Yeop

I was gonna do NaNoWriMo and bang out 50K words about My Tokyo Experience, but I got distracted. Here's what I came up with. Note that this completely unedited, and that names have been changed:


We are sitting, absolutely rapt, listening to his story.
“So I put my hand down there...” My friend Lee is telling the story, and as he says this, he gestures towards an invisible crotch, “...and there's something I didn't expect.”
“Tiny penis,” I say knowingly.
“Vagina?” asks my friend Drew.
Lee doesn't even blink. He has committed to telling this tale of woe. “No, I went to take down his Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and there's...a pad.”
We don't react. Finally, my friend Gemma asks, “a maxi pad?”
“Yeah.”
We don't react again for a few seconds, before breaking into cruel, helpless laughter.
“What did you do?”
“I don't know,” Lee admits sheepishly. “I was really drunk, so I just...I don't know, I gave him a handjob and went home. And now I can't go back to that bar again. Which sucks, 'cause it was a really nice bar.”

Welcome to love in Tokyo. The women are conniving and infantilized, the men have hugely overinflated senses of both entitlement and inferiority, and those who are looking for a meaningful connection often are left texting in tears on the subway platform. This is the kind of thing that we are now used to.

When I left Canada for Tokyo, I had never had a one-night stand, had never made the first move in my life, and didn't know how to do so. The usual yellow fever infecting most Asian transplants was not an issue for me; Japanese men looked like asexual vampires who had stuck their fingers in light sockets- a maximum weight of one hundred pounds, hair that rose in magnificent waves about a foot above their heads, and a fondness for plaid lumberjack shirts that had died elsewhere in the world about the time that Kurt Cobain embodied the phrase “nice shot.” I was beyond awkward.

It changed, and the first date process would often go something like this:

Shibuya is one of those places in Tokyo that is synonymous with, well, Tokyo. You can go down there any time and see hordes of people: street performers, drunk chicks, yamamba, salarymen, droves and droves of gap-jawed tourists- why on earth can't white people close their mouths when they walk around?- housewives, homeless people, gothic lolitas like eroticized cupcakes, and everything in between. It is a confusing hodge-podge of neon and voices and curry smells, where you can buy just about anything, drink in any kind of establishment (including, but not limited to, bars where they lock you in a jail cell and force you to stir your drink with cheerful glistening vibrators), and make passionate love in a dungeon, or a Hello Kitty nightmare, for a mere five thousand yen an hour.

I fucking hate Shibuya.

First of all, you can't walk anywhere. There are too many people. Try to take a man-sized step in any direction and you'll run up against some knob with a camera and likely bump your nose. If you're wearing high heels, it's almost a certainty that you'll get the heel stuck in the wheels of some businessman's rolling suitcase, or stub your toes against a crossdresser's cape. It might sound exciting to you, but trust me, it's a nuisance, and after a year in Tokyo I've completely lost my joy of context.

The second bad thing about Shibuya is looking at the other white people. Whenever I see a closely-huddled knot of lumpy, camera-toting people in “LOOKING FOR A JAPANESE GIRLFRIEND” t-shirts, I get this uncontrollable urge to vomit. Or cry. I try to avoid walking anywhere near them so that people don't assume I'm part of their group. I'm convinced that half of them don't even leave the station; they stand in front and snap pictures for hours whilst catching flies in their yawning, cavernous traps. Not that there are flies in Shibuya; it's too inorganic. They take pictures of the SHIBUYA 109 sign, the video billboards, and I'm sure they do their best to get a shot of Hachiko. Of course, Hachiko can never be seen for the piles of soused homeless people and bored-looking Japanese girls in three-inch skirts waiting for their emotionally-detached boyfriends with Flock of Seagulls hairdos that surround it. But the tourists try, they do.

The third thing I hate about Shibuya is that every time I go there, I get drunk, and then I go to Don Quijote and go shopping and buy loads of incredibly stupid things that I don't even half need. For example, my last intoxicated retail adventure netted me a twenty-dollar bottle of green nail polish (I already own six bottles of a similar shade), a packet of coconut incense (bad choice) and an oversized hot pink gangsta hoodie made of a fabric halfway between “towel” and “Muppet.” Not that it isn't a great little hoodie- warm as fuck!- but come on, self. Was that really necessary?

