mind, and small and timid enough to be kept in line, even without hunger, but he said nothing.

A few more girls were brought in, over the next hour or so, and then the American soldiers got their catch to its feet, to transport them elsewhere. They undid the girls' ankles, but left their hands tied behind their backs. As they shoved them into the waiting trucks, the men weren't so much rough as just careless. And impatient. Sooner you got this fuck meat on the slabs the better, was in their minds. They wanted some place to shove their dicks into.

Men especially eyed Takita because even through the starvation and grime, they could see she was beautiful. As they pushed up against her, in the back of the truck, she could feel their eager hardness, and she felt sick inside, with cold and fear.

The girls were taken to a large building with the sign 'Comfort Station' over the door (in that language they couldn't read so they did not know it was a 'comfort zone' — no one told them.) Once inside, within just a few minutes, they knew that they had arrived in hell. Immediately, they were shoved into small cubicles, with mats on the floors and curtains for doors, and men started mounting them. First, the men who had been on the trucks took their turns, and then others came in, in a steady stream, to get their pleasure.

So impatient were the first rapists, that they simply parted the girls' robes, to get at their private parts, but soon those robes were gone, and the girls lay there completely naked, defenseless.

For Takita, the onslaught stunned her into shock and then into eventual unconsciousness. No preliminary, no courtship, she did not even know the names of the men, nor could she tell them apart, since they all looked alike to her. Back at the brothel, even the rudest of customers had let her know his name. Even her own soldiers, coarse at they were, had introduced themselves.

'Baby' seemed to be what the huge soldiers on top of her were calling her, as they thrust, looks of crazy, spaced-out ecstasy on their hairy, massive faces. Snorts, grunts, groans, terrible smells from their armpits, along with the cries and screams of the other girls, in the background — all of this Takita registered dimly somewhere, on the surface, since the main reality of her being was this dreadful, tearing pain between her legs. And the heavy bruising of her tiny body, as she suffocated beneath the men's giant weight. Even the first one who mounted split her with a shaft that was far larger than anything she had ever experienced. The pain was like lightning, sharp, electric, jolting, unendurable.

And it kept coming. Just one rape, by one big soldier, of this army, with his huge shaft, would have been unbearable. Yet it kept coming.

Mercifully, after a dozen men, she passed out. Several men later, she swam up out of her river of pain, only to be greeted by a sea of unbearable torment — for the men kept mounting, even when the girls were unconscious.

The problem was that there weren't enough fuckholes to go around, despite recruitment proceeding apace. It took time, to round up the homeless girls: the American military police were scooping whoever looked poor and shabby and alone and without protection, into their jeeps and trucks, and the runtscrawny shits that passed for men in this country were doing their part, bringing them in at five dollars a head.

Mercifully, again, Takita passed out.

When she came to, she was so dazed with rapepain and rapeshock that she couldn't tell how much time had passed or even who she was. Days, or centuries, in some geological timespan of red-hot hell. There was no way she could even know the number of men who had mounted her. All her senses seemed on fire, like her body. Her eyes felt cold and then hot, and her tongue was so swollen in her mouth, she couldn't breath and a river of burning ran from her chest down to her feet.

It was dark, and chilly, in the cubicle, despite it still being the tale end of summer outside. No blanket to pull around her — the soldiers had deliberately kept covering from the girls, once they were naked, so as to make them feel even more defenseless. As if invasion of their softest, most intimate part weren't already enough to do that.

So swollen were her genitals that she couldn't put her legs together. This became one of the standing jokes of this standing army — 'fucked her so good, gave her so much loving, slantslit couldn't close her cunt for a month.' Lots of manly jeering and cheering accompanying this pronouncement of phallic bravado.

Takita knew she was bleeding between her legs not just from the stickiness, but from the smell. It was hard to tell, sometimes, what was going on down there, in terms of blood. She knew that, back in the brothel, when an older customer had torn her due to showing off, that he was still all hard and tough, despite his age, and when one of her own soldiers had torn her, just because he didn't care, because she was just 'whore meat,' anyway, she knew that sometimes she couldn't tell, from feel, how much she was bleeding. She had to go see, in a mirror. Takita hoped she was not bleeding to death.

As she staggered to her feet, to go try to find a bathroom, everything that hurt screamed with more pain. Her bladder was full and aching with rapemisery, her lower abdomen, where the men had pounded into her cervix and womb, hurt as if she had been drilled by a machine, and her inner thighs hurt where the veins and muscles had been torn. Her rectum felt ripped apart from the inside out from the merciless pounding into her vagina. Her hip bones and her sweet small breasts ached, from the weight of the men.

Worst of all was the delicate opening of her vagina, so torn even the smallest of moves felt like applying fire to a cut. That part of her, that fragile little hole, so tender in its tininess. How could big men do such rough, brutal things to something so delicate and small? And after the friable opening, was the vagina itself, that sacred lotus space that should never be taken roughly. A crime against all the natural laws of the universe was just one rape of a fragile body. How much more savage and evil was what had been done to these girls this night.

As she held onto the wall, to try to crawl to a bathroom, without passing out again, all around her, Takita heard the moans of pain of her sisters. Takita was crying constantly although she did not know it. The fiery pain of her body, and the deeper fire of torment at her center between her legs made her unaware of her own tears.

At the center of herself, in that most tender place, meant for gentleness, that lovely area between her legs meant for soft pleasure, there she was hurt so deeply, she would never heal.

The crime that was committed against these girls tht night was a crime against the universe, a crime against womanhood so dreadful, not one of these men could ever be forgiven.

On the pot, Takita sizzled with pain and felt the room spin around into darkness, so much did the pee hurt her ravaged body. Blood ran down her inner thighs, but then it stopped, somewhere below her knees. Rivulets from her tears and cuts, but no huge river of hemorrhaging. Somewhere deep inside, where Takita was still capable of hope, and despair, a part of her was glad, that she would not bleed to death this night. Another part wanted the peace and solace of death.

