Onnabe
by Mark Doherty(mdoherty@uq.net.au)

Characters are the brainchildren of Takahashi Rumiko, it's the
situations that are mine.

++++++++++++

"Hey, sugar, how are you tonight?"

I've never understood the psychology behind it myself.

"Ken, a drink for Sayoko-chan!" 

It wasn't what I imagined of my life. I was going to be the best
okonomiyaki chef in the world, with the best husband there beside
me. A childish fantasy, a naive one, a stupid one, the silly
dreams of a silly girl.

"You're my one, special love Asuka-chan."

My psychologist (I go see him when I'm feeling especially over-cashed)
tells me that I'm trying to overcompensate for my teenage years by
working in my job. He says that I'm channelling my early need to
be loved into an 'unhealthy state by culturing and devaluing the
love of others'.

"You're my one, special love Michi-chan."

What would he know? He makes it sound like I jumped into the job to
get my jollies getting revenge on phantoms that I laid to rest a long
time ago.

"You're my one, special love..."

Kuonji Ukyou didn't one day stop and say, hey I should do this. I
didn't choose to become an onnabe. It just happened.

+++

Onnabe. That's the word they use - that we use too, actually, to
describe us. Women who act like men, the transvestites, the
transsexuals, the crossdressers who work places like Shinjuku,
giving comfort to lonely housewives who need a little fake love
in their lives. For a price, of course.

It wasn't always about sex. Some of the women came to us for that,
of course. The sex was meaningless anyway; they didn't do it to us,
we did it to them. No matter how we pretended, it had all the
warmth and intimacy of machinery. If they wanted love, they'd get
more from a cold pole on an icy morning.

No, most women came to us for comfort. The joys of having a good
time with a guy, of having a handsome man hanging on your shoulder
and on your every word, without that guilty feeling or that worry
of things getting out of hand that you'd get with a real guy. The
best of both worlds - the strength of the man, the understanding
of the woman. Or that's the reason my clients give me.

If I was to say where it started, I'd have to be honest and say it
started when I was six. That was when I first started practicing
my boy mode. I was good - I mean, I even attended an all-boys school
with none(okay, one) the wiser. But it was when I was seventeen that
things truly started to get rolling.

Saotome Ranma decided to show how much he cared by getting married.
Problem was, it was to another woman, and he didn't tell me until
after the honeymoon. Never mind that I'd made it pretty clear at
the first wedding attempt that I wasn't going to wave banners of
joy at their nuptials. The bastard didn't even think to mention
it until I asked him why he was wearing a ring.

The idiot actually thought I'd be happy for him! Naturally I took
it out on him and anyone else I thought was involved. I don't
know who hired Nabiki - Ranma, Akane, or their fathers. All I
know was that I became too embarrassing for them to have around,
so she fixed it.

At the time, I ran a small okonomiyaki shop. It was in a poor
area of town, with bad rates and worse profit margins. I was
good, damn good, but it was a constant struggle to keep my business
alive.

So it didn't take much for Nabiki to topple it over. A couple of
loosed rats at just the wrong times, a couple of people payed to
complain and act sick, and all so handily when the health inspectors
were visiting, and it was all gone. As simple as that. No-one is
seriously going to eat again at a place that was shut down for
food contamination.

If I was angry before, I was nothing short of furious now. So I
demanded the Saotome clan repay me for my yatai dowry. They
counterclaimed with their destroyed ancestral home, which I'd had
a hand in wrecking a while back. I left, humiliated and broke. But
that was okay - I was the greatest okonomiyaki chef in Japan, I
could get a job anywhere!

Sure I could. The problem was, every time I cooked an okonomiyaki,
it reminded me of HIM. I'd flashback to when we were children,
and Ranma would beat me for one. Or when we were teens, and I
offered him some for lunch. When I was in a cooking contest with
all his other fiances, and he told me afterwards he liked mine the
best. All those thoughts twisted in me; every time I made an
okonomiyaki, I got a little angrier. 

The customer I beat up was fairly innocent, if a little pushy. My boss
wasn't so understanding. I could have found another place, but I knew
in my heart that it'd just happen again, until I ran out of places to
go. I couldn't even make a living with okonomiyaki. I was broke, with
no family to go to, and now no skills to rely on either.