Therefore, I wasn't happy to be in Shibuya that Sunday night. I was stuffed into my First Date Jeans and my First Date Top- black, plunging neckline, long enough to hide my thighs- and a pair of First Date Shoes that were giving me a pair of wicked First Date Blisters. I had checked my makeup four times and even attempted to blow-dry my hair before giving up in abject, frustrated apathy. Despite these all being the same First Date Accoutrements that I had employed on the past eight unpleasant first dates I'd had this year, I had some inkling that they might work this time. Wishful thinking, I know.

His face was average, his body was average, he made the same amount of money I did, and within about three minutes I realized that we had the typical things in common: a fondness for shows like Family Guy, an enjoyment of Judd Apatow productions, and the stagnant commonality of all Tokyo denizens, a hatred for riding the trains. He took me to a typical bar: 300 yen per draft beer, stuffed to the gills with foreigners, that he bragged he had “discovered” months before and that I had been to no less than six times already.

Two beers down, he pops the typical question: “So...are you seeing anyone else?”

I eyed him suspiciously over the rim of my beer glass. “Well,” I said, praying that I wouldn't lose the bet I'd had with myself, “Not really, no. Why? Are you?”

He shuffled and smiled and his Adam's apple bobbed, and I mouthed the words into my beer as he said them out loud: “Um...kind of.”

Which kind of?

It came out, as many of these stoies do, in a semi-patronizing, dismissive tone, and it's difficult for me to remember which iteration of the tale was offered to me by this iteration of the man, so I offer you the following in lieu. Circle the options you find juiciest. “Yeah, she's Japanese. We've been together/ engaged/ sleeping together and seeing other people- well, I see other people, she doesn't/ married for (choose whatever length of time you like; I've heard them all). I mean, it's not a big deal or anything.”

Stupid me, I have to ask the question they expect. It's part of the dance. “Um, does she know?”

“Well...”

The women never know.

At this point in the conversation, I usually light a cigarette. If the guy doesn't smoke, it might drive him away. If he does, his wife or girlfriend or love slave probably doesn't, and he'll disapprove of me. All foreign men who date Japanese women develop a Madonna/Whore complex towards foreign women, with the gaijinettes making up ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the “whore” category. We're too difficult, too demanding, too selfish, too independent, and thoroughly too good at communicating our actual feelings.

I stubbed out my cigarette and looked into his mild, bland eyes. “So what are you doing here, exactly, then?”

There is no answer to this question. The best of the lot will shrug and say something like “I like you,” or “you're pretty,” or “I don't know, I just feel trapped”. These are the men who you can charmingly bid goodnight. A few will apologize later and you can be friends with them.

The worst of the lot, however, will immediately begin bitching and moaning about how their Japanese love interest wants commitment. Babies babies wedding babies wedding babies. Or “she's too busy and I never see her.” Or both.

(My favorite response, “fuck off, none of your business,” I got only once. I kissed him on the forehead before storming off. It was the most honest reply I had or still have ever received.)

So which one was this guy? “Well, you know, she works a lot...and sometimes it's hard because...like...she has all these expectations...but I'm just not ready for a commitment.”

It is here that I smiled prettily, made up a kindergarten teaching appointment for early the next morning, and left him standing at the train station after dodging an awkward attempt to take my hand.

On my way home, I don't read. My entertainment of choice is staring out the windows of the Yamanote while my iPod blasts Ani Difranco and death metal in equal quantities.

This is the Gaijin Love Connection. You want them. They want you. Somewhere along the line, though, normal behavior and typical connections from person to person get lost in a sea of neon and false eyelashes and crushing work schedules and inconvenient train lines. So we drift, a group of educated, fairly ballsy individuals, from chance to chance to fleeting hope. Usually, we fall.

SeXXXy

One of my four-year-olds is very taken with me. She always crawls into my lap and, when we play Color Touch, likes to stroke my hair and cry, "Yellow!"

(Maybe I should get a new colorist...)

Today, I learned just HOW taken she is with me. She slid on the floor into my lap and wrapped her arms around me with a giggle. "Awwww," I crooned, "I love you, too!"

