Posts Tagged ‘japanese girls

01
Feb
10

Black and White in Japan pt.6

I was not prepared for the level of verve I would have for the girls here in Japan. And, I don’t think any man can really prepare himself  for the onslaught of attention Japanese girls eagerly endow foreign men here. If a guy had had the same ratio of beautiful girls coming on to him or finding his charms irresistable back home then maybe he’d have developed the ability to manage his libido…I’m sure celebrities can identify. I certainly couldn’t.

Thus, I was like the proverbial fat rat in the cheese factory those first couple of years.

Joe and Greg witnessed this first hand. The parade of girls I’d march by them into my bedroom, while they sat in the livingroom watching movies or playing guitar. And each girl would give them that same look of utter embarrassment, looking like they wished they could just disappear or die, for she knew, like I knew, like my room mates knew, what was going to be happening in due course on the other side of that thin wall:

As Chic sang, Good times.

I didn’t understand why they weren’t doing the same and eventually chalked it up to they were too busy getting loaded to enjoy the fruits of their notoriety. They were both fairly handsome guys. Joe was even cool, in a bohemian way, young, smart, blond, blue-eyed, a Japanese girl’s wet dream come true. And Greg had this rough outback Malboro-Man thing going, (or maybe that was just my image of him) and he could play the six-string guitar like nobody’s business. I mean, when I say he played the guitar as a complaint, it’s only because he’d do it loud enough to disturb the neighbors and at all hours of the night. My qualms had NOTHING to do with his ability. He was truly gifted and a joy to listen to and I wouldn’t be surprised in the least to see his CD  and photos splashed all over some Tower Records store window display one day.

But, they just were not into the girls like I was. They’d eventually spread the word and I became known as the Machine among the Aussie community in Saitama. They’d come over to our apartment, loaded down with beers and snacks, and toast “to the Machine.”

But, I couldn’t be the source of the noise that was generating  ill will among our neighbors. It had to be the foreign sounds, I thought. Hell, everybody has sex, even Japanese (maybe not babies, though). I hear them occasionally, the thin walls do go both ways. But, I rarely hear televisions or radios or loud talking, even on weekends. Not at night, anyway.

And I told my room mates just that.

“Come on, now, Machine,” Joe said with a smirk. “That noise coming out of your room is not usual.”

“Yeah, man, it sounds like you’re slaying them with your big, black pocket monster,” Greg added. “I know all you guys are packing heavy!”

“Whoa!” I snapped. “Ok…”

“What?” Greg snapped back. “You trying to tell me that you’re not as big as a…?”

“I said WHOA motherfucker!” I snapped again. “Whoa means chill the fuck out with that shit!”

“What’s your problem?” he asked genuinely alarmed by my reaction to what he probably thought was a compliment.

My problem?” I cried looking at Greg then turned to Joe. “My problem?” I repeated.

They both sat there looking at me, stunned into silence at my outburst. I still hadn’t found the words to address this issue, though. I had actually planned to postpone any discussion of it until I had. Going into it half-cocked didn’t seem wise, considering the harmony of our living arrangement hang in the balance. And they were actually really cool guys and I’d heard Nova room-mate horror stories (kleptomania, assaults, property damage, etc…) so I knew I could easily be doing worse…much worse!

But, I felt things had come to a head.

“Listen fellas,” I said. “I don’t know how things are in Australia and New Zealand, or even in Japan for that matter, but I know how…how I’d like things to be in this apartment, in our home.”

They were still watching me, a little on guard. Greg more so than Joe. My outburst had put him on edge, and I could tell he was a fighter. I pictured him, through my Crocodile Dundee-tinted lenses, as one of those guys who punched people in the jaw as a greeting back home, where bar brawls were probably par for the course.  While Joe looked serene, sharp but pensive.

“I’m a little sensitive when it comes to racial…um…let’s say racial identification,” I began, and I knew I had stepped on a slippery slope. Especially when their eyes started bulging. “For example, the words Nigger, and Colored, even Negro…they just don’t sit well with me. You follow me?”

“What about black?” Joe asked. “Is black okay?”

Thrilled that I’d reached one of them I said almost excitedly, “Yeah! Black is, how do you say it, Sweet as!”

“Sweet as…” Joe said, smiling. Everything was Sweet as with him. It was his favorite phrase.

“What’s wrong with colored?” Greg asserted. “That’s what we call our color…black guys back home. They don’t seem to mind.”

“What can I tell you, man? I ain’t Australian,” I said as calmly as I could, for I could see Greg was still tense. “I’m from a place where calling a black man Colored, especially if it’s a young white guy like you doing it, is like saying, ‘I need someone to whip my ass. Are you busy?'”

They both fell out laughing. I joined in.

“I got you,” Greg said after a couple of minutes.

“I got a question, though,” Joe said through his laughter. “You know I like Hip Hop, so…”

“So you want to know why do a lot of the Hip Hop artist say Nigga all the time?” I said, anticipating where he was going. “That’s a difficult question. And I’m afraid I can’t even answer it. I mean, maybe they like to embrace the horror. Or maybe they think by overusing it they’re defusing it. Trying to render it harmless. Or maybe they are so young that they have no idea how hurtful the word used to be in their grandparents’ time. Maybe they’re just ignorant.  Talented, rich, influential, but ignorant. I really can’t answer that question.”

