NEXT TIME, I'LL TRY THE SALMON...

Once upon a time, a Greek gentleman by the name of Socrates wrote, "the unexamined life is not worth living." Actually, what he really said was ὁ δὲ ἀνεξέταστος βίος οὐ βιωτὸς ἀνθρώπῳ, but close enough. I'd like to think of the philosophy of this blog as something similar, say, "a sex life too boring to blog about is not worth having," or something along those lines. With that in mind I am committed to writing about the good, the bad, and the frankly awful. This one falls into the latter category.

Masahiko was the wealthiest guy I've dated here in Japan. An architect for a major Tokyo design firm, he travelled all over Asia on building projects. His apartment was fantastic; spacious, skylights, heated floors, jacuzzi bathtub, the works (which considering rent in Tokyo, where a ten foot square closet can cost a thousand bucks a month, meant an impressive amount of yen). Just three years older than I, he seemed to have it all. He was good-looking, had a sharp sense of fashion, and his taste in men--mainly me--was exquisite. On top of all of this, he was generous. After just two months together he bought me an over-priced watch for Valentine's Day. Yes indeed, Masahiko had it all, and was willing to share it. That turned out to be the problem.

We met in GB during my first year in Japan. He was in a suit, and an expensive looking one at that. Walking into the bar he had ordered a martini, looked around, and immediately made a beeline over to me. His pick-up line ("I haven't seen you here before...I would have remembered") would have been vomit-inducing anywhere else in the world, but in Japan was earthshaking. Not only did his English sound perfect, he had broken the time-honored Japanese tradition of sitting around like a block of wood waiting for the gaijin to make all the moves. How could I resist?

We chatted awhile before he said, "I hate this place. Let's go somewhere real." "Real" turned out to be the New York Grill on the 52nd floor of the Park Hyatt Hotel (if you've seen Lost in Translation, you know the place). Now, the standard move from a dive like GB was to an equally shady pay by the hour love hotel; the Park Hyatt was calculated to impress. It did.

We had several drinks...pricey drinks. As just a poor, underpaid teacher, I grew concerned. But when the time came to settle the bill, he insisted on covering all of it. "I get paid too much," was his excuse. Of course, it was too late for me to catch my last train, and a taxi back home was out of the question. That meant the night was going to go two ways; A) I was going to spend it alone in bar somewhere waiting for the first train, or B) he was going to take me back home, which, after having let him pay for all my drinks made me feel a bit like a Thai money boy (but which I would probably go along with because I really wanted to jump his bones). In the end, I was wrong on both counts.

For as we reached the lobby, I excused myself to use the restroom. When I returned, he presented me a key card to one of the rooms in the hotel. "I am not going to sleep with you yet," he said, "but it occurred to me you missed your train. My friend is the manager here and I got you a room for the night."

I was dumbfounded. I'm not sure whether the fact that he just snapped his fingers and got me a room at one of Tokyo's best hotels, or the casual way he'd just said he wasn't going to sleep with me yet was more jarring. But in the end I took the room and spent the evening alone, but in a truly fabulous bed.

He called the next day to see if I had made it home okay, and to ask my address. He was thinking of coming out my way for the next date and wanted to know where I lived. It was a ruse, of course, and one that invited some comment from my housemates when a delivery of roses appeared for me at the door the next day. A guy had only done that once for (to?) me before, and he turned out to be a nutjob. I should have read something into that.

We didn't meet near me the next time. Instead, we met in Yokohama, where he surprised me with a dinner cruise. For dinner we had the choice of salmon or Alaskan king crabs, I went for the crabs (I can't eat enough of them). After a remarkably romantic evening, where I learned the whole of his backstory (father worked for the Japanese Ambassador in London, went to school in Britain). This explained the extreme un-Japaneseness of his overconfident approach. At the end of the evening we kissed (an amazing kiss) and went our separate ways.

The third time he asked me if I was free for the weekend. I told him I was. He informed me he had reserved a room at a resort in Hakone, a room with a private onsen. For those who don't know, Hakone is a beautiful and mountainous region outside of Tokyo, known for its onsen (Japanese hot springs), it's scenic views, and being more expensive than young teachers can afford. Of course, what he told me immediately following his hotel reservation swept thoughts of price from my head again; "I thought it would be the perfect place to make love to you for the first time."

Now, I should state for the record that usually, I do the seducing. This is not always the case, but it had been 7 times out of 10 in the States and 9 times out of 10 in Japan. The matter of fact way this guy just informed me we would be having sex should have offended me, but I found it intriguing. Maybe it was time to let someone else drive for a change?

So I agreed. We drove up to Hakone in his car, and my breath was taken away by the beauty of the jagged mountains and deep, wooded valleys. The resort itself was unbelievable, made up of small, private bungalows, each with its own natural hot spring bath. The room was spectacular, and from the hot spring tub, you had an amazing view of the mountain valley plunging down before you.