As she looked into my face and smiled, she started patting my breasts.

"No, honey."

Thoughtfully, as I disengaged her little hands, she snaked her arm out suddenly, grabbed my left nipple, and yanked it.

That's right, a four-year-old Japanese girl gave me a titty twister.

She did not get any points.

Yaaaay

Kid grabbed my tit today. Guess it was just a matter of time.

Hey-ho, let's go.

I love dirty old men

Two weeks ago, I had a very taciturn, grouchy student. One thing I've noticed about older male students is that they are either very enthusiastic, or quiet as fuck because they're exhausted. That's fair, as many of them have just come from their ball-busting workdays. I'm pretty good at drawing people out with talk, but this guy resisted my every effort.

He asked me a question that's very popular amongst students- what surprised me when I first came to Japan?- and I decided to see if I could at least shock a giggle out of him. With a grin, I informed him that I had seen a soapland* and, surprise surprise, the window had been open and I had seen just EVERYTHING! (This story is not true, of course. I've never seen a soapland with windows, let alone one on the ground floor of a building.)

He did indeed howl with surprised laughter, and started talking. Oh, he told me many things. Where to find the infamous used panty vendors. Techniques for molesting girls on the train. Websites where Japanese high school girls advertise their services and older businessmen acquiesce. All the stuff you hear about Japan, but say "naaaaaah" to, basically.

Was he having a laugh at my expense? Is he getting off on explaining this to someone he considers to be demure and wide-eyed? Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that he now requests me every week, and I always look forward to seeing him and hearing his latest stories of perversion. It's the kind of conversation I dream about: fun, interesting, and nasty as hell. You should see the note sheets I write for this guy.

* For those who don't know what a soapland is, this post is awesome.

Well, tits to that

A couple weeks ago, I made a joke to my friend about fighting a Japanese woman in a bar: "What is she gonna do, titless me to death?"

Well, sirs, I have received my karmic comeuppance.

I popped into a professional hair care supplier to buy hair dye and developer. The cashier spoke a little English, and she complimented my bag and choice of colour. Pleased, I bent to collect my shopping bags, when she goes, "Oohhhh!"

I straightened up, and she made the universal gesture of Hey Look Titties. "Very big!!! I like!!"

"Uh...arigatou gozaimasu."

Then I totally fucked her on the French nails display.

Nah, I'm messing with you. But STILL.

Tales of Grossness

So, I learned something new last night.

When a nice young Japanese man shows you how to get on the absolute last train to take you home, it's apparently standard procedure for his friend to reach out and cup your right tit.

Golly, the culture here sure is fascinating!


My last kids' classes of the year went okay. My last group, which is the rowdiest, actually warmed my cold little heart. Favourite Student got so annoyed with his classmate's whining that he snagged the flashcards from me and started teaching the words to the bratty kid himself. I love that kid.

Chikan-ery

I was on the train, on my way to work, when he sat down next to me.

He was a bleach-blond Japanese guy, with a protruding jaw and and a typical Uniqlo furry-hooded jacket. I was deeply engrossed in my iPod and book when he tapped me on the arm.

GTA: *sighing, removing earbuds* Hai?

GUY: *inscrutable Japanese*

GTA: Wakarimasen.

GUY: Where you from?

GTA: New York.

GUY: What...you do?

GTA: I'm an English teacher.

GUY: eeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeh?

GTA: Eigo no sensei.

GUY: Ah! High school?

GTA: Iie, eikaiwa no sensei.

GUY: What station you get off?

GTA: *lying* Kichijoji.

GUY: You are Italian?

GTA: Um, no...

Guy performs his mating dance, which consists of bending his fingers backwards in a disturbing fashion. Despite GTA's shrieks of protest, he keeps showing her.

GTA: Okay, okay, I'm impressed! Stop!

GUY: *strokes own fingers* Bone!

GTA: ...yes.

Guy takes GTA's hand and tries to make her replicate his double-jointedness. She demurs, whch is a nice way of syaing "homie don't play that."

Guy is undaunted. He takes his own hand and strokes GTA's cheek reverently.

GTA leaps up, stammers a goobye, and runs the fuck out of the train just as it reaches Kichijoji.