Crawling back, she wanted to find her sisters, but felt too weak. She passed out, in the hall, and big hands tossed her back into her cubicle.

It turns out that what was done to the girls that night was done to them many times and for many nights. All over the city. For the 'comfort' of the soldiers.

It was lucky that Takita wasn't a virgin. Many of the 'recruited' girls were, and some of these died during the first rape into unconsciousness. They simply bled to death, and never woke up. The soldiers kept fucking them for a while, even when they were dead, not being able to tell the difference. It was obvious that it was irrelevant if a girl, dead or alive, was attached to the vagina.

For the virgins that survived, Takita saw in their faces a shock, a bewildered torment that was perhaps even greater than her own. No considerate breaking in, as some of the more fortunate girls in the brothel had had, if their pure body was bought by a gentle customer. With what little semblance of thought she had left, Takita felt deep sadness, that this was the introduction to sex these virgin bodies underwent. What could they know, poor things, of this terrible mystery called sex if this was their first journey into its reaches? Even in her indentured state, a rare and kind customer had occasionally helped her feel its gentle, lovely power.

The soldiers yelled at you if you tried to talk to the other girls, so Takita could only cling to the ghost bodies of Miki and Yoko when they met, accidentally, trying to crawl to the bathrooms, or at the brief mealtimes the men allowed them. You were barely able to swallow a few mouthfuls of rice when you were prodded back to your mat, for more 'servicing,' that ugly word you grew to hate the sound of. Some girls managed to grab some food to take with them, and they would lay there and try to swallow it, while the men mounted them.

Girls peed where they lay, too dead to even crawl to their feet between rapes, if there ever was a break from the stabbing weapons.

Vaginas were swollen, massively bleeding wounds.

Some girls eventually died of malnourishment, too exhausted to eat after fifteen hours of constant rape.

But survival dies hard. Some of the less fortunate girls still managed to eat a few mouthfuls of rice, around the constant rape. It takes much torture, to kill the instinct to eat all together.

Little in the way of sleep came to the girls, also, so 'busy' were they . It was another word the girls hated, 'busy,' as one boy joked, about the semantic nicety of the word, said it sounded like a girl was doing her homework or baking a cake, not opening her legs for fuck by the whole American army. Snort, guffaw, anything to crack a dirty joke at the expense of the slutslants on their mats, legs always open.

"Piping hot cunt served up at five minutes a slice," was the way the more witty men described it.

The men made it sound as if it was your fault, that you had to lay there like that, always open. It felt awful, even when they weren't in you because you were so open to the cold of the air. Even if you tried to close your legs, it didn't do any good anyway. The men just forced them open again. And made it sound like a joke. "Whoa, honey, no use trying to close 'em. Got a whole line to go, waiting to get at your jewel."

Slowly, the girls learned the English of degradation and dirt that was heaped on them. Learned many words for what was between their legs, that place that was so precious to them but was apparently a site of garbage and filth and abomination to the men — this despite the way they spent so much time in this abomination pit. Seemed like they couldn't do without what they so heavily despised.

Cunt, pussy, poon, pink, whorehole, fuckhole, cuntpit, tunnel, slit, slantslit, fuckslit, cuntslit, gookcunt, all sorts of variations for their heavily despised part hit their ears all day.

As for the 'busy' part, it was hard to find enough fuckholes for this many young men. Hyped up from being the conquerors, entitled to the pussy of the enemy women, young, with joysticks perpetually stiff, these studs wanted to go a dozen times a day, if they could, and, apparently, they could, if the holes of the enemy women could withstand fifty spearings a day.

Some of the girls committed suicide. Miki was among the first. After only a week of fifty spearings a day, her tiny body, and mind, and soul, had had enough. In a crazed, screaming fit, she managed to elude the military police that kept the girls incarcerated, made it out the front door, and threw herself in front of one of the military lorries thundering past the Comfort Station. It pulped her body good. Made her outside resemble her inside, where her ravaged womb had died long ago, after the first night, under the massive men — and the deep knifing of her insides. Far too deep for her tiny vagina to withstand.

Takita did not even know where the mashed remains went. She would have liked to bury her sweet sister by the lake, with the sound of the frogs in the background. That night, it was with even deeper sorrow and pain that she withstood the endless mountings, by the men, of her softness.

Miki kind of set a trend. Whenever a girl could dodge the arms of the MP's and make it out the door, she would be rolling around in her welcome death throes, beneath the heavy wheels. No heavier than the men back inside.

The American authorities were getting pissed, about the number of suicides. So they put on more MP's, to grab the girls, throw them back into their cubes, when they made their desperate escape attempts. It was one of the reasons for the ban on talking to each other — that small comfort they could have derived from the other soft selves, in the midst of the massive 'comfort' they gave the soldiers — the authorities didn't want the girls plotting any escape routes. It was some kind of tacit admission — that no girl in her right mind, and vagina, would chose this kind of life, despite all the jokes to the contrary, about how 'hot' all these little slantsluts were, just panting for Yankee dick. Yankee potroast. Chortle, snort, jeer, sneer.

It was some kind of tacit admission that women don't like lying down with large numbers of strangers every night, many of them rough and drunk.

But the admission had to remain deeply hidden. The illusion of willingness on the part of the raped whore is a cherished hypocrisy of the soldier. For all time has it been, for the rest of the centuries of our kind, it will be. So it is. It has to be this way. It's just the ways things are.

Particularly difficult to sustain was the illusion that it didn't really hurt the girls, in light of the discrepancy in sizes. These delicate things were far too small for those Yankee machines. They were raw bleeding and lacerated messes inside. Wombs were turned all upside down, and floating in funny positions, due to these men going in far deeper than the girls could withstand. Due to overuse, some vaginas and uteruses were hanging grotesquely outside of bodies.

These girls simply were not meant to withstand men this size.

