My date with Suzi Suzuki

The surprises just kept on coming from the Japanese porn star who loves Navajo rugs, anal sex and her bichon fris


Peter Davis
October 2, 2001 11:42PM (UTC)

Let's start with the good stuff. Yes, I had sex with Asian porn star Suzi Suzuki. Several times in fact. In Room 404 of the Boulder, Colo., Ramada Inn. Presumably this could also happen to you. But to start, it wouldn't hurt to know a little about Navajo rugs and jazz.

Suzi Suzuki is mostly known for her anal work. But she works both sides of the proverbial fence. In fact, a FAQ on her Web site lists her favorite position as "DP, reverse cowgirl style." Her more than 30 videos include: "Suzi Bungholeeo," "Butthole Whores," "Orgy Camera #6," "Action Sports Sex 2," "Bangcock Boobarella," "Hot Sushi" "AsiantriX," and "I Wanna Be Fucked: Fuck Me Harder." She also is a trained jazz singer, Navajo rug weaver, has read every novel by Japanese author Haruki Murakami, has studied modern literature and has a seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of sex toys.

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The tidbits about Navajo rugs, Murakami and her interest in modern literature aren't on Suzi's Web site, but an invitation to ask her on a date is. That's what ultimately brought us to Room 404.

Another confession. I've got a thing for Asian women and am one smitten white guy when simply viewing the image of an ebony ink wash of hair, golden soft skin, haughty cheekbones and the proverbial almond eyes. I'm done. Toast. Crumbs even.

Like the first time I spotted Suzi's aristocratic demeanor on the cover of an Ed Powers video. The patriarch of amateur porn gave Suzi her U.S. start with a DP featuring him and former collaborator Jamie Gillis in an early "Dirty Debutantes" release. I was hooked for life. Not for the action and the mandatory genital close-ups, but more for listening to Suzi's orgasms and moans when Ed, an overweight, stubble-ridden aging guy with a greasy looking ponytail and a hefty bank account merely brushed her breasts. Besides being stubble-ridden and slightly overweight, but lacking the bank account, I share his birthday, so I could kinda relate. Oh my God, thought I. If only ...

As Asian porn stars go, you can have your Asia Carrera with her Mensa membership, your scary long-nailed Mimi Miyagi, pouty Kitty Yung and Minka with her cartoonish, grotesquely inflated breasts. Me, I'm a simple Suzuki man. She's not on porn's "A-List" -- partly because she lives in San Francisco, not the L.A. G-spot, a place where she indicated she found it difficult to play porn-biz politics. Her videos are not easily found except online. She supplements her video career with merchandise and memberships on her Web site, and with gigs as a stripper and exotic dancer in the U.S., Canada, Greece and her hometown of Tokyo.

The date message reads: "Play Days with Suzi: I get many requests for doing some kind of date and I have been thinking about doing it. Some ideas I had are Miniature Golf, Hot Tub, Dinner, Show, Coffee, Movie, Photo Shoot, Party or Group. If anyone is interested please write to me to tell me what kind of date you like to do and then we can discuss it for time, place and the cost. Please write only if you are really serious about it to Suzi@SuziSuzuki.com. Here is a pic from one of my dates."

The "pic" is what ultimately did me in. A simple shot of Suzi in a peasant-style, thin red blouse with full, (slightly) surgically enhanced breasts and perky nipples barely visible beneath the opaque fabric. It was mostly tasteful, only slightly slutty. Call it saucy. And it was taken while she was "hiking" at Lake Tahoe. I thought I'd up the ante, and sent an idea I thought would appeal to a presumably jaded porn star. I suggested enticements such as a limo, dinner at Boulder's finest restaurant (the Flagstaff House, which has hosted the current emperor of Japan, among other luminaries).

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But Suzi had another idea and, boy, was I surprised. She politely scotched the limo and Flagstaff House idea and continued:

"... it is fine to eat at just really nice restaurant and maybe it is the sushi Japanese place or any restaurant is fine. I am really interested in Navajo and Native Americans and I want to see and learn more about them, especially about weaving rugs. This is the very serious project for me. I have lived on the reservation in a hogan for a week and learned weaving from a Navajo woman. I do my own spinning and weaving from sheep. I also do beading of bags and things like that so I am interested in Native American beading and culture. I don't think you know so much about it but we can do the research together for interesting experience in Denver area.

"My idea is that we go to places that do crafts, we can learn about Native American things ... we can have the nice dinner, we stay at the hotel and I fly back to San Francisco."

'Nuff said. She was right, though. I knew next to nada about Native American beading and culture. But I did know that one of the nation's least-known outlets for first-class Native American weavings and crafts was only an hour from my squalid, two-bedroom, single-dad Boulder apartment. Charlie Eagle Plume's Trading Post is about seven miles north of Estes Park and was perfect for "research."

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And thanks to my favorite search device, dogpile.com, I became an instant "expert" on Navajo weaving styles and rugs. Expert enough, at least, that I was able to suss out that the Two Grey Hills is a beautifully simple style compared to, say, the more ornate and technically difficult Teec Nos Pos style. All these newfound revelations, plus a link to a story about Charlie Eagle Plume's in the (Boulder) Daily Camera were e-mailed to her as the weeks passed until our arranged Saturday-Sunday date in mid August.