“Oh…” Joe sighed, looking bummed out. “That’s kind of fucked up.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna sit here feeling sorry for Jay-Z, Snoop Dogg and Puff Daddy…I think not,” I laughed. “Let’s go get some brews and wake up the neighbors. We can finish this meeting next time…”

“Now you’re talking!” Greg said.

And we lived happily ever after…

the end

Loco

PS: Happy Black History Month to you Americans out there!

19
Nov
09

A strange thing happened on the way to Yokohama…

This morning I was on the train checking my emails when we pulled into the station. It was packed to the teeth and about to get more so judging from the lines on the platform before the door near me. I turned around and braced for the surge. And it came.

As usual  the surge swirled around me as much as it could, avoiding making contact with me as if I were a tree in the path of a stampede, but soon all the available space outside of the Gaijin bubble around me was filled and the surge- that is, those who hadn’t decided to go to another door- began to brush against me and eventually one man turned completely around and jolted me from my position with an almost vicious shove.

All par for the course, until…

A high school girl, in the mix, was shoved against me, backed away a bit and apologized. She was dressed in the standard fare: sailor uniform with the skirt hiked up pretty high on her thighs. She wore a mask like many people, probably to avoid spreading germs or catching the flu that’s going around. Her eyes looked a bit frazzled, though.

She was aggressively jostling herself and I realized it had nothing to do with me. Not this time anyway. People often, upon realizing they’ve been shoved into my vicinity, make strenuous efforts to remove themselves, but this girl’s efforts I discerned were not to evade me but to escape from the man behind her.

Chikan…yappari (Pervert, no surprise there…)

He was a short salaryman, shifty eyed and aggressive himself. The girl slid in front of me, perhaps thinking my gaijin-ness might dissuade her assailant.

It didn’t.

At least not much. I mean, he looked at me and reacted appropriately, for Japanese, like a deer caught in the headlights. But then he too tried to slide in front of me, between  the girl and me. I closed the gap between us by allowing myself to be swept with  the surge closer to the girl.

He didn’t like that. Maybe he thought I was trying to move in on his action or something. But, my gaijin-ness wasn’t much of a deterrent for he too tried to use the continuing surge and his briefcase to wedge himself in front of me. This behavior was very noticeable not only to me but to everyone in the vicinity, but instead of focusing on him and his oddly aggressive endeavors to get behind the high school girl, they kept their indirect and suspicious (fish-eyed) focus on me: the conspicuous threat.

Shit like this tempts me to say fuck it and let whatever will be just be. And, taking advantage of  my moment of indecision, he wedged his arm between the girl and I.

As the train left the station I could feel his arm between us adjusting with the movements of the train, only with determination. He was re-positioning it and in doing so was angling his briefcase into my groin to make space.

Fuck it. Here we go again…

He was on my right side. I was holding a metal strap with my left hand. I switched to a strap on my right side and as I did my right elbow caught his squarely in the forehead. It didn’t so much hurt him as it surprised him.

“Gomen nasai,” I whispered and nod/bowed. He ignored my apology probably sensing that my assault was done intentionally. A perceptive perv.

But his hand didn’t budge.

My elbow was now above his head. Switching hands had actually made his access to the girl easier. I had anticipated he’d back off after I’d shown him my intention to intervene. He hadn’t and, as a result, now had an almost unfettered and well-concealed entree to her.

The train swerved a bit and everyone was tossed to the left. Myself included. He apparently had been anticipating the swerve and used it to slide closer to his prey. He wasn’t going to use his hands, though, I realized. He’d wanted to get directly behind her for some reason. And now he was, as I had been shoved further to her left by the swerve.

I couldn’t see what was going on below but I could tell by his face- he was trying to look nonchalant- that something was up. The girl had ceased all struggling and jostling and had accepted her fate, whatever it was. She was looking at her cellphone, eyes frozen to it. His eyes kept looking down. The eyes of some of the other passengers would occasionally check him out but most kept re-confirming their proximity to me, or feeding their curiosities to satiety, or relieving their suspicions as to what my motives might have been for riding the train among them.

The train pulled into Yokohama station and as the doors opened I saw something but I’m still not sure what.

It looked like the man suddenly snatched something from the girl. They tussled a bit to separate like their headphone wires had gotten tangled. He tore away, however, making it appear like a classic NY-style purse snatching, but all the girl had was a school book bag and she was still holding that. He did something wrong, that’s for sure…and bolted away, shoving  through the swarm of commuters for the escalator. The girl realized he’d done whatever he did immediately and took off after him. He had been so close to me that I instinctively patted my back pocket to make sure my wallet was still there. It was. When I reached the escalator the guy was nearly at the top running full speed and the girl was hot on his heels. She must run track.

By the time I reached the top of the escalator I saw a few heads turned in the direction they had run but the man and the high school girl were gone.

I wish I had had time to learn more but I had to get to work.

Loco

06
Nov
09

On the couch #2

continued from On the couch #1:

Me: I mean, I like Japanese girls, but then again I like all kinds of girls….