And, of course, no girl is meant to withstand rape by fifty men a day. But these slight details never occurred to the men as they lined up, two abreast, for blocks, waiting their turn. Ferried in by the truckloads, the soldiers jostled roughly for position as MP's tried to keep order over the hyped up boys, high on joy and strength and nobility and the courageous beauty of conqueror rape.

At the entrance to Takita's Rape Station was a big sign, "Wellcome, Big Soljur Dicks." Inside, above each girl's cube hung, on a string, a piece of wood that said, in rough letters, "Wellcome to my Cunt," with the whore's name underneath. Attempts to actually spell the girls' names accurately often failed. Takita had given her last name to the sign painter, a young bored GI who really wanted to be an artist of high merit and here the army had set him to painting crapola gook cunt names over the beds of whoreshit. What a life. "Natsuke" was what Takita had said, faintly, and he had painted "Nasty," with a grin, over the entrance to her rape chamber. So Takita became known as "Little Nasty" and "Nasty Slut," among other appellations, to the conquerors.

Each girls was supposed to welcome the rapist, with a bow, to her bed, and to thank him politely after the rape. In theory. Since the girls were always on their backs, they could not exactly bow and their efforts to say 'thank you,' as each soldier dismounted, were only faintly murmured sounds, so deeply buried and dead were their voices inside them.

Many rules governed the girls lives. Military rules. Five-minute fucks. If the girl gave more, like a full ten minutes, or maybe even fifteen, she was accused of being "so hot for it, she can't get enough, gotta have every dick in her as long as possible," and she was whacked with a stick. It was actually called a 'baton' and it was the MP's extension of their magnificent phallic manhood, but the girls didn't know this. Nor did they know what they were being whacked for since there was no separation of the batons that went inside them, in and out of them, routinely, like drilling machines, for hours on end. Where one cock began and another ended they could not tell, so continuous were the rapelines.

Rule two was a girl got to pee every three hours or every ten dicks, whichever came first. It turns out the men were not very good at observing the five-minute-fuck limit and many were shoving away for a goodly time until the next in line got too impatient and came into the cube, dick out and at the ready.

Since the girls were too exhausted to crawl anywhere to pee, and so peed where they lay. Another whack for wetting their fuck mats.

Rule three was ten minutes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. As they huddled together, trying to eat with throats closed from pain and fear, some small comfort was to be had from the presence of other soft bodies. Then they were shoved back under the hardness of the men.

"Good service" was another phrase they learned — to their peril. If a soldier complained he did not receive "good service," the girl had to fuck him again. Since the girls were too far gone in rapepain, rapemisery, rapeshock, rapesuffering, this small numerical nicety was lost upon their tortured bodies.

Every day, and night, it was the size that was killing the girls, along with the numbers. But these facts had to be carefully 'veiled,' so as not to seem to exist. The boys had to be told that the girls didn't really mind what was being done to them. That is was part of their culture. They were after all gookslantslitcunt — that made them natural born whores. And, after all, they were asking for it, weren't they, laying there with their legs open. If they didn't want it, they'd close those little legs, wouldn't they? Couldn't ask a guy to resist it laying there all hot and open for him. Never mind that it was the men that were forcing the legs open. In time-honored historical sanction, the women invited their own violation, just by the mere fact that they had vaginas that could be invaded.

'Women' is slightly inaccurate here because most of the girls were teenagers, some even younger. The average age of the ravaged was fifteen. The youngest, those without breasts, and those with no hair upon their small mounds, these girls died first, with genitals horribly distended and eyes, in death, wide open and not yet empty of the horror of their lives.

During the first couple of months, the comfort houses were free-for-alls, full of crazed frenzies of lust. The men didn't even form orderly lines, but they all jostled in, upon a whore, sticks out, seeing who could get at her first. There was no limit on the number of times you could go in a day. Since there wasn't much for the soldiers and sailors to do, once this subjugated city was taken, they spent most of the time at the whorestations, drinking and fucking as much as they could. And fighting. Altercations would break out, mostly over who was next on top of a particular body.

Alongside Takita, there was another girl who was exceptionally beautiful. Her name was Noh Joy, and so lovely was she that her hole was almost never empty. Her face was astonishingly babyish, but she had breasts — a combination that made her an overwhelmingly popular mount. Just like riding the girls back home, if you could grab on to knobs during the fuck. Except you never thought about the girl back home here. Because this was just a mount, a fuck, a whorehole, not a girl.

So popular was Noh Joy that the men made her into too much of a good thing. As continuously fuckdazed and stunned as were the faces of all the whores, even more so was Noh Joy's –because her hole was almost never empty.

One day, when the brothel opened, and the men came pouring into her space, they found her lying in a pool of blood. Now, this was nothing unusual, to find a whore in her own blood — these girls were so small, compared to that magnificent thing called the Yankee Dick, that blood between their legs, squirting out of that tiny orifice, blood on the child-size butt she was lying on — well, all of this was normal. The guys just fucked around the blood. Never mind that it made sustaining the illusion of voluntary availability even more difficult. Hell, when the male wants to fuck, he'll believe, or make up, any lie about the woman underneath him.

Man must have his fuck. Inviolable rule number one of the male universe, especially the military male universe.

But this was all of her blood, that Noh Joy was lying in. Up her vagina was lodged, firmly, a knife. In her heart was lodged, firmly, another, as if empire had climbed a himalaya, and mounted its trophy flag. She had done this herself, preferring the sharp blade in her softness, in her heart, rather than one more moment of being mounted by these monsters with their big bodies and huge torture sticks and hard ugly merciless faces as they grunted out their coarse fuck grunts inside her tender being.

Naturally pale, her skin was now snow white, and her lips and cheeks, painted per orders, so that the girls would look like whores, were bright red. Her hands were folded over the stake in her chest, and her open eyes glittered in the dim light of the room. Were it not for the mad eyes, she would have looked like a fairy princess, about to be awakened by the kiss of her prince charming.

