Читать книгу Tokyo Pink Guide - Steven Herman - Страница 8

1

HAPPY TALK

SEX:

THE INTERNATIONAL

LANGUAGE

Part of the fantasy of the adolescent male in becoming a famous rock star or an all-star lineman are the fringe benefits, namely, the groupies. Unfortunately, few of us have the talent or the perseverance to make it to the big leagues. Reality dawns upon us as we finish school. We realize our destiny will have nothing to do with fancy guitar chords or scoring the goal that wins the World Cup. We suddenly wake up one morning realizing that we are accountants or software engineers, toiling in obscurity. Never will we enjoy, as Kiss did, the legion of pubescent plaster casters. Never will we find outside the locker room a league of women following us around from city to city who know our award-winning statistics and are eager to show us theirs. We are left to pursue the women who want us for just what we are or what we have.

A lot of us don't have that much to offer to the women who prefer material things—no fancy sports cars, no plush lodge in the mountains, no platinum cards. It sometimes can be slim pickings. Some of us, because of professional opportunity or desperation, trudge off to Japan and find ourselves in what we initially perceive to be one of the least glamorous jobs in the world—English teaching. The uninitiated are stunned. They stand before a class of beautiful but mute young women. The tutorial seems to last for an eternity. After a few months, the newly arrived Brit or American has become desperate. There seems to be not an iota of progress.

As usual, one day after class, Kimiko, a petite twenty-year-old who works part time in a flower shop, is at the sensei's desk asking, it seems, the same question for the twentieth time about conjugating a particular verb. Today she seems particularly flustered. "Jeemu-sensei, I need extra help I sink," she says. Did she just ever so slightly brush her breasts up against my side, Jim says to himself. He thinks, maybe it is just his vivid imagination conspiring with his raging hormones. After all, he hasn't gotten laid since he's been here. How do you ask out these beautiful nubile girls, he wonders. "Well Kimiko I think it's a left brain, right brain problem. You know English apparently must be learned from the other side of your brain." Jim has seen this in various books he is reading in a desperate attempt to find out why his class can't learn. Jim is about to conclude perhaps he is just a failure as a language teacher, something that might be connected to the fact that the only related training he ever had for this job was a freshman college class in public speaking. "Jeemu you are a bery good teacher. I sink if we spend more time together I will make fast progress more." She is rubbing up against him! He tries to correct her grammar. "You will progress more fast, uh, I mean, you faster more progress, yes." Kimiko is looking up at him and smiling. Jim may be a little rattled but he's no idiot. He knows he is being flashed an international signal. "Kimiko, would you like to have coffee or something at a kissaten? I mean, uh, to discuss this further?" Kimiko nods her head ever so slightly and their eyes make contact for a brief instant. Jim will soon realize he will never have a problem getting laid in Japan again. He will quickly discover that he has one of the world's greatest jobs—he is getting paid to pick up girls.

Tony Watson (not his real name) has been teaching English in Tokyo since before most of his current students were born. Although he speaks quite fluent Japanese, he has never lost his Tennessee drawl in English and his taste for Jack Daniels whiskey. One night, mixing the whiskey and water in one of his favorite Shibuya hangouts, we talk about his experiences. Tony is currently living with a mid-twenties Japanese lady who is one of the most beautiful and sexy women I have ever seen. He's left her at home tonight to speak frankly. "I'd have to be an idiot to go back to the States," the balding, sandy-haired American says, clinking another ice cube into his glass. "I realized that in my prime I never would have been able to get, let alone find, the types of girls that are here." And things have gotten better, not worse, as Tony has gotten older. "Well, first of all, the girls are more beautiful than they used to be. They have better legs. Because of the diet and all, nowadays you don't see as many daikon ashi (stumpy fat legs) girls. Take a stroll through Roppongi, half the girls are bodicon, wearing scanty body-hugging outfits and they look terrific. I'm not a young man anymore but I've got the routine down. I could probably pick up a girl in ten minutes in Roppongi if I wanted to." In a nutshell, Tony discovered a long time ago that just being an English teacher qualifies him to have groupies. "Yeh, what a great way to go through life," he says laughing in between puffs on a Marlboro. "No, I'll never go back. I'm going to die a happy man here."