Doc: I thought we were going to be honest.

Me: Ain’t I?

Doc: I’ve read your blog, Mister…I mean, Loco…I read ALL of it! Every post! Remember you sent me the link? You suggested I could gain some insight or at least see how your imagination works.

Me: I remember.

Doc: It was your idea.

Me: I know.

Doc: So, either you lied on your blog or you’re lying now.

Me: Me and my bright ideas.

Doc: Actually, it was. It was a great idea! Your writing has been more helpful than any ink-blot or psych-evaluation I could give you. I can almost diagnose you right now. That is, if it’s true…

Me: I always tell the truth…even when I lie. Haha. I mean, there are some areas where I took a little poetic license, but for the most part it’s spot on.

Doc: One thing I’ve noticed about your blog, which I find rather curious, is that you don’t talk about girls too often. Is there any particular reason why you avoid them as a topic of your writing?

Me: I hadn’t noticed that. I feel like I have written about them, though not extensively. I just have other things on my mind I guess.

Doc: But you came here initially for the girls, didn’t you?

Me: I don’t think so…

Doc: You don’t think so…

Me: Don’t get me wrong, doc. I think Japanese girls are awfully cute, and they do have a certain something that I find sexually appealing, but they are not the end all be all. They’re just women, nothing more, nothing less.

Doc: Did you feel that way before you came here or was that a realization you’ve come to since coming here?

Me: You got me, Doc. I figured that out here.

Doc: We’re just getting started, Loco. I Haven’t gotten you…not yet.

Me: Ambitious, aren’t we? Got me pegged, do you? Good. I need all the help I can get…

Doc: You wrote in your blog that when you went home you didn’t find any women attractive.

Me: I did, but I think that’s because I’ve gotten accustomed to a certain, I don’t know, form? I mean, the thing about Japanese girls is that, overall, their upkeep is far superior so I’ve probably gotten a little spoiled. But, I’m sure I could adjust back if that was all that was available. At least I hope I can. I intend to go home someday.

Doc: You seem to place a lot of emphasis on looks.

Me: So? Looks rule here. I’ve just adjusted to the climate.

Doc: Ok, listen, Loco, let’s not get into that just yet…it’s a doozy! Let’s start with something a little lighter, why don’t we?

Me: Anything you say.

Doc: Are you angry?

Me: Now, or in general?

Doc: In general…

Me: You’ve read my blog. What do you think?

Doc: I’m a professional diagnostician of mental illnesses. But if I based my diagnosis purely on your blog I’d have to conclude you were either Schizophrenic, bi-polar or suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder. Or all of the above.

Me:  And what a surprise! They are all treatable with pharmaceuticals. Lucky me. And those lucky pharmaceutical companies…they must love you.

Doc: Don’t deflect. This isn’t about me or the drug companies. 

Me: if you say so…

Doc: But, I would never base my diagnosis on your blog. Besides, certain entries in your blog have led me to believe that this “Loco” persona is merely an alter ego, a fictional shell you hide inside.

Me: Fictional?

Doc: I believe the events that you describe occurred but that these events are being depicted by this Loco persona. Loco is telling your story.

Me: That’s deep, Doc.

Doc: You think so? It gets deeper than that I’m afraid…

Me: Do tell.

Doc: Loco, I suspect, is a rather complex coping mechanism born of your need to entertain and your desire for approval. Also…

Me: Whoa, slow down, doc. Don’t you have any lubricants around here? Cuz I gotta feeling this is going to get unpleasant…

Doc: Sorry, Loco, am I coming on too strong?

Me: Keep talking like that doc and I’m gonna have to write you off as a quack.

Doc: Listen, Loco, I know what I’m talking about. I’m in the business of knowing. But I wonder if you do. You understanding your issues is just as, if not, more important than my understanding your issues.

Me: If you say so Doc. I’ve never done this before so I have to trust you, to an extent. And I have serious trust issues I’m told.

Doc: Uh huh.

Me: I mean, if I went to a hospital with a serious injury I would hope the doctors wouldn’t expect me to know as much about fixing me as they do.

Doc: Why do you say you have serious trust issues?

Me: It’s a recurring theme in my life.

Doc: I see.

Me: What do you see?

Doc: I see a lot, Loco. For instance, I see inconsistencies between your writing persona and the persona you’ve brought to my office.

Me: Hence the use of a pen name, Doc.

Doc: Considerable inconsistencies.

Me: I should hope so. I’m not here cuz nothing’s wrong.

Doc: Are you sure about that?

Me: I know nobody’s perfect. Perfection is not my goal. I just want to be able to get through the day without refraining from physically doing harm to someone.

Doc: Uh huh…

Me: It’s starting to hurt…the effort, I mean.

Doc: Uh huh…

Me: I’m serious, Doc. If I could do that my life here would improve 100 fold. Can you help me or not?

Doc:  Perhaps…

Me: So, let’s get started. Let the healing begin!

Doc: What don’t you like about yourself?

Me: Come on doc! I don’t want to stay in the shallow water. Let’s go snorkeling. Hell, let’s go scuba diving.