"Damn," "shit," "hell," "fuck" were the responses of the big sweaty bodies crowding in upon the carefully staged symbolic, double stabbing to the vagina and heart of the delicate girl. No respect for her fragile being, even in death. As with Miki, Takita wanted to take Noh Joy to the lake, where she could be buried, so the voices of the frogs could keep her company. But the girl was simply taken off, presumably to be summarily disposed of.

The comfort houses stayed open as late as there were men needing to satisfy their rough cocks. Then the girls would be allowed a few hours sleep. Early afternoon was when the doors opened up again. The half hour or so before the men were allowed in was almost as terrible as the actual opening itself. For the girls could hear the men, outside, laughing, joking, pushing to be first to get in, all the noises of men at play, men about to 'party.' As they tried, with trembling hands, to put on the requisite whore make-up, they would fumble, drop the lipstick, not be able to keep fingers still enough to paint an eyebrow. The girls were so petrified and sickened with the terror of what was to come, the twelve, maybe even fifteen to twenty hours of constant cold knives between their thighs, that they vomited, had diarrhea, peed down their legs. Much to the disgust of the MP's who had charge of them. Laying into the girls with sticks, to try to halt this disgusting display of pee and vomit and shit, did no good. So deeply frightened, down to the inmost layers of their vaginas and wombs were they that girls had no control over these rivers of catharsis. It was involuntary, as was the heavy beating of their hearts, the way every body broke out in a hot sweat, and every stomach felt full of cold misery.

Not just the MP's but the soldiers were pretty disgusted with this daily dirt that their whorefilth produced. It was especially bad on weekends, when the girls knew not even the mercy of a few hours rest would be theirs, since the soldier traffic was so heavy that a girl could not even see any space between the press of huge, sweaty bodies, trying to get at her.

'Piping hot pussy, served up in three-minute slices,' was how the men joked, about the neverending pleasure that was theirs, on the weekends. From noon on Friday until late on Sunday, the girls were constantly mounted.

Inside the comfort stations hung a miasma. It was the energy from the collective rape pain of the screaming spirits of the fragile girls, mixed with the collective fuck pleasure of all those big hard ramming males.

Luckily, Takita usually left her screaming body sometime around rape number twenty, and floated around the ceiling, looking down at her tiny legs, barely visible, beneath the bulk of the soldiers. What was left of her inside the body on the bed, was tenuous. Numbness, through which a cold wind blew. Piercing. Some kind of leaden, dark-diffused haze would hit her, and she would no longer feel anything except pain, in a distant place, on a faraway plain, where pink-and-white cranes flew overhead, and a diamond blue-lake sparkled, hard as sunlight, and the frogs went ribbet in the water rushes.

Like all the other girls, during the day, when no man was mounting her, she sat in a kind of apathetic fuckdaze, only dimly aware of the MP's yelling at them what useless cunts they were. Since she was mounted more than she was empty, she spent more time at the lake, listening to the frogs, than she did in her numb rapedaze.

During these brief respites, Takita no longer looked at the eyes of her captive sisters. She was afraid she would see in them the same sadness and death that was in hers.

'Rape' was the operative word. This was what was happening to the girls. Sometimes a chaplain would look in, shake his head at the rough drunk men and the constant cries of the girls. But what could he do. The boys had to have their fuck. And his dick was stiff, too. Every night, he paid an MP to bring him a girl.

None of the men ever used the word 'rape' for what was happening. 'Fuck' sounded a lot better.

After a couple of months of initial rape frenzy, the authorities decided to make the process more civilized. Make the fuck more neat and tidy. Instead of letting the men crowd noisily into the cubicles, the guys now got 'mount tickets,' containing a number in line, for which girl, and how much she cost. Takita was now the top-dollar earner for her brothel, because she was still so beautiful. Pale, haggard, eyes blank, like a doe in death, it was true, but still she had visible, squeezable breasts that you could hold onto, during fuck.

Her small plump mounds were always a mass of bruises, from the big men's hands. And her nipples were sore and bright red, all the time, from their lips and teeth. Sometimes, when she would unfortunately return to her thrust-into body for a moment, and notice the top of the huge head, with military short hair, and feel the rough teeth and lips going at her nipples, and the coarse beard hair painfully scratching her delicate breasts, she would start to laugh, insanely. At how this thing, the kissing of the nipples, which was supposed to signify the tenderness of the male toward the female, was being so ludicrously caricatured here, in this bed of pain.

After the fuck, you were supposed to take away a 'mount stub,' and the girl was supposed to keep the ticket. A perforated line separated the two parts, and the girl was supposed to tear off her part, give you yours. In theory, this sounded good, but in practice it rarely worked for two reasons. First, the girl was usually comatose, so she was not conscious enough to be aware of the division of the ticket, or the reason it was being done. Second, even if she was minimally conscious — and some poor creatures were, before the numbing set in, and all of the girls set off, with Takita, to visit their ghost spirits, by the Diamond Frog Lake — even if she was there enough to see the proferred ticket, her hands would be shaking too much, from fuck exhaustion, for her to be able to tear it.

"Fine," the boy who had just fucked her would say, to the unconscious body, or to the trembling hands. "Don't take it."

Now, this meant that he could get back in line, with the same fuck ticket, and not have to pay for another one. Lots of jokes made the rounds, about how the girls 'refused' to separate the stub from the mount ticket because the sluts were so hot, one round with a guy wasn't enough for them.

Another advantage of the mount tickets, for the men, was that it gave them the tangible satisfaction, in cardboard, of knowing they were paying. Therefore, what was done could not possibly resemble rape. If money was involved, it could never be rape.

Never mind, that the girls saw none of the money. When they turned in their tickets, in this ludicrous parody of some free enterprise activity, they were, in theory, supposed to take half of the money for each lay. In practice, the authorities simply charged them so much for the paltry amount of food they gave them, and the few scraps of clothes they allowed them, now that it was colder weather, and the blanket they covered up with, and the ugly paint they had to put on their faces, that the girls ended up so deeply in debt, to the American military, that they knew they would never be able to work their bodies enough to pay it off. That is, those still capable of conscious thought knew this. The numbed beyond rapepain were, thankfully, unaware of their financial plight.