For the novice or the veteran, a casual affair or a permanent girlfriend is usually sitting out there in the classroom even if she seems to be wearing a mask of disinterest through the 50-minute sessions. Not everyone can or wants to teach English (or French, Italian, or Swahili) in Japan. That, however, doesn't preclude the rest of the gaijin crowd from reaping the benefits. Tokyo is dotted with English conversation lounges. Typically, they charge a reduced flat-fee for admission to foreigners (usually ¥350-¥700) which might include unlimited coffee or tea, and a pricier by-the-hour entrance charge for Japanese. The foreigners are expected to do nothing more than speak in their native language to the native visitors. Some of the female Japanese patrons are merely looking to brush up their language skills or to attempt to converse with a living, breathing foreigner. They sometimes visit from neighboring prefectures—Chiba, Saitama, and Kanagawa—where opportunities to meet native English speakers are rarer than in Tokyo. Others are gaijin groupies who desire nothing more than to enjoy sexual congress with exotic (i.e. non-Asian) men. Some even have particular predilections, tall fellows, black men, or those with lots of body hair (although most Japanese women seem to prefer those whose chests are follicularly challenged). While it is unusual but not impossible to troll a lovely out of the lounge and into a love hotel the same evening, the standard operating procedure is to exchange phone numbers and/or make a date for some other night. Within a couple of meetings it will certainly be clear whether the lass is interested only in your conversational abilities or those of a more intimate nature.

For those who just can't bear to enter a place where essentially they have to masquerade as English teacher on the meter, there are a number of other establishments in Tokyo which have gained a reputation as prime spots where young Japanese women on the prowl go to meet foreign men. At one time, certain discos in Akasaka and Roppongi met this criterion; it is less the case these days. Many women actually go to discos to do nothing more than dance with each other. Men find it hard to get a dance or a word in edgewise. Other establishments, such as Charleston or Deja Vu in Roppongi, Aspen Glow in Shibuya, or the gay-turned-reggae club 69 in Shinjuku, despite being listed in other guide books as popular hunting grounds, are well past their prime. I hesitate to select only a few to include in the contemporary hit list. It's like a fad portrayed on the cover of Time magazine—by the time it hits print it is already passé. Another fear is that publicizing something that has been merely word of mouth will ruin it. On the condition that every horny male reading this book agrees not to converge on these establishments on the same night—I will name names. Agreed? Sure, right.

The current number one is no big secret since every visitor and local ends up there eventually just to say they've been there. But it also seems to attract an inordinate number of beautiful (although a bit slutty, according to many critics) free-spirited young Japanese women. It is the Hard Rock Cafe. If you don't mind competing with US Marines (just don't get drunk and call them "bloody jarheads") and watching the girl you are pursuing bounce off other men around the crowded bar like a hockey puck, the Tokyo branch of the chain world famous for its T-shirts is the place for you. I have personally witnessed a colleague of mine on several occasions end up leaving with" a woman after less than ten minutes at the bar! "I can usually tell within a few minutes if they're game but I hang around for another few minutes just to make it not look so obvious to the girl," he says. Yeh, sure.

The present number two is an eclectic establishment close to Ogikubo Station called the Library. It is the personal domain of proprietor David G. (for God) Munoz, a literate but tough-as-nails Vietnam veteran, who makes no secret that he has first crack at any hot-looking babe that walks in the bar. On some nights there's a lot to go around so this isn't a problem. If he likes you, David will even point out the young ladies he knows are amenable and perhaps put in a good word for you in Japanese. On other nights the atmosphere can be a bit ugly with rugby-type smashed Irishmen with no visible means of support glaring down at intoxicated North American computer programmers. Munoz has no qualms (nor lack of brawn) about stepping in and breaking up the ensuing fights. A word of warning: anyone not up to Munoz's standards of behavior (which can vary widely from night to night) may find themselves summarily ejected. After all, as big Dave proclaims, the Library is now a members' club. The best advice for first-timers (who need not show a membership card): cuddle up in the corner with one of the hundreds of used paperbacks for sale and take some time to figure out the place. It is a very unique Tokyo hangout.

MEET MARKET

It seemed the answer to every bashful man's dream—a simple way to meet a pretty girl with minimal risk of rejection. The admission was under ¥1000 and the cashier explained that after the first 45 minutes an extra ¥1500 would be added on for each hour I remained. Simple enough it seemed and a hell of a lot cheaper than the run of the mill Tokyo hostess bar. But in the back of my mind, I figured, there had to be a catch.