Doc: By your metaphor, loco, I’m all geared up! But you don’t even have a snorkel, let alone a wet suit and an oxygen tank. So, what do you say we get our feet wet in the shallows a while? Come on, Indulge me.

Me: Sure, Doc. Whatever you say. Ok, I wouldn’t say I was angry so much as I’m indignant, slowly approaching wrathful.

Doc: Thin line between angry and indignant.

Me: I don’t like that word angry. Back home there’s this whole archetype built around the angry black man. It’s become something of a cliche used to diminish a group of complicated people to a single mode of expression. And it kind of sucks…I guess I’m supposed to be more of a righteous black hero…which is a more acceptable stereotype. You know, cause oppression naturally generates moral fiber and what not…or maybe something  like a Morgan Freeman or Barack Obama.  But, angry…not so much.

Doc: I get that.

Me: And, if I had to choose something, I guess the number one thing I don’t like about myself is…

to be continued…

(-:

Loco

12
Jun
09

Anti-Acts of Retailiation #3: Team Chikan

This morning, as I passed through the ticket gate, I could hear the train pulling into the station so I sprinted up the endless staircase taking the steps two at a time. By the time I reached the top the passengers had already boarded and as I rushed towards the nearest door the passengers facing my approach liked to jump out of their skin. I had to touch people a little to get on…something that was never really an issue until I came to Japan. Now I avoid it whenever I can… A woman on my left and a man in front of me decided this was entirely too close for comfort and hopped off the train running to the next door which was equally if not more packed.

This gave me a little breathing room so I was grateful for their iwakan. I needed it. Being a smoker, I was winded by my climb, full-tilt up Mt. Fuji jr., to catch this sucker.

I was facing the door. Someones briefcase was being shoved against me. I peeked left and right to see if there were any way he could put his briefcase where it wouldn’t be up against my back. Of course there was space. He was using as a barrier between us.

Typical…

So I turned around to face him, daring him with a glare to put his briefcase against my stomach or chest. He didn’t dare. Rather he avoided looking at me and turned his body so that his shoulder was now wedged between us.

Actually, not typical…

Typically Japanese men are not even this aggressive. Japanese men that actually get physical with me scare me a little, to be honest. They behave as if they have something to prove. Like they know they ought to be intimidated by my size, or my strangeness, or even my color. But defiantly go against that inclination, somehow blaming me for producing the fear they feel. Of course all of this is conjecture based on my interpretation of body language, which I’ve learned since I’ve been living in Japan is notuniversal, so I could be misreading theirs. But, avoiding looking at me while directing a menacing stiff shoulder towards me, in my face vicinity…hmmmm, I wonder if some body language is universal.

Fortunately, the next stop was only 2 minutes away. I can ignore him for 2 minutes, I told myself. And then I can move. We pulled into the next station and I prepared to do just that. A good number of people got off  including my aggressor. I wanted to trip him but I didn’t. I waited until they had all exited amid the line of passengers waiting to board…as Japanese etiquette decrees. Some of the waiting passengers scrutinized me and retreated to other lines extended before other doors, as, apparently, Japanese prudence decrees.

I took a deep breath of patience, boarded, and made my way to a strap near the corner to the right of the door between the cars. I whipped out my cellphone and started playing Tetris. I try not to look at Japanese people as often as I possibly can. It’s the only way I’ve learned to not start to really hate them. I know what they are going to do, that they really can’t control it…most of them. It’s instinctual like blinking when something is headed towards eyes, or ducking when something airborne approaches your head.  It’s even predictable that one or two people might do something unusual like stand comfortably near me…like I’m a regular person. It happens often enough. I used to feel hope at those moments but it’s mostly fool’s gold. So I really don’t need to see it- the good nor the bad…Something inside me wants to see it…some feeling inside me wants to be felt… But in a self-therapeutic measure I’ve chosen Tetris over torture. I don’t need to play with that scab, rub that itchy eye, scratch that itch.

As the passengers boarded and the car became more and more densely crowded I noticed something peripherally that drew my attention away from my high scoring session with Tetris. A high school girl entered with a Salaryman on her tail practically glued to her. Maybe he was even holding her. I couldn’t see his other hand.  Yappari, chikan, I thought.

Typical…

I wasn’t far from him… They had been pushed along until they were practically standing behind me, separated by one man in-between us. I considered cockblocking, running a little interference. But, I was still fuming a little over the behavior around me and besides I actually hadn’t seen him do anything aside from be pressed against her and considering the compactness of the car, and all the pushing and shoving that goes on, it’s hard to distinguish between the incidental and the intentional. I moved a little to the left to see if I could catch a glance of his other hand. I could see her sailor uniform- her navy blue skirt -very short-  rolled up high on her thighs. She wore the thick white socks bulging around her ankles and she was standing on the backs of her penny loafers, wearing them like house slippers. Her hair was bleach blond and long and the wire for her I-Pod snaked out of it.