As a result of the rapetickets, their miserably overworked bodies were even more dumped upon, and into.

One thing Takita didn't know was that of the sixty to eighty men a day who climbed on top of her, two or three felt sorry for her. And for all the other whores. But they couldn't do anything about it — because it wouldn't have been manly, to let softness into your heart, for these poor creatures. So they had to pretend they were getting their 'fun,' in the midst of the torture and suffering and pain of this place called a comfort station. "Recreation' and 'amusement' is was called, of no more import than playing a game of pool.

You smoked a ciggie in line, then you unbuckled and unzipped and got your dick out and rubbed its stiffness, and joked with the other guys about how good that soft, cheap gook cunthole was going to feel and then you went in and got on. And you grinned really big when you came out, tucking in your weapon, listening to the fuckgrunts of the next guy in line, who was already on board.

That was all.

The kind soldiers had to be reminded that no man paid more than the price of a pack of cigarettes for fuck. Had to be reminded that no compassion and generosity of spirit was allowed.

One day, Takita looked up, into the eyes of one of the boys who felt sorry for the whores. He was in mid-fuck, and what she read in those eyes startled her — pity, compassion, warmth, deep guilt, sadness. Maybe she was mistaken. Even if she looked into the frightening eyes of these hairy men, she could not always read them. Too alien. But as he finished his last thrust into her, came, with a grunt, he stayed on long enough to whisper, in her ear, in her own language, "I am so sorry."

For a moment, he lay beside her on the mat and looked down at the beautiful face with its sad, dead, wide-open eyes. He looked down at the blood between her thighs. By some miracle, one small spot on her thigh was free of blood. Tenderly, he touched it. It's softness was like a fawn's fur, or a rabbit's.

He thought of his sister, just sixteen, like maybe this girl was and how would the guys joke, "line forms to the rear" if their own sisters were in here.

Tears were in his eyes.

Takita noticed them. And she had felt the gentle touch of his finger on her velvet skin.

He tenderly wiped a strand of hair away from her cheek.

"I am so sorry," he said again, in his own language. His voice was kind and deep and tender.

Then he was gone. She never saw him again.

Where Yoko was, Takita didn't know. One day, just before the doors were due to open, to admit the customers, they were hugging each other, like two shaking baby chimps about to be separated, and dragged off, to be made the subject of some especially gruesome lab experiments. An MP pried them apart and sent Yoko hopping toward her cubicle with a painful swat on her butt with his stick. Takita whimpered and cringed away from him. That was the last she saw of her dear companion. A suicide? Dead from bleeding to death — the rapesticks taking their final fatal toll on her small body? Takita didn't know and the MP's would tell her nothing, despite how much she begged. She offered them extra-fuck, if only they would tell her something. "Hell, we get that anyway," they laughed, and beat her back into her cubicle.

Takita had been undergoing the torture of her rape chamber for several months, when things changed. First, it turns out that the American military made a big proclamation, saying that prostitution was against women's rights.

None of the girls in the brothels had ever heard the phrase 'women's rights,' so this proclamation didn't enlighten them too much, as to what was going on. Actually, what was going on was that the American soldiers and sailors had given most of the comfort girls venereal diseases. They had come in, innocent and unwitting virgins, and now they were vaginally infected messes. It was, of course, the girls, virgins as they had been, who were the cesspool sourced of filth, even though the boys had been wielding their diseased dicks all over the Pacific before they exercised their conqueror rape privileges in Japan.

Since it was embarrassing to have the whole U.S. Army and Navy walking around with diseased cocksticks, something had to be done. So, they put the blame on the diseased whores that the men had raped into diseased oblivion, and then in a move, full of superbly twisted logic, closed down the comfort stations with a stirring democratic proclamation of Uncle Sam glory about how women should have the right to the boundaries of their own bodies and how those sacred vessels of feminine beauty should be inviolable, etc. Actually, some bright young reporter for the Stars and Shafts had filched this from some article written by some crazy woman who thought that men weren't the dominate sex on the planet. Fool. Ask any whorecunt in any comfort station who's the dominate sex. Bet she'll tell you.

So, in some kind of muddy campaign that made little sense, they 'closed' the comfort stations. But not really. All they did was to pretend like they were different places — by renaming them things like 'Amusement Palace' and 'Recreation Haven' and 'Pussy Pleasure Zone' and by pretending they were stocking all new whores. Since it was all for show, and public relations anyway, it didn't matter. Throw out a few lies, and then it was business as usual for the hundreds of thousands of men who needed some place to stick their dicks.

Things really changed for Takita when she ran away. It was a dark and cloudy night with the chill wind of the Tokyo winter seeping into the cracks of the brothel. For some reason, they weren't that busy that night. Maybe it was because it was Monday, and the boys had fucked themselves into a heat satiated state over the weekend. Poor Takita had lain down under men from around mid-day on Friday, until late Sunday night. Over two hundred men had mounted her. Most of the time she was unconscious, visiting the lake.

Now, it was Monday night, and she had woken from a pain-suffused nightmarish state of feverish rapetrance misery. Blood made rivulets, like a big red spiderweb, from her vagina to her ankles. She cursed, wished she would bleed to death already. No more of this slow fuck torture.

She could see the moon, intermittently, between harvest clouds, washing a portion of her rape chamber with its cold rays. No goddess, no Sister of Moonpang, twin of Phuddenda, that moist sun-sweet portal of pink dew, no goddess had protected Takita. Both Moonpang and Phuddenda had long ago deserted their daughters.

Suddenly, she had had enough. She knew she had to get up, go to the lake. If death would not welcome her here, she would find it at the lake. Or maybe she would find life.

Without thinking of the MP's or a stray customer intercepting her, she pulled a blanket around what little clothes they allowed her — a short nightgown — and slipped out of her cube. In the kitchen, she stuffed some food into a bag she found there, and she simply walked out.