"You've been to onsen before?" He asked. I nodded. I knew the drill. First you stripped, usually in a locker room full of guys, and then hit the showers where you scrubbed yourself thoroughly from head to foot. Only after you rinsed off did you actually enter the bath.

Masahiko smiled. "You realize this was all just a way to get you naked?" I told him he didn't have to work that hard.

The sex was, simply, spectacular. Masahiko washed me from top to bottom, and then we made love right there on the floor of the shower. Every lover, like a dance partner, has their own moves, their own rhythm. The trick is to fall into step with them. With Masahiko, I did what I usually never do...totally let go. And it was like standing naked before a thunderstorm, or waist-deep in the sea letting the waves wash over you. It was an experience.

This was followed by soaking in the blisteringly hot water, followed by more mind-blowing sex on the floor. After stepping out for an exquisite dinner, we had more sex in a chair, on the wardrobe, and in bed. He had told me he used to run marathons and I believed it. His stamina was incredible.

As was his libido. Over the next few weeks, we would meet two or three times a week and have sex two or three times a date. He took me often to his place, which between its magnificent view and beautiful paintings, was exactly the kid of place I aspired to have one day.

Three months into sleeping together, and nothing seemed to slow down. Masahiko was insatiable. We were spending more and more time together, but as i was about to discover, it wasn't enough.

For those of you who have had the experience, the signs are unmistakable. But the time, it was all new to me. As spring warmed into summer, I found myself...well...scratching areas of my anatomy best left unscratched. It was a minor itch at first, but it soon became maddening. It wasn't until after a shower, when I saw one of the tiny little bastards in my hand, that I knew what was happening. I immediately flashed back to our second date. I should never have ordered the crabs.

Judging from the fact that we had been sleeping together for three and a half months, and that I was not seeing anyone else, it was pretty clear that Masahiko's sexual appetites were not satisfied with just little old me. I confronted him without any teary-eyed drama. Yes, he had gotten the crabs. He had been too embarrassed to mention it. But he had only had sex with someone else "once" since we started seriously dating, yada yada yada.

The last time I saw Masahiko (the only character in this blog whose name has not been changed; give someone crabs, expect your name to get used) I showed up at his place with my newly shaved genital region to collect my things. It took a week or so, but I was finally able to wash that man right out of my hair.

Not to mention my bedding.

GOODBYE

I started this blog a month after Kenji left for New York. I guess it was my way to say "goodbye" to him.

It doesn't matter what I want

It doesn't matter what I need

It doesn't matter if I cry

Don't matter if I bleed

You've been on a road

Don't know where it goes

Or where it leads...

When he accepted the job, it left him with only six weeks to relocate to New York. We fought a couple of times in those early days as I tried to come to terms with what was suddenly happening. It ended when he said to me, "You can break up with me if you want." Because at that moment I understood what he was telling me. No matter what I did--even if I threatened to break up with him--he was going to New York anyway. New York was more important to him than me.

It doesn't matter what I want

It doesn't matter what I need

If you've made up your mind to go

I won't beg you to stay

You've been in a cage

Throw you to the wind

You fly away...

For the next few weeks, we did not fight, but we moved around each other like ghosts, trying to make as little noise as possible. For my part, it didn't register what was happening. Suddenly, for no reason at all, Kenji was leaving me. No one had cheated. No one had lied. There were no money problems. It was just all coming apart. Just like that.

I had changed my life for this boy, "The Boy." Meeting him had changed me. I had found someone I really thought I could spend the rest of my life with, and I had always thought he felt the same way. But I was wrong, and there was precious little I could do about it. It didn't matter to him what I wanted...he was going. So I decided to let him go with my dignity intact.

I watched the first couple of weeks as he struggled to find a place to live in New York. He searched several websites, but could find nothing in his price range. Kenji would never, of course, have asked my help, despite the fact I knew New York well. He knew it would have been too cruel. But at the time, I was on summer vacation, and had all day every day to myself while he went off to work. I decided to be a gentlemen about it. I wrote an ad in his name on Craig's List, looking for apartments. Within a day or two I had dozens of responses. I spent most of my summer vacation corresponding with these people on his behalf, until I found what I thought was the best apartment for him.

My friends all thought I was an idiot. "You are HELPING him leave you???" Maybe I was. But other than throwing a tantrum, I didn't know what else to do.

He cried the night before he left. I heard him sobbing in the bedroom. "I am so selfish," he wept. "I am leaving you alone."

I suppose I could have said "Yes, you are. You told me you loved me, and that you wanted to live with me. Then you changed your mind. You are going and I don't know if we will ever be together again. I don't know if I can ever trust you again."