Courtesy of her Web site, I also ordered -- and subsequently e-mailed honest and favorable comments about -- her self-arranged/produced jazz CD, "Searching for Louis," featuring an eclectic, entertaining mix of cabaret-styled standards ranging from "Blowing in the Wind" and "Don't Fence Me In," to "Just a Gigolo," and "The Lady Is a Tramp." Think Marlene Dietrich meets a subdued Yoko Ono.

Suzi sent me an autographed copy and in return I sent her Canadian cowboy singer Ian Tyson's "Cowboyography," with the only love song I know about a Navajo rug, conveniently called "Navajo Rug." My car was a problem, though. Unfortunately, there are no love songs about a dented, rusting 1984 Pontiac that looks as though rabid badgers have been living and rutting throughout it for more than a few Colorado winters. So, a rental was in order and reservations were made.

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"What's with the rental car?" asked my teenaged son. I mumbled something about "visiting some friends in the mountains on the weekend" and "not trusting" the Pontiac. I believe in honesty and all that, but I didn't think he was ready yet for "Your dad has a date with a porn star and wants to drive a car that looks presentable."

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The big day arrived. I'd e-mailed Suzi a picture of myself, and she, in turn, had sent me a portrait of herself posing provocatively, hands grasped overhead, raised breasts thrust forward on a sun-shocked Arizona dirt road with the e-inscription: "Thanks for your picture. This is me in Arizona. Suzi" It was a nice touch, as though I had no idea what she might look like.

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Along with the photo attachment she also e-mailed: "Thank you for the very nice things you said about the CD ... The first idea I had was to make a jazz recording both in English and Japanese so that Japanese could understand it. I think many times Japanese audiences [don't] get lyrics because they don't understand English so well.

There is a magazine called Flipside and they are saying I am a little like Marlene Dietrich's cabaret style. When I do the striptease I sing the song for first few minutes sometimes. It's OK, but I wanted to do more of the singing, a one-person show, but it's impossible in the United States I think. It isn't the popular kind of music right now and it takes a lot of money to make it happen the right way.

Thank you very much for the picture. It is nice to know who I am meeting. Thank you, Suzi."

We met at United Airlines Gate 34-B, at 10:34 a.m. I barely made it on time, having arrived with not many minutes to spare and also having paused to quaff two double-strength Bloody Marys to quell the jitters.

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Suzi deplaned wearing a wrap, black-and-gold print, rayon/silk ankle-length skirt; her trademark banner of waist-length ebony hair waving proudly; a tastefully baggy, cream-colored cotton-knit sweater and no bra (a discerning eye could see her full breasts and erect nipples beneath the semitight weave). She also bore a gift: a hefty, seemingly 5-pound loaf of genuine, just-baked San Francisco sourdough. In Sir Walter Raleigh fashion, I trundled her carry-on bag and dragged the sourdough as we made a lot of nervous small talk while getting to the car.

Suzi had done her research. In Boulder, after in my nervousness I overshot my semiregular sushi joint on the downtown pedestrian mall, she spotted a bead shop noted by national bead-heads as a place to be. We spent nearly 40 minutes while she carefully scoped out the inventory and settled on about $13 worth of antique beads.

A sushi lunch went down well after I got my bearings and we were off to Charlie Eagle Plume's for Navajo rugs. As Suzi says, she is "detailed-oriented" and we spent more than three hours combing through rug after rug, bead after bead, book after book, until she settled on two modest weavings and a beaded picture bracelet, depicting the Ship Rock, N.M., area. In addition to her extensive knowledge of Navajo weaving and native dyes, the subject of Suzi's dog, a bichon frisé, was another conversation opener.

"Oh, you own a bichon frisé, too?" remarked a prim-looking, middle-aged female Ohio tourist, instantly bichon frisé bonding. Perhaps she would have been shocked to learn that this charismatic Japanese visitor discussing designer dogs had, only two days before, filmed an explicit video -- involving light whipping -- with a couple at a San Francisco S/M club called the Power Exchange. Suzi would later point out the specific whip brand: quirt length, with a spray of very thin, rubber lashes with which she playfully "whipped" my arm -- producing a not-unpleasant stinging sensation as we browsed at Fascinations, a sort of Blockbuster of sex stores in Boulder.

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"I was sort of nervous," she said, "but the man knew just how to do it. Sometimes pain can turn into pleasure."

We covered a gamut of subjects during our leisurely drive through the Rocky Mountains to and from the trading post: sex, of course, and her pals the mondo-boobed Minka and Screw magazine publisher Al Goldstein; Japanese authors, including Murakami and Banana Yoshimoto, with whom she went to college; the merits of Sarah Vaughan, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong (her dog is named "Loui" in his honor) and juicy gossip about the gentle, New Age Japanese musician Kitaro.

She has a wicked sense of humor and enjoyed sharing the fact that her late father worked for Hitachi, the Japanese electrical giant known in some circles not so much for industrial work, but for its vibrators.