It was freezing, and she was barefoot. At an underground station, she found a lot of other people, poor, in rags, huddled around makeshift fires. As she tried to get near a fire, they drove her away, hissing 'whore for the Americans' at her. It was the make-up, she suspected — the way the soldiers had required her to paint her face in a particularly crude, garish way, so that she looked, said one soldier, with a snort, "like some bedraggled inhabitant of Pigalle," whatever that was.

Women with families looked at her with especial scorn — this vessel of filth who had been intimate with the bodies of the big soldiers.

In her dazed, highly fragile state, nothing seemed all that real — except maybe this new pain. Her own people, women, rejecting her, after the unthinkable hells she had just escaped from.

Takita burst into tears. Like a child, she stood there, balling into the air, clutching her bag with the food to her chest.

"Shut up, whoreshit," yelled a boy, about fifteen, at her, and then some more adolescent boys approached, saying things like, ""Wanna give me some of that whorecunt — free," "Come on, lay down and spread it for us."

"Whatchu' got there," said one, trying to grab her bag.

She ran. Fear gave her speed, and she also lost the boys, in the unused underground tunnels. Shivering, in a corner, Takita pulled the blanket around her thin shift, dried her own tears, ate a bit of food.

After the shock of being rejected by these people, scorned for her own rape pain, somehow, oddly, she felt stronger. Okay, so the gods won't let me die yet, for some reason. Okay, so I am filth because so many men have known me inside. Okay, to hell with other people. I'll survive.

Exhaustion overtook cold, and she slept.

For the next few days, Takita eluded the boys in the tunnels. Then her food ran out. She was going to have to go aboveground, live in alleys, find something to eat in the garbage cans. Before she could put that plan in motion, something else happened. Just as she was making her way to an area marked 'exit,' a man jumped out from behind a pole and grabbed her. He was handsome, dressed richly, big and well fed, and he had strong cruel fingers. "Little beauty," he said, voice suave and deadly, digging his fingers painfully into her arms

"He's caught her," she heard shouted from a distance, and the gang of adolescent boys came rushing up, tried to grab her away from the man.

He beat them off with a fashionable walking stick, said, "You'll pay like everyone else." They grumbled, danced around her, making dirty jokes about what they were going to do to her, once they got the money, to buy her.

Struggle as she could, she couldn't loosen the strong, cruel fingers of the man. Getting tried of her struggles, he literally dragged her through the streets by her hair, hitting her calves with the stick all the while. Other women made a wide sweep of this whorefilth with their kimonos. They knew vaguely, about the 'comfort stations,' knew that some women had gone into them to be mounted by the enemy — how any girl could do this was beyond them, no 'decent girl' would do such a terrible thing--so they scorned the contaminated Takita with her whorepaint face, done up to please the enemy men, did not want their robes touching the dirt she had become.

He took her to a small apartment, dragged her into the back room, which had a bed, stripped her, beat her for a while, then threw her down and raped her, hard.

Even though he was so handsome, he seemed monstrously ugly to her, like a devil in some kind of obsence disguise, because of the pain he was causing her.

After the rape, he beat her some more. Never had she been beaten like this. For all of their cruelty with their rapesticks, at least the Americans only used their other sticks to keep the girls in line. Sometimes one with a streak of sadism might get a little out of hand, but mostly it was just a whack or two, to let you know who was boss, and then they left you alone.

What Takita didn't know was that American men came from a low domestic violence culture — as a result of American woman attempting to assert some rights in this area. It accounted for why they hadn't whacked the brothel girls without mercy. Hadn't had their hand in, in a while, this beating up of women. Now, give us time, and we'll get back into the swing of things.

It would have surprised Takita to learn that they also came from a low incidence of rape culture. Could have fooled her. But, then, the circumstances were special here. Since she was a whore, it couldn't be considered rape was how they saw it. She didn't know this.

The handsome man beat her unconscious. When she came to, she found herself tied to the bed, with the stick he'd hit her with shoved partway up into her vagina. Since that area was still a swollen mess from the heavy rape duties she had been performing, under the American army, and from the hard rape she'd just endured, the stick was very painful. Takita cried, with hopelessness and despair, the way she had in the subway, when the woman with children scorned her.

The man was unmoved. He made himself some food, simply remarking, "Gotta cunt that's already broken in, good, get you out there working, soon as I finish some more of my own kind of 'breaking.'"

For two more days, he kept her tied to the bed, without food or water, and he beat her, but he let her vagina heal some, presumably because he was going to turn her out, for customers, soon.

By the morning of day three, she was beyond hope. Crying piteously, she begged him not to beat her, begged for water, begged, and begged, and begged. Broken enough, his satisfied expression said, and he untied her, gave her some water.

Later, she had to beg, on her knees, for food, but he did give her some.

That night, he let her sleep, unfettered.

Next day was Friday. "Lots of GI's prowling the streets tonight, looking for bargain fuck," he told her. "Except that you're not gonna be bargain fuck, in terms of price. But you're gonna make them think they got a bargain, in terms of the kind of fuck you give. Gonna set you up, on my corner, and you're gonna do everything I tell you, you understand?" he said, voice suave yet menacing. He raised the stick to her. She whimpered, nodded, dropped to her knees, begged. Anything to avoid more beatings.

'Good' said his leering face, satisfied with her behavior. "Properly broken in and ready to start making me some money, with that cunt, huh?" She nodded vigorously. Anything to avoid the stick. She had so many bruises on her body, it was hard to find an unmarked spot.

To her surprise, he brought out a relatively stylish dress, heels, nylons, underwear. Takita had never worn western clothes before, just seen pictures of them in magazines, during her days back in the brothel.

He had her bathe, then he dressed her. Even showed her how to put the nylons on. She winched because of the bruises. Then he set her at the dressing room table, with lots of make-up, and directed her, how to apply it.

