If you like Reibun Ike’s work, you’ll want to read this for no other reason than to see how she develops as an artist and writer over the 9 years it took her to complete her yakuza lovers narrative.
Published in 2008, Bi no Isu (The Coercion Chair)introduces Nirasawa (uke) and Kabu (seme), the yakuza couple whose story continues in the two volume Bi no Kyoujin (Assassin’s Dagger of Flattery) in 2015 before culminating in Bi no Kyoujin: X Side (2016) and the finale Bi no Kyoujin: Smoke (2017). Along the way, among the 5 or so other series she created during this period, she published the disturbing yet strangely beautiful “not equal” (all lower case letters) from 2010-2012.
Make no mistake: this series is consistent in its graphic violence and explicit sex, and often both at the same time. There is S&M, physical and sexual torture, and emotional abuse. Consent is not part of the vocabulary used in this manga. It’s puzzled me why I find these books interesting. At first, I kept reading because I wanted to see if there was any chance at moral redemption for Kabu and Nirasawa. By the third or fourth volume, it became clear there wasn’t, although there is something to be said for the unbreakable love that develops between them.
Certainly, the art is compelling. Comparing Reibun’s early style in this first volume, Bi no Isu, with her more mature work, it’s clear she’s embraced an ever more realistic look. Kabu’s profile in “The Coercion Chair” makes him look like a character who has run away from a Simpson’s episode. By 2015, his profile is beautifully handsome, rugged, and realistic. At the same time, back in 2008, Reibun had already developed mastery over her use of gritty grays and moody blacks, albeit her compositions and visual narrative lack the polish she is to give it 7 years later. Her skill in depicting the foreshortened figure, specifically, and anatomical accuracy, more generally, also improve over time.
The real value of her work, to me, comes in contrasting how she frames and explores masculinity, and, by extension, femininity, within the rigid gender system at the heart of Japanese culture. Given the work of cultural theorist Fushimi Noriaki and others, Japanese attitudes towards sexuality are “firmly situated within a highly [heterosexual] essentialist paradigm that constructs an individual’s gendered and sexual identities as equivalent to their biological sex” (Fushimi, N. Sexual Desire: People Don’t Just Live in Order to Remove Discrimination, 2007). This heteronormative, heterosexual system allows for only two static genders, the male (active/penetrator) and female (passive/penetratee) roles; all sexual desire and behavior must be understood through application of this duality without exception (see Thomas Baudinette’s work in this area).
Coupled with the overwhelming demand for conformity and preserving one’s social dignity (which some authors ascribe to Japanese culture), this familiar heteronormative system creates a kind of mental Skinner Box maze, with only two allowable paths forward, one leading to penetrative masculinity and the other to passive femininity. By definition, a man who is passive with another man is feminine regardless of any other considerations - because no other considerations are allowed. Other authors, such as Alan Sinfield (see his 2004 book, “On Sexuality and Power”) take this framework and run with it, exploring various permutations and possibilities.
As far as Reibun’s work goes, what she is up to becomes clear once you compare her yakuza couple to, say, Ranmaru Zariya’s protagonists in “Birds of Shangri-La,” “Coyote,” or “Liquor and Cigarettes,” or Haji’s “Red Hood.” Zariya and Haji’s uke characters, both visually and narratively, embody “feminine” characteristics (I use the quotation marks as a way of highlighting that femininity, both conceptually and in its application to social and personal contexts, is a) not an unchanging essence, and b) a concept the outlines of which are nearly impossible to clearly, consistently, and comprehensively define (eg does a feminine wife lose her femininity if she needs to become the family “bread winner” in the event of her masculine husband becoming disabled?)). Zariya’s characters especially, both semes and uke’s, combine visually masculine and feminine traits in terms of body language and psychology. Both are clearly transgressive of the hetero gender system by mixing and matching gendered traits in their characters.
What about Reibun’s characters? First, it’s important to note that both are masculine. Nirasawa, the uke, is intensely emotional in relation to his seme (Kabu), but is not a guy you’d want to f**k with. If provoked, especially in defense of Kabu, he’d split you down the middle. True, during sex, Nirasawa’s body language and visual look reflects classic BL tropes, but this is more a veneer or patina layered on top of Nirasawa’s masculine agency. While Nirasawa conceives of himself as an empty shell without Kabu in his life (I’m reminded of the Erika Badu refrain, “He became the sun I became the moon,” in the song “Other Side of the Game”), across the series he can and does assert his own agency to secure his survival and satisfy his needs. He is every bit the active male willing to secure his particular place in the surrounding social hierarchy of males, just as much as any other man we meet.
