The Nut Job

Once upon a time, in a far away land called Japan, a single gay man met another gay man in a bar in Tokyo.

It was still my first month in the country, and only my second visit to the infamous Nichome area of Tokyo. Having had moderate luck there, I decided to give it another go. After an hour or so, however, it became clear that GB (the bar I was in) was not happening. The crowd seemed to be leaning towards middle-aged, chunky white guys, with only a sprinkling of Japanese. Watching the gaijin compete for their attention was a bit like watching dogs fighting over a bone, only gayer. I decided to call it quits.

Across the street from GB (street being the generous upscale term for an "alley") was a bar I had yet to explore, a bar with the exotic name "Dragon." Like GB, it was hidden away in the basement, and after descending into the depths and paying a cover charge, I entered.

Dragon was even more dismal than GB, in an even more desperate way. It was dark, half-empty, with a tiny dance floor bathed in a pathetic light show from lasers that looked like they were bought half-price at a Spencer's Gifts. Japan boasted the second largest economy on Earth, but even far poorer countries like Thailand seemed to have more money to spend on gay bars. Someone needed to explain to them that "gay" also meant "cheerful," "fun," and "entertaining."

Being another gaisen place, it had a few horny foreigners lurking around, but a larger dose of young Japanese. Behind the bar, the bartender was wearing some sort of leather bondage gear, with his ass hanging out. Not that there was anything wrong with his ass. It was obvious the guy spent time in a gym. I'm simply old fashioned enough to prefer my drinks without ass on the side.

After a beer or two, I decided "to hell with it," and went out on the dance floor. I was the only person there. Ever since junior high school it had been my destiny to be the first guy out on the floor, the guy that gets all the wallflowers to figure it was then safe enough to get into the water. Sure enough, after a few minutes there, other shapes began to emerge from the murk.

One of them was bold enough to come up and dance next to me. Actually, practically on top of me. He was a species of Japanese male I had seen, but not personally encountered before...the garu.

The thing to understand about Japanese subcultures is that they embrace them with a n enthusiasm that would put most Star Trek nerds to shame. It is not enough to be emo in Japan; you must make certain that every article of clothing, every item you possess, every single aspect of your personality oozes emo-ness. The same goes for Goths, geeks, and the uniquely Japanese garu.

The garu, available in both male and female varieties, was unleashed upon the world at the dawn of the third millennium, fulfilling to an extent Bible-thumper fears of an apocalypse. An offshoot of the yamamba/ganguro craze bred in the trendy, fad-obsessed streets of Shibuya, they now spread out over all of Japan. To qualify, you needed to be insanely tan, making regular visits to the tanning salon a must. Your hair should be bleached, and teased out, until you have achieved the hair style Bowie had in Jim Henson's Labyrinth. Your clothes must be brightly colored and baggy (although in recent years the trend has shifted towards skin tight with long pointy-toed shoes that were stolen from the Keebler elves). Girls are required to wear white mascara and eye liner. Gluing sequins to your face is optional, but widely embraced.

The boy dancing with me, underneath the tan, the hair, and the loud outfit, was still pretty cute. He was tall and lithe, and had a nice smile. He certainly wasn't shy. Before we had exchanged names he had grabbed my crotch and grinned. Having nothing better to do, I bought him a drink. He gave me his name, and we will call him "Takuya."

Despite the get-up, he seemed like a nice enough guy. We exchanged numbers, and when he found out where I lived he became very excited. At that time, my apartment was in the Shounan region of Japan, a place which had a kind of "California beach scene" reputation. Full of surf shops (and surfers), Hawaiian restaurants, and in the summers a million vacationing Tokyoites, it was widely considered a "cool" address. Takuya invited himself to my place the next weekend.

Nothing happened that initial night, however. I went home back to my two housemates and my own bed. Mimi was there, emitting her usual Mariah Carey glass-shattering notes, with the occasional cries of ookii and sugoi ("large" and "great," required utterances of Japanese women in the midst of coitus). After the noise died down, I drifted off to sleep.