Except one. Of course I'd heard about the crossdresser clubs - my own
clothing tastes had meant it was inevitable that some regulars and
some people who were that way told me about it when they ate at my
place. I thought long and hard about it. And then I did it anyway.
I figured that if I could use it to get solvent, then I'd have enough
time to get over my problems with okonomiyaki, and then I could buy a
yatai or something.

The interview was easy. Besides having to cut my hair to a more
boyish style, there wasn't much worries. I already knew as much
about acting like a guy as they did, and I knew enough about the
service industry(my side of the service industry, anyway), to get
the job.

They started me slow, working as a waiter and an assistant barkeep.
They weren't exactly expecting me to bed the clients on the first
day or anything. I probably would never have stayed if they'd
tried. But for the first couple of months, all I did was serve
drinks and learn how to make them. Sure, I was dressed
as a boy, but that wasn't anything I hadn't done before.

Things went on from there. I was getting good tips, and the boss
noticed, so he (we all usually refer to each other as males, even
the ones who still consider themselves female) notched me up to
reception - greeting and saying goodbye to the guests, remembering
the regulars and their 'tastes', and so on. There was one last step
from there: hosting. It probably would have terrified me, but for
one thing. I got close to one of the other workers for a short while.

My first sexual encounter was with him. A transsexual. At the time
I was shocked with myself, now I can't help but wonder what I
thought the fuss was about. We split apart after only doing it a
couple of times. After that, well, it didn't seem so hard.

+++

"I'm really not sure I should be here."

I turn to the entrance, my eyes narrowing slightly as I try to match
the person to the voice. She sounded sort of familiar; perhaps it
was one of the clients who hadn't been around in a while.

The woman was maybe in her early thirties, with thick black hair
falling to about her shoulder blades. There wasn't much fat on her,
the way she was standing had the sort of readiness that spoke of
regular martial arts training. Not that that meant much; martial
arts was turning trendy again, and all sorts of office girls had
embraced it with as much sterotypicality as the previous
generation had embraced shopping and overseas trips.

She did look familiar, in a vague sort of way, but I saw too many
girls to remember all their faces except for my regulars. I probably
saw her at the grocery store, or the library or something. I don't
know; just couldn't place her.

After spending thirteen years in this job, I could spot a first-
timer a mile away. She looked like she fit the bill to a tee, except
for one thing. Usually they came with a friend who'd been before,
or in a group who'd decided to 'live on the edge' or 'be rebellious'
or something. When they came solo though, you had to really coax
them in; that's why we had one of our best on door duty.

He was having a little trouble with this one though. It looked like
she was starting to reconsider; none of my regulars were in tonight,
so I took pity and went to help out my workmate, smoothing back my
bleached hair(all the rage for guys at the moment) as I went. 

Most of the workers took on different things to differentiate them
from the others. Hoji was the gruff one, the 'man's-man' - he was
one of the transsexuals, and I swear if he hadn't boarded with me
for two years, and if I hadn't accidentally walked in on him in
the shower, I would never have guessed he wasn't originally a man.
Ken was the joker, the big and cuddly kidder - a crossdresser like
me. Baito was the singer, the romantic, always ready with a quick
compliment for any girl he worked.

As for me, well, I was the friendly one. The best friend of each
and any person who walked through that club door with money to
spend. What a joke.

"Hey, Yoshio," My voice is gruff but gentle, a pure act that's the
envy of many of my workmates - even some of the ones on hormones.
I slapped my workmate on the shoulder; he was used to the act and
smiled. "Hello there, Ma'am. I was about to have a drink to celebrate
the five minute break my slave-driving boss finally conceded to me;
would you like one as well?"

It's not so much what you say, it's how you say it. I kept an easy
smile on my face, a slight but not too pushy entreaty in my eyes,
as I pointed out the bar that took up a fifth of the small club's area.

She still hesitated. Damn. There's two really bad bits about this job.
Dealing with the skittish first-timers, and dealing with the
obsessives who just don't get it. I gripped her hand in the current
style of semi-handshake, my smile widening as I slowly drew her
towards the bar. "Don't worry about it, we're here for you, not the
other way around. I'm Akira."