"Sometimes I think maybe it is funny that my father could have designed the vibrators," she said -- adding that his engineering skills were used for larger projects than relieving muscle aches and sexual tensions.

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Suzi loved Fascinations. The only downside she found was that the store didn't have the hand-powered "Crystal Wand," described aptly in the Good Vibrations online catalog as "[an S-shaped] gorgeous clear Lucite dildo enabling you to reach either the G-spot or the prostate at just the angle you prefer. The hard acrylic provides the firm stimulation many people enjoy. About 7 1/2" long, 7/8" in diameter." Not to worry, though. Little did I know that she'd packed her own and would invite me to learn its merits in a matter of hours.

We did stumble on a toy neither one of us had heard of -- a battery-powered mini-vibrator to be attached with a rubber ring to the tongue for "maximum oral pleasure." "Maybe you try?" she suggested after a young clerk with two quarter-inch sharp rods jutting from below his lower lip told us that "friends" had raved about its effectiveness. I politely demurred, imagining the headline: "Local teacher, Asian porn star electrocuted in shocking love-nest oral-fest."

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Repairing finally to the love nest, we discussed dinner. She wanted "good beef." I quelled my sophomoric initial response, and we decided on a long-established Boulder restaurant known for its prime rib and teriyaki steak. I went out for a pre-dinner bottle of wine for me and bottled water for her (she may take on two guys at once, but Suzi knows her limits and doesn't drink) and returned to find her changed into an outfit of my dreams. Suzi was languidly brushing her cascade of hair, applying a fresh coat of cardinal red lipstick and had on a black mini-skirt, black patent leather fuck-me pumps and was braless in a thin, white cotton shirt nearly unbuttoned to her navel.

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Our waiter was unusually attentive throughout our meal, seemingly happy to have us close the place and frequently bending over solicitously, presumably to hear Suzi's quiet voice a little better. And while I usually have trouble keeping my water glass satisfactorily filled, for once this was not a problem. I got the feeling that I couldn't drink fast enough as far as the adolescent busboy was concerned.

Back in Room 404 neither one of us got much sleep. At first I felt awkward, even shy, especially when she simply plopped herself in "reverse cowgirl" style on my lap. I might be a guy, but I enjoy a little foreplay, which she happily initiated when I asked her for a kiss. Wow. Let it be known that Suzi Suzuki is a first-rate kisser, even moaning and sighing appreciatively as we warmed to the task ahead.

Through the evening and into the early morning she was accommodating (asking my favorite position), skillful, enthusiastic, complimentary ("Oh, you are so hard! I like how your cock is fat there!") and put me at ease through some of my insecure foibles.

Case in point: "Porn Star Analyzes Teacher's Cock" (or: "Who Am I To Argue?"). Condoms were a necessity, of course. We'd both come prepared, but a couple of times my desire couldn't keep up with the downtime of groping for a rubber, tearing it open, putting it on, readjusting, etc., poking blindly for accurate entry, followed by the reduced sensation. As Suzi expertly stroked/tongued me back into readiness she observed: "Your cock is made behind more. Most cocks are not so far back. I think that is why you might have trouble with missionary position. Your angle is better for doggie or scissors style. You know?"

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I didn't, but I do now. We stuck with scissors after that. She also brought out the Crystal Wand and encouraged me to manipulate it for her ultimate satisfaction and after about four restless hours of sleep, asked me politely if I'd ever been finger-fucked in the ass. (According to the Good Vibrations Web site, August is "Anal Sex Month!") I confessed my inexperience and she pulled a Latex glove out of her bag of tricks, applied some lubricant and gently went to work as I greedily sucked her hardening right breast while jacking myself off with her hair wrapped around my cock. A new sensation indeed and one that had me shaking and shouting as I came.

Suffice to say, I'm eagerly looking forward to observing Anal Sex Month as many months of the year as possible. Suzi seemed a bit bemused at my new enthusiasm. "Now you know what it feels like for me with anal sex. Maybe next time I use a strap-on?" she said, laughing.

We made it to the airport with about 10 minutes to spare, short on sleep but the afterglow of Suzi's expert ministrations still tingling below. She asked if I'd be coming to San Francisco anytime soon, though I had the feeling she was being more polite and gracious than anticipating a visit. "I sort of intimidate you, don't I?" she said, staring directly up at me just before she boarded. Bingo. I stuttered some sort of denial, hardly plausible, and may have even blushed. A peck on her scarlet lips and she disappeared into the covered ramp.

I went back to the rental car, savoring real air conditioning, clean upholstery and a CD player, slid in "Exile on Main Street" and hit "Rocks Off" at maximum volume as I threaded through the exit mazes of the airport. "I only get my rocks off when ah'm dreeemin'!" sang Mick Jagger. I'd gotten mine off and realized a dream but also felt a tad hollow and mournful now that it was over. Nothing to prolong and time to get back to real life.

At home, I broke into her sourdough gift and slathered it with butter; tasty though it was, it was a poor substitute for her presence. I think, though, I'll freeze a chunk as a memento of a fantasy realized and gone.


Peter Davis

Peter Davis is a writer in Colorado.

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