"Good," he said, when she looked as garish as a pathetic Pigalle denizen.

One of her glories was her hair. This he looked critically at, for a while, then decided to make her put it up. Many bobby pins later, it sat, in a not too unbecoming pile, on top of her head.

"Now listen to me good." He had become business-like. "I expect you to make me some money tonight. I'll tell you, when you've earned enough. You will stand at my corner, and offer your wares, to the GI's. You will flirt with them — use your eyes, your hips — and you will act expensive. You will quote them a very high price — about three times what you think they will pay — and then you will let them slowly bargain you down. Very slowly. By the time you bring your man back here, you won't accept anything less than $20. The going price for a streetwhore is about $2 but you're not just any streetwhore. You're my streetwhore. Understand? Any whore I turn out has class. Understand?"

Takita nodded. Despite her fear of him, and how despicable what he was doing was — the selling of flesh--she felt a small amount of respect for him. He didn't think small, like selling her for a few cents a fuck. He was thinking more in terms of what she knew how to do, what she had been trained, since age six to do — please a man with more than her vagina. Give him the illusion of a much vaster galaxy of pleasure.

"Will a GI Pay $20?" she asked.

He looked sharply at her, raised the stick, at this show of independence, her audacity in asking a question. To his surprise, she didn't cringe this time, but instead looked at him with neutral eyes. He couldn't see the internal struggle of strength it cost her, to hold herself still, in front of the instrument that had beat her so black and blue she could barely move an inch without a river of pain running through her.

"Yes, if you do what I tell you to."

He told her to slip into the heels. Tiny as they were, they were still a bit too big for her exceptionally childlike feet, but they were backless, so all she did was slip around in them a bit when she tried to walk. Funny, unsteady, perilous she felt, this first time in heels.

"Walk for me," he said.

She did the best she could, given the pain she was in, inside out, upside down, over and under, everywhere seen and unseen, from her vaginal tunnel to the tips of her tiny toes. Even her hair hurt.

"Stand in front of me."

She did. Eyes down.

"I'm hungry," she said. When he lifted the cane again, it looked like maybe an Oliver Twist moment was going to ensue. Instead, he lowered the cane, looked at her with speculative eyes.

"Bring in one customer, and do him for $20, and I'll give you something to eat."

He led her out of the apartment, on to the street, where a cold wind was blowing. She shivered in the thin Western dress. Her first time in Western clothes. The shortness of the skirt, how low-cut it was made her feel naked. Funny, she thought, that I can even feel that way, after the massive degradation of my body, in the brothel. Night after night, she had lain there stark naked, her most private, tender self open to view, to dozens, hundreds, of men.

In the cold air, she noticed that he was warmly clothed, stylishly, too — a camel hair coat, Burberry scarf, had she known what these things were called.

"The men will feel more sorry for you if you shiver," he said.

He placed her on 'his corner.' Takita noticed other streetwhores all up and down the area, scantily clad, in Western dress, shivering.

He gave her no more advice, but walked off, to where he could observe her from a distance, in a group with a bunch of other pimps. Takita noticed that her pimp was better dressed than most of the others. She also noticed that her attire was of a higher quality than that of most of the other whores — the dress had a kind of 'refined air' about it, despite being so revealing.

Then, there, on that cold corner, in the wind, came into her life the Sergeant. He was her first customer in this new life.

What she saw, when she looked way, way up at him was those inscrutable, alien blue eyes, one of those close cropped military hair-cuts, a rugged face, with a suggestion of age — this was no mere boy — broad shoulders — all the frightening big attributes of his huge kind.

A deep pain-fear split her in two, because of his bigness--like one of those gigantic alien penises was invading her again. What she wanted to do was cry, like a baby, wail like a child, to the heavens. To Moonpang and Phuddenda. Why have you forsaken us? Heavy with pain and cold fear. Her body couldn't take any more rape, not by these big bodies. Her soul was already dead.

Instead, tettering on those alien heels, she managed to smile at him, sway her hips a bit, push her tummy toward him.

What he saw when he looked down, way way down at her, was, first, a face that was heartbreakingly lovely. In fact, it was shaped like a heart. Her new master had spared her face — with a reason — he knew the GI's would be less likely to go for one who was battered — made her look used. So perfect, symmetrical, delicate of lineament, was the face that for a moment time and place disappeared for him. Nothing existed but this luminous with loveliness little face. And the sad, crooked, painful smile she was trying mightily to sustain. Then he noticed the heartbreakingly tiny body, butt no bigger than that of a ten-year-old. Bet her triangle was the same — way too tiny for 'huck' by big GI's. But she had lovely little boobs — in the dress, the shadow of her silken, ivory cleavage was just visible. The last thing he noticed was how unsteady her tiny feet were, on the heels.

In the brothel, she had learned lots of words. 'Huck' was one of them.

"You want 'huck'?" she asked him. Might as well get straight to the point. She was in too much pain to even be able to stand much longer, especially on these perilous things called heels.

He almost laughed, at how direct she was. But it wasn't really a laughing moment. Too much sadness, in the way this tiny painted girl had to offer it. Or get the shit beat out of her by one of those scum pimps. He glanced in their direction, where he noticed them smoking, laughing, but also keeping a sharp eye on their 'property.' Long ago, the Sergeant had decided that whores were not filth, but that pimps were.

"Come on," he said, "Iki-mashoo," in her language — he could speak a fair amount of it by now — and he held out his arm to her. She was confused, by this 'Western' gesture, so he took her gently by the arm, tucked it in his, raised his eyebrows quizzically. Which way?

For a moment of panic, she didn't remember — after all, she had only been to the apartment once. Then a glance in her pimp's direction reminded her. On those unsteady heels, she led her Sergeant apartment-wards. Inside, she shivered mightily, despite the fact that the pimp had left the heat on. He had had a lot of experience, selling girls. He knew these GI's liked a warm place to fuck.