I noticed there was another man on her left and he was closer to her than it appeared to be necessary. Or rather he didn’t appear to be trying to conspicuously stay away from her which is what half the Salarymen do when they are in close proximity to schoolgirls on crowded trains. They like to keep their hands where they can be seen at all times, in order to avoid any accusations or even suspicions. You’ll see them reading Manga (even if there is no room to do so smoothly they’ll have it almost pressed against their faces) sometimes they hold on to straps with two hands, cellphones are always held high so people can see, sometimes they even just play with their faces or put their hands to their mouths as they pretend to read advertisements…anything not to be mistaken for a chikan. Which makes chikan easier to spot. They are among the minority whose hands are not visible. And even from a rather close distance, this guys right hand was not visible. The first man’s hands I couldn’t see either but from his shoulder’s position I could tell he was doing something with his cellphone. Maybe I was wrong about him. The man between us suddenly opened his newspaper fully and began reading, only the top of his head was visible. This pretty much prevented me from seeing anything. He seemed to be unaware that he had accomplished this so I didn’t think anything of it.

At the next stop, a bunch of people got off. But the HS girl and her parasite remained, as did the other man. I could see her face for a moment.  She wore heavy eyeliner and and long fake eyelashes and had really shiny glossy lips. She didn’t appear to be in any distress…but, like I mentioned, Japanese body language can be misleading. I turned away and noticed there was a long line to get on, so I decided I would use the surging boarding crowd to adjust my position and get closer to the girl and see what was happening and possibly in position to intervene. As I maneuvered to the spot where I would be pushed towards the girl if the surge had proceeded naturally, as I should have expected, upon seeing me, the surge diverged like a river around a rather large rock. A river of people pretending not to see me. Suddenly the river ran out of space and burbled awkwardly towards me like the tide lapping at the shore. I turned away from the door and faced towards the girl, the crowd lapping at my back. I couldn’t use the crowd to inch me in closer because they wouldn’t touch me. Great.

But, now I had a different angle and I could see what I couldn’t see from behind the guy reading the paper. The girl was  hemmed into that location by the first guy who was still glued to her and appeared to be rubbing her breast  through her white cotton sailor blouse while holding his cellphone against her, but I wasn’t 100%, and the second guy was still extremely close to her…and his hand was sliding up and down her thigh…of this I was sure. Two chikan!.

Not typical…

I’ve seen two chikan in a car before. The Saikyo line was infested with them. But, they always worked separately. These two…they seemed to know each other. They seemed to be complimenting one another, covering for one another. Of course the people around who could see what was happening more clearly than I were pretending to be oblivious. Then the guy with the newspaper moved slightly into my path again and I suddenly I realized something. The man with the paper had his back to the girl…and his paper was making it difficult to see clearly what was going on. Oh man! He was working with them, too!!! A three-man team, or was there another man? I started looking around for other possible accomplices…There was another guy on the right with a newspaper. It wasn’t opened and he seemed to be…I don’t know…solid, like a solid citizen. He was dressed as a Salaryman. In fact, they all were. There was nothing distinguishing them from regular Salarymen.

The first guy’s shoes were a bit worn down and the other guy, the thigh rubber, his sports jacket was a little threadbare, the guy with the Newspaper was flawless…maybe he needed a shave, and this new guy, his briefcase had seen better days. But that was it. Otherwise they were your typical everyday Salarymen.

I’m not a fool. I wasn’t about to play hero when there was clearly a gang at work here. I mean, shit, this is their country and their turf and all these cowardly fucks are just standing around, afraid of me, afraid of these three (or four or more) chikan plying their perverted trade right before their eyes. If they go out of their way to avoid touching me now I know they wouldn’t lift a finger to help me if I were dying, especially since they won’t even help the most helpless of their people, their women (or in this case adolescent.) So, I was tempted to just let it be…mind my business… to write the whole scenario off as one of those When in Rome…things the way many here have written chikan-ing off as one of those Shouganai  things like atomic bombs and Perry’s Black Ships…

But was I allowing my experiences here in Kawaiiland to diminish my personal sense of common decency? Probably.

At the next station many people got off and another mob was waiting to get on, but  Team Chikan hadn’t budged. In fact, even when people tried to get by they wouldn’t budge. The 4th guy with the newspaper had gotten off so there were at least 3. The crowd waiting to board took a gander at me as they prepared to board and I could see the distaste in their faces, the raw fear, the desire to evade…and it gave me an idea.

I quickly moved over to where Team Chikan was. The Newspaper guy only had one direction covered so without a good crowd encircling them they would not have the privacy they obviously desired. So I stood in the area which would have given them optimum cover and privacy, and the predictable Japanese went the opposite direction scampering as far away from me as they could. One man boarded, saw me, started finger fucking his face and then turned around and started walking backwards like he was a mentally challenged crab. A woman literally took to her heels and ran…maybe she owes me money, another man…etc, etc… I’m sure the chikan behind could see what was happening and the reason but I don’t think they knew I was doing it purposely. I turned so that I could see them and their hands. The first guy was sending an email or something on his cellphone but now that he had no cover and could be seen very clearly and easily, here in the gaijin perimeter I enmeshed them within, he lost his confidence and had released her breast. And the thigh rubbing second guy was looking at me like he suspected something. But his hands were nowhere near her thighs… And the newspaper guy, well, he just read his paper.

