The first issue’s cover was graced with an image of Yui, the second’s by one of Sakura. The covers were done in black and white, partly to attract attention and partly because they couldn’t afford any more colour ink. Every couple of minutes Terry would take a moment to pick up a copy and flip through it, amazed that his vague ideas had become solid paper and ink. It almost insulated him from the raging storm of otaku around him. Comiket was the time when all the nerds, freaks, and losers of Japan came out of their burrows to get their wank material. It was a massive convergence, throngs of flesh pulsing through makeshift streets and alleyways, doe eyes and bare breasts staring out from everywhere the eye went. Of course, being on the other side of the tables wasn’t much better. Terry and Naomichi had wound up squeezed into a corner between two yaoi artists, so most of their audience just swerved away from their corner at top speed. A few got pressed there by the sweaty throng and. Charles and I were the hiding ones ... Grace taught her friends. Charlie and I always managed to be elsewhere when the girls wanted to dance.So ... when I led Grace out on the floor ... the misogynists laughed ... and trapped flies. It helped that she bounced out of her bodice a couple three times.“Grace,” I whispered in her shell like ear, “When did you get boobs?”“Two weeks ago, when you asked me,” she grinned. “Lansing has a great plastic surgeon.”“Never tell me your ass is plastic, too.” I said ... that would be a travesty.Grace kept dancing.“Well?”“Well, what?”“Is it or not?”“What?”“Plastic.”She kept dancing.Back at our assigned table, we were inundated by the male wallflowers ... leaches ... every one.“Pardon me, Miss. Would you care to dance?”And a dozen variations on the theme.She danced with the first ... about 30 seconds into the treat ... the slap could be heard downtown. Grace came storming back ... one boob bare. She was corralled by a teacher ... chaperon. Off they.
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