Kabu, Nirasawa’s seme lover, is the hyper masculine dominant male in the yakuza family. Still, he wavers as to whether or not he wants to succeed his father as head of their yakuza group, and it’s his inability to give up Nirasawa - along with Nirasawa proving his love and loyalty to him - that helps cements Kabu's decision to take over.
There is little that is androgynous about Kabu, and Nirasawa only manifests androgynous or “feminine” behaviors in relation to Kabu (usually during private emotional or sexual moments). But are these traits really feminine? I don’t think so. They are actually framed more within the classic “warrior vs. ephebe” binary (in the West), or, in the case of Japanese history, the samurai/wakashū binary. In both cases, what differentiates the two males constituting the binary pair is not just penetration - which may or may not be part of the adult male/younger male relationship - but also experience, education, skill, wealth, power, and/or refinement. Arguably, the latter characteristics are as or more important than penetration in defining the relationship.
Another way of putting this: if we remove “penetration” from both the conceptual meaning and social reality of the samurai/wakashu relationship (or, alternatively, the warrior/ephebe relationship), will the nature of the relationship be essentially changed? Clearly (to me, anyway) the answer is “No - the samurai/wakashu relationship is still recognizable as a samurai/wakashu relationship even when penetration is taken out of the picture.” There’s more to intense affection between two people than one inserting a body part into the other. Penetration can be a sign of deep affection, but it is neither necessary nor sufficient. Rather, what is at least necessary, and perhaps sufficient, in these relationships (including the Ancient Greek Erastes/Eromenos binary), is the idea of training, nurturing, or development of masculine agency through the interaction of samurai master and wakashu student. The ephebe or wakashu are, in a sense, “undeveloped” males whose masculinity is “in process,” and will, with the proper training and guidance, become mature, full scale masculinity at some point in the future - whether or not anyone is penetrated.
While Ranmaru Zariya and Haji’s male couples intentionally undermine and/or play with the Japanese heteronormative binary system of masculine and feminine gender (in Haji’s “Red Hood, for instance, the uke (a warrior witch hunter) has pectoral muscles so large that they mimic large breasts, giving this male character the look of a big chested, Wagnerian Valkyrie). Reibun’s male couples, on the other hand, seem to explore the emotional and behavioral range of masculinity itself. This is clearly apparent in her father/son, incest themed “not equal.” The “not equal” couple, where the son is the seme and the father is the uke, represents a dramatic and challenging reversal of power in the traditional family structure, but a reversal that ultimately leads to a kind of equality between father and son as both wrestle with their conscience, inner sense or morality, and fear of the social and legal consequences should they be found out. Nevertheless, both father and son “nurture” each other, albeit in different ways, facilitating each other’s growth into mature, masculine acceptance, responsibility and care for each other.
I say all this about Reibun’s “not equal” couple, but not without a level of discomfort; part of the remarkable accomplishment of “not equal” is Reibun’s skill in making us empathize with both the father and son’s desire for each other. While disquieting, this work in particular, in its radical critique of morality and a social convention that ranks as one of the most obvious and unassailable restrictions on personal behavior, both reframes ethical standards and pushes into unknown territory. In so doing, it distinguishes itself from other manga and forms of entertainment that might offer surface level social critiques but which ultimately reaffirm existing social conventions. For Reibun to map uncharted moral territory, whether or not we agree with her, is remarkable. Admittedly, she charts this new territory using another social convention - the trope of the loving, committed couple who overcome immense odds to be together. Madhavi Menon critiques the assumption that desire arises from and is always between two individuals who, together, form a unit. She rather argues that desire transcends our ability to categorize or limit it (see her “Infinite Variety: A History of Desire in India,” 2018). But when charting new territory, it is helpful to use something familiar that allows others to follow your lead, and the trope of the two lovers overcoming the odds to be together is an effective vehicle for Reibun’s moral investigations. (Note: Reibun may or may not have intended to deliver a cultural critique in “not equal,” but, at least based on the English translation, this is what I believe she has accomplished).
Regardless, Bi no Isu is still a “proto” story, not yet the fully developed exploration of the contours of masculinity in all its forms we find in “Assassin’s Dagger." It’s violent S&M sex is kinky enough for those with an interest in such things, while it’s violent criminality is graphic enough for those who like gritty mafia stories. If anything, reading this work now makes me want to see her other works so as to have a better grasp of her overall artistic and narrative development.