The girl looked exactly the same way she had when the chikan had had their hands all over her body…

…like it had never happened…

dou itashimashite (you’re welcome)

(-:

Loco

20
May
09

Anti-Acts of Retaliation #2: I thought he was a chikan…

…but I was wrong.

She was cute! I’d noticed her before the train had even arrived. She was wearing a mini-skirt, not so short, not so tight, 2-inch pumps and no pantyhose. She was a looker, but no more than the thousand lookers I see everyday here (Yes I still suffer periodically from the so-called Yellow Fever, especially in the summer.)

I had gone to Tokyo to meet a friend so I was on the Yamanote line headed for Shinjuku. The Yamanote riders are little harder to freak out than those train lines I frequent in Yokohama. What that means is, generally, the so called Gaijin perimeter is much smaller and sometimes even non-existent when riding the Yamanote.

The crowded train arrived, the doors opened and a few people got off. Then, unlike the organization I’m accustomed to in Yokohama, the crowd surged forward …These Tokyo city slickers at Shibuya Station stand in line really only until the train arrives. Then it’s every swinging dick and tit for his or her self.  To be honest, it’s kind of reminiscent of NY I hate to admit. I was pushed into the car. and found myself awfully close to the aforementioned Looker with the mini. In fact, my hand was mashed against her rear, wedged in by another passenger. “Sumimasen,” I whispered. She didn’t hear me. She had an I-Pod on and was texting away on cell phone…oblivious. Nevertheless I un-wedged my hand as quickly as I could.

There was an elbow against my ribcage. I turned to face the owner. He was a young guy, late 20’s dressed casually, hip even, and wearing dark shades. I rarely see guys wearing dark shades so I was surprised. He had a tote bag in his hand, I noticed. I would have written off the elbow as incidental if he had been doing what Japanese guys usually do around me (which is pretend I don’t exist, while all of their focus aside from their eyes is on me.) But, I could see clearly his focus was not on me…

It was on her!

Though he wore shades, his eye sockets were cast down towards her ass. One thing you notice when you live here about most Japanese guys is that they rarely if ever reveal lascivious thoughts  in public. No whistling or ass watching or “Hey Baby”s  or blown kisses or any of that stuff I grew up thinking was normal. Don’t get me wrong…I see them checking out girls, but it ‘s on the looooowwww! Only the bad boys do it conspicuously. So, I pegged him a bad boy. A little young to be a Chikan, I thought, and a little too cool, too. I mean, I see Chikan all the time and they usually look…I don’t know…uptight, frustrated, old.

So, I could easily block him but I actually hadn’t seen him reach for the ass yet. So, I just waited expectantly. I had shifted my position so that I could see what he did with his hands without his knowing I was watching. He was using his shoulder to angle himself for something but I could see his hand, and though it was angling towards her ass, it was being done in a way I had never seen any other Chikan do it. Was this some new Chikan technique? It intrigued me.

He could easily get his rub on. Clearly that wasn’t his objective. He was using the tote bag for cover,  as I’ve seen done many times but…

That’s when I realized what he was doing. I inched closer and looked down at his tote bag. He had worked it between her legs, and in the corner of it, there was something thin and cylindrical, with a lens, like a pocket flashlight turned off, and it was aimed right up her mini skirt!

Oh Shit! This fucker was making a movie! What a set of balls he had!

I can’t front. I love porno. And, minus the mosaic-shit they use, I really love Japanese porn. And I’ve seen these upskirt movies before. Usually these guys follow girls up escalators and shoot them from behind…but, I actually thought it was all staged. or mostly staged…I didn’t really believe these guys were out here. I was in shock. I felt like the time I literally ran into Spike Lee around my way…he was shooting a music video or a commercial or something.

By the time my shock wore off the train had pulled into Harajuku and the girl got off…he followed.

I wonder if they were together. Guess I’ll never know …

Loco

PS: Maybe this should be an almost Anti-Acts of Retaliation….

17
Mar
09

White Night at a Yokohama Love Hotel – Part 2

Your room size and amenities will depend mostly on how much you’re willing to spend. I’m pretty utilitarian and frugal to boot so I usually go for the cheapest room, but on certain occasions I am apt to pamper myself and overindulge a little. And I had planned to do so on White Night, but because of the crowd, room selection wasn’t so much a matter of choice as it was a matter of first come first served.  So, I took the first available room, which happened to be pretty average, not much in the way of amenities.

But, at Hotel Vigado average is still pretty decent. You get the basic package of Jacuzzi tub large enough for two (perhaps even two foreigners), Large flat screen TV with cable (and half a dozen adult channels,) Karaoke, Play Station (in Shinjuku Hotels you get a PC too, but Yokohama is not Shinjuku)

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Here you can see a fairly large bed, a leather-ish love seat, and a glass closet. This is a typical midsize room. Those are Karaoke mics hanging on the wall.

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Nice sized flat screen TV, with Playstation and DVD (etc) Player. The Karaoke is wired into the television so with the Universal remote control you can pretty much control all of the electronics.

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There’s a refrigerator, a microwave and a vending machine. Some rooms have vending machine with all kinds of sex toys and sexual aids in it, but this room didn’t. )-; Gomen ne.