Takuya arrived the next Saturday. The day turned out to be overcast, and not particularly beach-friendly, but this did nothing to daunt him. Promptly, before my very eyes, he shed his clothes and donned the tightest, smallest speedo I had ever seen. He was ready to go. A bit more reluctant, I stripped and put on my own bathing suit. When he saw my pants off, he clapped his hands like a little girl and echoed Mimi's cries of ookii from the night before.

I did not wear a speedo, however, putting on big, baggy shorts and a t-shirt. I couldn't believe he was going to walk down to the beach looking like that. Nor could I believe he'd carefully tanned even his genitals. No tan lines for this guy. We set out.

Moving with something between a prance and the samba, Takuya accompanied me to the beach. Amazingly, he found several opportunities to drop something in from of me, bending over to display his ass. Once we arrived, he spread out a towel and patted it for me to sit next to him. He took out his mobile phone (I didn't have the nerve to ask where he had been carrying it), and told me he wanted to show me some pictures.

Gay or straight we have all been on those dates before, the ones were the ship has hit the iceberg, there aren't enough lifeboats, and the only thing left to do is sink with dignity. Takuya, despite a lean and fairly fit body, a nice smile, and an ample bulge in his speedos, was rapidly becoming a nightmare. On his mobile he had score of pictures of himself in various costumes. A skin tight Spider-man suit. A sailor outfit. Underwear without a crotch. Underwear without an ass. Something that looked like a chainmail bikini complete with nipple clamps. It was endless. "Do you know 24?" He asked. This was just before the TV show so I had no idea what he meant. "It's in Nichome. You should go with me."

"Is it a bar?"

He shook his head. "No, a bath house. People go there naked and have sex. I want you to use me while everybody watches. It's exciting."

I had been, once in San Francisco, to such a place but it was definitely not my thing. And the idea of putting any of my body parts anywhere near Takuya had lost its appeal much earlier. To my horror, he started rubbing his crotch. "See? Thinking about it makes me excited."

As I wondered how to escape, the gods heard my plea and it started to rain. Takuya pouted, but we headed back to my apartment to change. I was relieved when we arrived to find both Rob and Ken there, having beers in the living room. They looked Takuya up and down when he came in, chuckled, and shook their heads at me. I was desperate to alert them that nothing had happened with this nut job, and nothing was going to happen. Takuya went into my bedroom to change.

I sat on the sofa and joined the guys in a beer. "This guy is a nightmare," I started to explain, and told them the story. After about ten minutes, we became aware that Takuya had still not emerged from the bedroom. It became clear he wasn't coming out. I called his name. "Are you okay?"

"I am waiting for you," he replied. "I have a present."

The guys laughed, and I stood, feeling a bit like a condemned man on his way to the electric chair. But my patience was also wearing thin. I was starting to get angry, which meant my manners would soon be slipping. I slid open the door to my room and stepped in.

He was, of course, naked. Sort of. His penis was done up in some painful leather-harness thing. He was lying spread-eagled on the floor, fingering his behind. "I am ready for you to use me," he cooed.

"That isn't going to happen." I said. "Besides my friends are right out the door."

"I don't care," he said. "They can watch. They can use my body too."

"That's not going to happen either. I think you need to leave."

"I want you to hurt me. Force me open. Use me like a dirty boy. A naughty boy."

"Takuya, I am not going to have sex with you. I want you to leave."

Now he began to pout. "I will do anything you want me to do daddy. I'll be a good boy."

Being called "daddy" by a guy six years younger than me was too much. "Fine. What I want is you to go."

Takuya literally threw a tantrum, slapping and kicking the floor. He whined. He pouted. He cried. "I am NOT going until you have me. You can hurt me. Be rough."

Naturally, the guys outside could hear every word of this. Rob, who was at the time working as a bouncer in a Tokyo night club, slid open the door.

"Listen you twisted little freak," he barked in his deepest, most menacing bouncer voice, "the only thing that is going to happen here is that you are going to get dressed and get the hell out, or else I am going to toss your skinny little ass out the window."

Takuya stood, stopped his foot, and scowled like a four-year-old. Without a word he got his clothes on and headed towards the door. Before leaving, he pulled himself up, whirled around, and announced, "You have all missed the best pleasure you could ever have in your lives."

"I think we can all live with that," Ken replied. Takuya strode out the door.

And I never went to Dragon again.

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