Yes, I changed my name. Ranma decided that he was still my friend
whether I liked it or not, and so for the first year or so after
he got married, he kept dropping into wherever I was on so-called
training trips. Like I really wanted his pity; so one time I moved,
and my name didn't move with me.

Before the woman really knew better, she was sitting next to me
at the bar, a Green Screamer sitting in front of her. The Screamer
was one of my concoctions: Midori, Vodka, a little cordial, and a
couple of secret ingredients. Hey, a person needs theirs secrets!
I've spent more time in the last few years mixing drinks then
cooking food; I like to be good at what I do...

The woman warily sipped her drink. She gasped, then coughed. After
a few seconds, she took another sip, a bigger one this time.

...And I am good. At drink recipes, anyway. I guess when it comes
to sauces of any kind, I'm a deft hand.

The ice broken, I start the usual act. It's all fairly simple stuff -
I was an expert at being best friends with my customers long before
I started this career. The biggest difference between being a best
friend to an okonomiyaki customer and an onnabe client was the level
of intimacy. Many of these women came here more for comfort than out
of sexual preference. Either way, it starts out the same - a simple
hand on theirs, perhaps an arm around their shoulders if you're in
one of the booths and you're doing something like watching the karaoke.

It doesn't take much to get her started on talking. She's obviously
still nervous about being here - probably thought we'd all be
gyrating around with strap-on-dildoes or something. But she's
obviously a woman who loves to vent, but who doesn't have the
avenue at home. And she obviously didn't trust me yet - she
was using euphemisms to describe herself and her husband. Not
a real name in sight.

Anyway, apparently it's all his fault. The husbands, that is. It's
another bit where there are two types. Its either all 'her' fault,
or all 'his' fault. It's never both their faults. No, of course it's
never both their faults. Still, this guy sounded like a class-grade
jerk. Her husband was never at home(huh, there's one I've never
heard before). The thing was, he worked at home - he taught at
their family dojo.

It turns out the guy's one of those ones who eats, breathes and,
well, shits martial arts. Sure, I used to be one of those too, but
I left it behind a long time ago. So anyway, instead of building up
the home dojo, he goes off on training trips - year long ones
apparently. He's even roped their son into the latest one; the woman
was obviously kicking herself over letting it happen. It was more
of a strain than usual to pretend I cared.

I offered all those little sub-vocal grunts, tiny hand gestures,
and simple "Go on"s that keep the conversation going. All the little
fakeries to indicate I cared, that I _really_ cared.

The client was beginning to look like a bit of a lost cause.
Financially, by the sounds of it, they were doing okay but not
incredibly. That upsurge in the popularity of martial arts meant
more business, but apparently her husband thought it was beneath
him to teach the new students, so most of the work fell on her.
He was home so rarely that his appearances in the dojo were just
that - appearances, and not true training sessions. She ran the
finances, she managed the maintenance, she did everything. And
her husband put her down for it.

It was obvious she was only a few steps away from a nervous breakdown.
But I didn't know how much I could milk from her with 'gifts' and such.
She wasn't some cash-bored office girl, or money-rich businesswoman.
She was the manager of a small business. I knew from experience just
how penny-pinching they could be. Perhaps I should just do my little
service for the community, try and apply what patches I could to her
vision of her marriage, and then give it up as a bad joke. Maybe one
of my regulars would be in tonight.

"I don't want to sound like I'm judging here, but you must have
loved something about him. What were the reasons you married him
in the first place?"

"He had his good points, once. But the marriage was arranged by
our parents."

A chill went through me. Oh no. No, it couldn't be.

"Sounds a bit rough. Reminds me why I never married," I keep the
laugh light, so she could know that I'm only doing a bit of friendly
joking. She smiles back at me, so I take the plunge. "You know, here
we've been, talking for an hour, and you haven't even told me your
name," I say, keeping that friendly smile that so often roped them in
as I put on a faux hurt expression. 

"Saoto..." the woman hesitates, and then tries to hide her hesitation
with a nervous smile. "Akane, just Akane."

I don't believe it, I just don't believe it. Well, okay, I do, but
still...