I was seated on a long sofa extending down one side of the room. There were five tables on my side at each of which sat a guy. In the middle of each table a large sign jutted out with a number on it that was clearly visible on the other side of the room (about five meters away) where young ladies sat behind tables. The women, who appeared to be mostly in the late teens and early twenties, sat behind tables which also displayed big signs with a number. I immediately focused on Miss Five. I knew that the women were not employees of the establishment but were also customers who were charged a much smaller flat fee.

The game works like this. When a guy spots a lady he is interested in talking with he fills out a small pink form on his table and hands it to the maître d'-looking fellow who is in charge of the whole affair. To fill out the form requires a rudimentary knowledge of reading kanji. You are asked to write in the number of the lady you desire to meet, list your zodiac birth year (example rooster or rat), blood type, and your hobbies. By the time I had figured out what I was supposed to write after slowly reading my way through the form I noticed that a gentleman from my side of the establishment was cozying up next to lovely Miss Five! It was here that it sunk in that being a faster reader of kanji can have its advantages. Although my heart sunk, it wasn't a few seconds later before I realized that after my second straight shot of bourbon, little Miss Nine wasn't looking too bad either. My heart began racing as I wrote her number on my pink pad. I put myself down as an alumnus of the Year of the Boar and mentioned reading as my hobbies. But I was at a total loss for the blood-type answer. Honestly, to this day, I have no idea what my blood type is although I know that it's not one of those rare ones like ABO (if there is such a thing). I do know that Japanese consider this information vital for assessing a person's personality but can't recall whether an A-blooded man is the hot blooded and off the handle type or is romantic, quiet, and a true gentleman. I did what any honest bloke would do and placed a question mark next to the blood type. The maître d' took my form over to Miss Nine, and without even glancing over at me she quickly filled out a reply. Mr. D' brought it back to me without a trace of emotion on his face (although I'm certain he snuck a peak at her answer). She had circled the "I'm sorry" reply. My heart sank again. Actually I was more embarrassed than heartbroken to have been rejected in such a fashion. But could I really blame Miss Nine? After all I was not only a foreigner of dubious repute but a human being who did not have a clue as to his blood type. This dilemma forced me to resort to what all men must do in such dire situations—I lied.

After another shot of the brown liquid, a new entrant was seated in front of the number two placard. Although by no means a raving beauty, I instantly decided to select her. After all someone else might soon choose her and I could not leave the joint totally humiliated. For Miss Two's perusal I informed her on my pink sheet that I was born in the Year of the Cock, was a Type-A blood carrier and my hobby was traveling to expensive international resorts. It worked. For the privilege of chatting up fresh Miss Two, I was required to buy her a ladies drink and a ladies snack. Ah, I was beginning to see how these places made their money. The combination of one round of food and drink quickly set me back ¥2500 and not to mention that I was now running up a time tab since my initial 45 minutes had expired. Miss Two, whose real name was Sachiko (or so she said) was 19 and living with her parents in Saitama Prefecture. It took me another hour to realize that she ventured into these types of establishment not to meet men but to seek refuge from the streets until the first train back to the countryside left Shinjuku Station. What better way to while away the time than by having strange men buy you food and drink all night long? Of course, none stuck around for very long realizing that as the meter was ticking they had no chance of getting the sweet young Miss to accompany them to a nearby love hotel. Perhaps some guys do succeed in convincing the ladies of the meet club to head out. with them, but in the couple of hours I spent there I did not see it happen.

HOSTESS BARS

Perhaps the most baffling aspect of the Tokyo pink world to the foreign greenhorn is why Japanese men go to hostess bars. After all, for about the same amount of money (even less in some cases) you can get laid or get a wonderful allover massage from a naked woman who will end the experience with at least a hand job. Another alternative for less money is the strip shows and nude theatres. So why would a fellow hand over money just to have some young woman in a cocktail dress spend the evening massaging little more than his ego?