Politely, the Sergeant removed his hat. When he saw her shivering, he took off his overcoat, tried to wrap it around her. Instinctively, she flinched, because she was in such pain, from all the bruises, and the overcoat was so big and heavy.

He laughed — not a big brute of a laugh, but a little polite one. "Guess it would swallow up that tiny body of yours, wouldn't it. Let's try this." He put the coat back on, sat on the sofa, invited her into his lap.

Slowly, she sat down, on his thighs, let him pull the coat around her. Then she leaned into his chest, felt him put his arms carefully around her. So gentle was his touch that it didn't hurt too much. She lay her head up against him, and she felt a soft kiss in her hair, then another one on the back of her neck.

It had been a long time since anyone had been gentle with her. She felt tears burn behind her eyes.

For his part, he saw that she was in pain, just from the jerky stiff way she moved, was trying to be as careful as he could.

What now, she wondered. Do I offer him tea?

She did. She knew the word in his language. "Tea," and she raised her head from his chest.

"That would be nice," he said, half in English, half in Japanese. Between what he knew of her tongue and what she had learned of his, in the brothel, they managed to communicate pretty well.

Slowly, she made her way around the small kitchen alcove, trying to find things. He watched as she made the pot, brought it on a tray, with two little bowls, to him. Despite how stiff she was with pain, there was something charming and graceful in her gestures, as she warmed the pot, dealt with the tea leaves, daintily set the tray on the table near the sofa.

What he didn't know was that he was seeing the result of years of training in 'gracefulness of movement,' back in her pleasure-slave days. What she didn't know was that he was thinking, "What a waste, to set such a delicate little creature, with all her natural grace and gentleness up, in front of these coarse GI's who couldn't appreciate her. All they saw was 'whore,' not the fragile flower she was." It was sad.

The Sergeant felt that way about all of the whores. He'd seen a Stars and Shafts article about how sad it was for the soldiers to have to fuck the filth of the sewers — was this their only reward for having gone to war? He wondered about the author of that piece.

After the tea, she simply sat, quietly beside him, postponing the moment, of the dreadful. So hurting was she that another invasion of her body seemed unthinkable. And the thought of his heaviness, what it would do to her pulped tissues, when he lay on her….Would she be able to bear it long enough, to get the $20? If she cried, because she couldn't help it, would he pay her? How did she ask for the money? When? Now? What if he wouldn't give her that much? What if he thought she was a $2 lay, like her master said most of the streetwhores were.

The Sergeant solved some of the above problems by standing up, taking her by the hand, and leading her into the bedroom.

There, she stood in the middle of the room, eyes down. Quite simply put, a kind of paralysis of pain had hit her. Another session with any male body was unthinkable, so ravaged was her vagina, so lacerated were the depths of her soul. Several months of such heavy service under the other American soldiers had taken a toll deeper than the Mavian divide. When her life was not sharp with the pain of constant rape, she feel into states of numbness, paralysis, apathy, indifference, went into hazy places where nothing could matter because the torment inflicted on her vagina, on her soul, was so unbearable. No day seemed real anymore. Noh Joy anywhere.

Prosaically, the Sergeant undressed, aware that she was standing kind of frozen, fawn in the headlights, but not aware of the deep hell of torment her soul and body dwelled in. How could he be? He had only been on the giving end, of the torment.

He was down to his shorts and socks. Off came the socks and Takita's downward eyes saw his huge feet — actually, more than huge feet, and what was left of any kind of courage, the courage of numbness, fled. Went and sat by the lake. Huge feet meant huge everything else. The ghost of her spirit was always fleeing to the lake.

When he saw that she wasn't going to move, he gently tried to undress her. By the time he had the dress off — it took a few minutes, since he seemed to, intuitively, be aware of her pain, that movement hurt her — she was trembling. Trembling so much, it was more like shaking, some earthquake inside the tiny body of this tiny thing, he thought.

What he saw, when she stood clad in a small white cotton bra and panties, and her nylons, appalled him. The child was so bruised, all over her back, all down her front, that she looked more blue than white, kind of like cloudy marble. 'Child' he used in his mind, since she looked about sixteen.

"Damn," he said, under his breathe. Very, very carefully, he tried to put the dress back on her.

"No," she cried, coming out of her daze, "Me do, me do," and she tried to take the bra off, hampered by the heavy pain everywhere — moving her arms a few inches was unbearable.

"No," he said, taking her wrists, very very gently, in his big hands. It looked like practically the only spot on her that wasn't bruised — those childlike, doll-like wrists. And maybe one little patch of a tiny ankle.

She looked up at him, and burst into tears. Cried the way she had in the subway, like a child wailing, big streams of wet, down her cheeks.

Damn, he thought, this was too much. So massively bruised, she could barely move, but so fucking terrified that she'll be hurt again, she'd gotta do her 'huck.' Shit.

The Sergeant was pretty disgusted, at this state of affairs. For one thing, his pecker was beyond stiff, aching, in fact. The delicate beauty of this girl had really stirred him. He had looked forward to gently entering her. No question, in his mind, of any kind of quick shafting of these tiny things. Even the ones that had been painfully stretched by fuck, by going with so many soldiers, even these, he had discovered, were no match for his genitals.

After she had cried herself out enough to reach the occasional big sob stage, he picked her up as carefully as he could, moved with her to the bed. He felt her body grow rigid with fear.

Gently, he set her down, put the one pillow up against the wall, then moved her so that her back rested up against it, in some vain effort to at least make her a little comfortable.

So as not to panic her, he slowly sat down beside her — it was a narrow bed — not much room for keeping any kind of distance between them — back up against the wall, and lit a cigarette. Then he contemplated his small companion, in all her misery. So deep was his pity for her that when she glanced up at him, even she could read it in his inscrutable, alien eyes.

Takita clenched her small fists on the blanket, waited for the inevitable. She would have to bear it somehow. For the $20.

Comfort the Comfort Women by Suki Khan can be ordered at Amazon.com and other good bookstores.