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The vending machines has all kinds of beverages and some munchies but I highly recommend you stop at a combini (convenience store) before you come because: a) leaving once you’ve checked in is “discouraged” and b) the stuff in the machine is, yappari, a little overpriced. The vending machines are wired directly to the cashier in the lobby. You’ve already paid for the room in advance of using it, However, when you return the key they will charge you for whatever you purchase from the vending machines. There’s beer, wine, Pepsi, Oolong and Green Tea and of course water in the machine. I think those are Cup of Noodles in the munchies compartment but I’m not sure. I always try to go to the convenience store first.

 

 

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Big bed…typical comfort. Instead of a mint or a piece of chocolate, though, you get a couple of complimentary condoms (a little tight though for me so I’d bring my own if I were you.)  They’re on top of the tissue box on the right. Those sliding doors above the bed hide the windows. The room appears windowless to, I guess, maintain an illusion of timelessness. Besides people don’t come here for the view (-: Also at the head of the bed is a console that pretty much controls all the room effects that the remote control doesn’t cover.

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This console controls all the lights, heat or AC, ventilation, music (it  a satellite radio and receives stations from all over the world live I believe. Yep, you can control the mood up in there if you control this thing.

 

 

 

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Here we have a glass cabinet containing coffee, tea, glasses, etc…cimg0394

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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There’s also a vanity with all kinds of cosmetics, and a stand with hair dryer’s and styling irons, etc…I never touch the stuff so I don’t know exactly what you get.

 

 

 

 

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Your toilet is of the super variety. I love these things. This is one of those technologies where the Japanese have done it again. They took something Western and improved upon it leaps and bounds!

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And what’s a hotel room without a jacuzzi tub? A place to sleep, that’s what. Well, Hotel Vigado’s got ’em and I love ’em. Compared to the typical Japanese bathing experience (tubs are so small you practically have to be a contortionist to get into them) they are a slice of heaven.

Well, there you have it…the PG-13 version of a Love Hotel experience. If you have an opportunity, get yourself into one and Enjoy!

It’s not an onsen (y’all know how I feel about onsens) but for the price and convenience, it’s not a bad way to spend White Night or any night with that special someone! My artificial date doesn’t take to water too well so I bathed alone…but at least she isn’t intimidated by my AV watching (-; and very patient, too.

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Loco lite – Taste great –  less feeling!

10
Mar
09

Anti-Acts of Retaliation #1: Cock-Blocking Chikan

I could feel the awkward pressure against me, his subtle insistence that I move when moving was unnecessary;  ample space awaited him in the other direction I discerned with a glance. If this were NY I would’ve thought he was a pickpocket or nutcase…but this is Yokohama, and the mere fact that he was touching me voluntarily was a red flag in and of itself. What’s he up to?

At the next station the doors slid open and more people filed in. I am accustomed to being surrounded by what my boy EZ calls the “Gaijin Perimeter” (a perimeter Japanese tend to place around foreigners, regardless of crowding, in their effort not to come into contact with them) whenever I ride the trains. Sometimes this perimeter is huge, sometimes it’s pretty tight. The size varies from day to day but it’s always there, and I’ve learned that anyone who dares to enter my perimeter usually has an agenda. This guy did. Once the perimeter is breached, I’ve learned, then others will follow suit, as if the initial breacher had informed them using some secret Japanese masonic-like code, “come on in…the water’s warm!”

And, that’s how it went this morning. People filed in, glimpsed me, in all my conspicuousness, hesitated (or froze causing a logjam) then, noticing the breacher’s rather close proximity to me, decided I must be ok and bounded for any available space. To my left was a High School girl, traditional uniform, skirt hiked up rather high but no higher than can commonly be seen on any given day during any season. She favored one of the kids who had graduated from my Junior High School a couple of years ago, Kanako. Kanako had been a trouble maker but after a few bumps in the road we had gotten along very well. When she graduated she’d told me she will never forget me.  This girl kind of favored Kanako but it definitely wasn’t her. This girl was ferociously writing a text to someone, her thumb a tiny blur. The space to my right, previously vacant, was now filled by an office lady, one of the Women in Black, the uniform for freshmen office workers here. My rear was occupied by the breacher. As the passengers boarded, I could feel a stronger pressure upon me. A couple of boarders wanted to get by the breacher to the vacant space on his left, but his hand was holding onto the strap over my shoulder with a grip that would impress an undertaker. So, they had to squeeze around him.

The red flag became a fire alarm. With not only the option of moving but the insistence that he do so coming from his fellow nihonjin, he wanted to stay close to me?! What the hell?! I turned around for the first time to glance at this guy.  In sync with the turn of my head, he upturned his face and took a closer look at the train’s ventilation system. It fascinated him. He’d never noticed before how intricate yet practical its design is…at least his expression said as much. He was your typical salaryman, dark suit, striped tie, a little shabbily groomed but decent enough, 50-ish. He had a briefcase in his right hand and nothing in the left. Could he be a pickpocket? I couldn’t even imagine that if he were he would mark me as a target. Though my wallet is a little overstuffed and swells my back pocket, it’s mostly because of the 15 or 20 point cards I keep in there: Yodobashi camera, Bic Camera, Sakura ya, Yoshinoya, Jonathans, Gusto, Starbucks, Mister Donuts, KFC, my favorite massage parlor in Yokohama (no happy ending but really cute skilled girls), an oxygen cafe in Minato Mirai (with flavored air), etc, etc… never know when you gonna need a point card.