Only the fact that I work in a job that continually relies on
showing false emotions stops the shock from showing in my eyes.
"Well then, Akane-chan," I smile, my teeth glinting as I laugh
hysterically on the inside, "please don't tell me you don't have
time for one more drink? You have to at least listen to Baito sing
karaoke, he's got such a voice, you'd regret it if you missed it.
I know I'd regret it if you left."

She hesitated again, looking around, eyeing the exit for a moment,
before she turned back to me. And smiled. A slight smile, but a
smile nonetheless. "Well, maybe one more."

She was hooked; I'd worked this job long enough to tell. She was so
lonely, so needing of some no-strings relationship that I wouldn't
have to even work that hard to get her. How sad that the woman was
so used to being married to a dual-sex husband, that she came to
crossdressers when she decided to initiate a little 'on-the-side'.

Oh well. One drink turned into two, three to four. Baito was in fine
form that night, he sung like his soul depended on it. He'd really
been practicing.

My workmates and my boss were surprised I was spending all my time
with just one client - especially a new one - but I'd been in this
game longer than any but the boss. They trusted my judgement, and
left me to my job.

I nodded and smiled, saying all the right things; I'd spent a lot of
time thinking about Akane, analysing her after I 'lost', trying to
understand how she won when I didn't. My psychologist weighed in
when I started seeing him too. He claimed that all the little
fantasies I had about my marriage - Ranma weakened by Happosai's
pressure point, Ranma thrown out of the dojo and coming to me - all
of them had me in the dominant position. I was the head cook. I was
the breadwinner. I was the so-called alpha male. And, my psychologist
claimed, that was why he never picked me. No male wants to be the
beta male in a marriage.

I think I need to take a closer look at that diploma my shrink has,
I'm getting a little suspicious of him. I didn't lose to Akane
because of that. I lost because he already had my dowry, and he
didn't need anything more from me. My Knight in Shining Armour was
just like his father. And his father would have coveted a dojo above
a yatai any day. Akane was no better than me. She just had the right
equipment to entice the prey.

The club closed at 3am. A couple of the others waved me off in the
sign language you develop when you're around customers, indicating
that they'd clean up. "I'm sure you're a fine cook, Akane-chan. Your
husband's probably just unwilling to admit you're better at him in
something." I reach down and gently lift her from the barstool she's
been glued to for the past five hours. "What you should do the next
time he's home is bake him a gigantic welcome home dinner. Show him
the full range of your culinary skills." 

"You," her finger wavered a bit as it pointed at me, "are a good...
good friend, ya know that Akira-kun?"

"Only when the company's as good as yours, Akane-chan." I was a lot
steadier than her. It was easy to appear to be drinking as much as
your client when you weren't, and years of constant alcohol intake
does give you some resistance to its effects. "I'll always be here
to be your friend, Akane-chan. But now I'm afraid it's time for you
to go home."

She hesitated at the doorway, her eyes focussing somewhat. Maybe she
wasn't that drunk after all. She looked out onto the garish neon
streets of the Shinjuku strip, before looking back at me. "Home... it
used to be home once. But a home, it shouldn't be a lonely thing,
Akira-kun. I... I..."

My hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder. Of course home was a
lonely thing. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't. "You don't have to
go home, Akane-chan."

"You're a good man, Akira-kun. A good man. Not like... like my 
husband at all."

"Shh. Come on, Akane-chan. Let's go to my place."

I cook for all my clients after their first 'night' - I had gotten
over that flashback thing eventually, but I never quite refound the
passion I once had for cooking. But this was one time I'd truly enjoy
serving a sizzling okonomiyaki wakeup call. After all, even though
its not my trade any more, there's still no-one who makes an
okonomiyaki like me. I bet even Akane would remember them after all
this time.

Of course, I'll wait until after she pays me before I serve it.

++++++++++++
++++++++++++

This fic came from a couple of things on the FFIRC. The first being
one author's mention of thinking about writing a Ukyou streetwalker
fic(sorry, hope I didn't step on your toes)- with my reply that the
onnabe would be more up Ukyou's alley, and the other being the utter
overuse of lesbians in fics. So, I thought I'd try and write a
lesbian fic with none of the fanservice associated with the concept. 


------
Mark Doherty - mdoherty@uq.net.au
http://www.tass.org/~mdoherty/index.html

Irony is Nature's way of telling us not to take life too seriously.
...No wonder they call her a Mother.