The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

Serpent-twined legs spread wide, hands on hips,
Keiko struck a pose as of an Occidental mother
scolding a child. There was anger in her eyes. He had
besmirched the poetry.
Honda surrendered. They were beginning to attract
a crowd. The cameraman came running up with a
tripod and a red velvet cloth. As Honda dodged
behind the dummy to avoid curious eyes his face
appeared at the aperture. The crowd laughed, the
diminutive cameraman laughed, and, though it
seemed not entirely appropriate that Jirōchō should
be laughing, Honda laughed too. Keiko tugged at his
sleeve and took his place. Jirōchō had changed sex,
and so had Ochō. The merriment was louder. Honda
was drunk. He had known much of peep holes, but he
had not had the experience of mounting a guillotine
for the pleasure of boisterous masses.
The cameraman took rather a long time with his
lens, perhaps because he had become a cynosure.
“Quiet, please.” The crowd was quiet.
Honda’s austere face protruded from the low-slung
hole over the yellow plaid. Stooped, hips thrust out, he
had taken up his pose at the peep hole in Ninooka.
Behind the scene of these humiliating antics a subtle
quick change took place as, indifferent to the crowd’s
laughter, Honda confirmed that his whole world hung