For a long time this was an unanswered question for me too. Now after months of spending many nights in almost every kind of mizushōbai institution imaginable and meeting hundreds of men and women who frequent such establishments as patrons and employees, I think I know the answer—hostess bars are relaxing environments in a way that no soapland or nude show can match. The skeptics out there are probably thinking I've been in Tokyo too long and have turned into a paler reflection of the typical salaryman. Not so, I protest. I must confess, however, that I have come to enjoy the traditional hostess bars more and more—especially the kind where I know that there is no pressure on me or the "hostitute" girl to talk each other into a short-time date, meaning a ¥30,000 tryst at the love hotel around the corner. I can drink what I like, as long as I like, make small talk with a variety of women, banter with the inebriated salaryman across the room, and sing a few off-key karaoke songs in the language of my choice (many places nowadays feature tunes not only in Japanese and English but also in Korean, Cantonese, Thai, and Tagalog—Tagalog being my second personal favorite because all the songs seem to be in my flat key and the words are even easier to pronounce than Spanish).

Even though I've caught the hostess bar bug, I am not dying of it. I avoid the exorbitantly priced Ginza and Akasaka clubs unless I am being treated by my very wealthy Japanese friend, Mr. Y. (I still don't know exactly what he does for a living and I'm not sure I should ask. But I am curious as to where he got the money after the bubble burst to build a five-story house in Tokyo bigger than anything I've ever seen in Beverly Hills.) For those who will never get the chance to visit a ¥100,000 per visit Ginza or Akasaka hostess bar, I can assure you that it is decidedly not worth the ticket of admission unless you are on expense account or someone else is footing the bill. Sure, the young ladies are a little classier, mama-san has a very nice kimono, and there may even be a tuxedo-clad gaijm tinkling at the Steinway as you sip your Remy Martin XO cognac, but it is not that much more upscale than the places in Ikebukero where the tab is likely to only be a tenth of that of such ritzy joints.

However, the foreign fellow in Tokyo who is interested in doing the hostess bar gig or is looking for a spot to economically entertain visiting bosses or clients whose command of Japanese is nil, and would have their puritanical senses overloaded by some of the other spots detailed in this book, will be grateful to know that I have just the place for you—the Filipina hostess bars. As Japan's yen rises in value and the economy struggles to decide whether it has bottomed out, a number of hostess clubs have thrown their native talent out on the streets and replaced them with a lineup of more affordable recruits from the friendly isles of the Philippines. Unlike the predominantly Thai clubs, Filipinas in Tokyo in the nineties usually don't work in clubs that are merely fronts for prostitution but instead are friendly young ladies who are truly fond of nice men. Now some of the young ladies from the Philippines may have done their stints as "exotic dancers" in the raunchy prostitution fronts of Manila's Ermita district but many are college educated, even virgins, who have come to Japan out of economic necessity. The lucky ones find themselves working in Tokyo clubs where they hostess and nothing more. Many a gaijin fellow has found a nice girlfriend in such establishments, slowly falling in love while whiling away the evenings with a seductive young lady who speaks fluent English, can sing karaoke in several languages, and knows how to flirt while maintaining the demureness of her strict Catholic upbringing. A customer who makes himself a regular in the Filipina hostess bars can ask for a regular to sit with him (usually there's an extra ¥2000 charge for such a request) and the young woman will be flattered by the exclusive attention and the object of envy of her colleagues. The Filipina looks upon the North American and European male as a prize catch and to marry such a guy would literally be a dream come true for her. More and more are ending up getting hitched to Japanese men as economic ties and personal relationships tighten between Tokyo and Manila. But even the lowly gaijin English teacher has perhaps as much status in the beautiful eyes of the Filipina as a Japanese company president. Yes, there still is justice in this world.

A few pointers are in order for any lad who'd like to strike a more than fleeting romance with a Filipina working in Tokyo. The first thing to remember is that although the young lady may come from a relatively poor third world country she comes from a culture rich in etiquette and protocol. Unless the woman is anything other than a so-called "hostitute" you will not get anywhere on the first night. Do not be tempted to ask her home after you have just met her. She may act like she is flattered by the request but something inside of her will recoil and she may regard you from now on as nothing more than an unsophisticated rake. If you are very lucky and make a flattering impression she will ask for your phone number or may give you her name card and covertly write her home number on it. If that doesn't happen the first time you stop by, ask for hers or volunteer your number the second night you venture into her hostess bar. Again it is important to recall that Philippine culture has emerged out of a mixture of Spanish, American, Chinese, and Malay influences with perhaps the first two predominating in the social arena—nineteenth-century Spain and 1950s America. After the second or third meeting it is proper for you to ask her out for a date on her day off—usually Sunday. A "no" reply would definitely mean "no" but don't take a "yes" as a definite green light.