I turned and faced forward as the train pulled away from the station. I could feel his breath on my neck. It’s a very unusual feeling here, for me, to be breathed on. It smelled like this morning’s Nattoo, Miso and rice and fish…and I counted my blessings that I’m spared this torture most mornings (thank god for xenophobia…)

The girl beside me suddenly almost dropped her cellphone. She caught it, glanced at me kind of coyly, brushed the hair out of her eyes, and went back to thumbing her message. Which reminded me I need to send a text to my student to confirm our lesson that night. Suddenly the girl beside me jerked, almost indiscernibly, like she’d been pricked with a needle she’d been expecting, and sort of half glanced behind her, like if she were checking the shoulder of her blue jacket for lint.

Suddenly it all fell into place. His position behind me, slightly to my left, and his  resistance against being moved from the position he’d coveted. I knew what the perimeter breacher was up to.  At least I thought I did.

At the next station, a good number of people got off.  Some from my left headed by me for the door to my right. I watched peripherally the breacher make way for them, actually exiting the car and standing on the platform. After the last departing passenger had exited, he let a few new comers board before him. Without him there within my perimeter attesting to my civility, the first few people of the new swarm hesitated then fled to available spaces as far from the perimeter as possible. Once he boarded and headed back to his position behind / beside me, attesting to the safety of the area within the perimeter, the swarm behind him closed in. Again he grabbed the strap over my shoulder and let the swarm push its way by him, like a man holding onto a tree branch just before the cascading 100 foot drop of a water fall.

That was enough confirmation for me. He was chikan…definitely.

The high school girl was still thumbing away apparently oblivious to the efforts  this guy was making. I had actually been pushed closer to her so that now, involuntarily, I was up against her too a bit. My left hand, which held my briefcase, was against her thigh. Once the train started moving again, I tried  to switch my briefcase to my other hand so as not to be mistaken for the one enjoying this ride, but it was tightly wedged against her…as was his.  Judging from his height and hers, his hand had to be wedged in the crack of her ass. And with the shortness of her skirt he was probably wedged under it. How convenient for him.

I glanced down but all I could see was her navy blue skirt…then, when the train shifted a little I caught a glimpse of her white lacy underwear and a yellow hand on or in them. I couldn’t tell which it was so quick. So, I had to decide how much I wanted to be a good Samaritan (it has become an issue since I’ve been living here treated in a manner that makes me actually pause and question whether I should get involved or mind my business)

Suddenly the train jolted and I thought to use this opportunity to switch my briefcase to my other hand…but before I could another idea just popped into my head. Pretending to be thrown off balance I thrust my briefcase between the guy and the school girl, knocking his hand away from its position.  Then I  grabbed the strap above the school girl and held on as tightly as he had. I could feel his effort to get me to shift back to my previous position so that he could do the same and resume, but I held fast. A few moments later the train jolted again and I felt a strong, sharp, determined elbow against my ribcage telling me, “move motherfucker, this is my catch of the day!”  There was nothing passive about this guy.

The train was pulling into the station at that point so I relinquished my grip on the strap.  As it slowed, sharply (must have been a trainee driving the train) the elbow that was against my ribs thrusts into me…purposely, I suspect, but it could arguably have been an accident. It hurt. Hurt like it had been done by someone familiar with how to disable people with a blow. I turned around to face him but, suddenly, he realized he hadn’t finished studying the ventilation system yet. Perhaps he was some sort of engineer. I took a strap again, urgently, like I’d lost my balance again, only this time it was a strap on the other side of him, and in doing so I just missed elbowing him in the back of the head by inches. He’d ducked when I reached across him. Fuck!

The doors opened and I watched him get off. I turned to check the school girl, but she had queued to get off the train through another door. By the time I got to the platform the chikan was nowhere in sight.

Since this occurrence some time back this has happened a ridiculous  number of times.  I used to think anybody who touched me on the train was either crazy, or in an unavoidable predicament where they had to-either they were pushed by the passengers behind them or their simply was no place else to go, or maybe they were reading a manga or sending a text or something-not paying attention to where they were going and found themselves within my perimeter, or they had something more important on their minds…something that overcame the gaijin-fear instinct that seems to guide everyone else’s movements when in my vicinity.

But, I learned that day that i was wrong. in some cases, maybe once or twice a week, it’s to get close to some woman. And if I’m in the vicinity I cock block them…

sometimes…

Loco lite (-:

(Taste great, less filling)




Copyright © 2010 Loco in Yokohama / All Rights Reserved

Please know that this blog is my original writing and may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written permission of the author (that's me!) Thanks!

Words I love…

Everybody is a star
I can feel it when you shine on me
I love you for who you are
Not the one you feel you need to be
Ever catch a falling star
Ain't no stopping 'til it's in the ground
Everybody is a star
One big circle going round and round

Words by: Sly Stone

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