Instead, I hugged him. "Shhh. Don't worry. Get some sleep. Everything will be fine."

That morning, his parents came to take him to the airport. It was nearly a two hour drive from our place, and I decided not to go with them to see him off. How could I? How could I ride back in the car with all of them after Kenji had just left me? What could I possibly say as I spent all that time trying to keep up a brave face? I wasn't that Japanese yet.

Instead, I hugged him briefly at the door. Unable to say "goodbye," I said "see you later." Then he was gone.

For days I rambled around our apartment alone. It suddenly seemed so big, so empty. I had left my friends all behind to live with him, and this is where it left me. Alone. I had no idea what the future held for me.

It doesn't matter what I want

It doesn't matter what I need

It doesn't matter if I cry

Don't matter if I bleed

Feel the sting of tears

Falling on this face

You've loved for years

GROWING PAINS

As I mentioned before, the trouble with dating a younger guy is that you suddenly have to vicariously live through all those growing pains again.

Shortly after we moved in together, Kenji had to make the transition from university life to the workplace. Certainly, he had it better than I. Despite graduating near the top of my class, I was shoved out into a severely depressed job market, and the best I could do was mixing paint in the hardware department of Sears. I lived in a little $400 a month apartment in West Philadelphia, chock full of cockroaches and the occasional rat, but entirely devoid of air conditioning. Each day and night, I drove back and forth to work up the Schuylkill Expressway, a vicious stretch of road that was constantly bumper-to-bumper traffic. I lived off of instant noodles and Hamburger Helper. But that was long ago. Now with me at his side, Kenji was able to move straight from school into a fashionable apartment, complete with all the amenities. We bought beautiful furniture, dishes, drapes. There was never a cockroach to be seen. And since I finished work a little before him, I bought and cooked dinner every night, waiting for him when he got home. Whenever his 20-something friends came around, they always commented with envy that he was living in a "real" apartment.

This might have softened the blow a little, but Kenji still had to go out into the world. Japan being a fairly conservative nation, the first thing he had to do was cut and dye his hair. In college, it had gotten long, and he lightened it to brown with streaks of blonde. This was unacceptable in much of the Japanese workplace. So he had it trimmed short, and colored pitch black. Even his mother said it didn't look like him any more.

His reward for the image change was a job in an electronics store, selling mobile phones. Though he never complained about it, I think it must have been hard for him to watch me work. As a teacher, I had holidays off all the time, got home much earlier in the day, and earned double what he was making. But then again he hadn't been around to see me suck up to Sears customers in that awful red vest. I had come a long way, baby, and was far ahead of him in the game of life. And of course I was more than happy to share everything I could with him.

For a guy who had spent years learning a second language (English), working in a phone shop was completely unrewarding for him. But no matter how many times he tried to get something where he could use his English skills--such as working at an airport or in a hotel--he was shot down. Watching him go through it all reminded me of my own frustration back then, when the harsh realities of the world completely dashed my adolescent expectations.

Things began marginally better when he landed an office job working for a telecommunications company. He still didn't get to use English, but he was now in an office environment. This was a blessing and a curse. Now he had to wear a suit everyday, and I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the cute young guy I started dating just two years before. In the "gentle" hands of the Japanese workforce, it didn't take long to turn him into a drained, overworked, salaryman husk. There were times when I even tried to convince him to quit, to just be my "kept" house boy. But he wouldn't have any of it. He'd been brought up too well.

Another area where harsh reality set in was "me." Kenji had never been in a relationship before, let alone lived with someone. The romantic ideals he might have had must have quickly burst when he saw how bleary-eyed and miserable I could be before my morning coffee. But in this area, at least, I think he learned to accept. His affection for me never seemed to wane, and after our occasional arguments, we always made up passionately.

The one area of living with "me" that was more difficult was keeping our relationship hidden. True, we'd gotten a two-bedroom apartment, but the fact that we were practically joined at the hip must have rang some alarms with his family. They were, as Kenji had told me they would be, very polite about it. I was warmly included in family functions; in fact, when Kenji's nephew was born I was right there at the hospital with the rest of the clan, no questions asked. But this bothered me. I had made the decision to "come out" back in the States, and being forced to relive life in the closet grated on my nerves. I could live with the little things (like when one of his female friends drunkenly confessed she was madly in love with my "housemate" but couldn't figure out why he never noticed her), but when it came to his family I felt like I was lying all the time. They were always so kind to me, and I was being increasingly dishonest. Kenji knew I was unhappy with it, but never dared to break taboo.

But he had been wrong about one thing; the discussion he had thought he'd never have with his parents did eventually come around. Unfortunately, it also heralded the end of "us."

Having lived together three years, and been together just shy of four, Kenji finally got the opportunity he'd been looking for. The telecommunications company he was working for was opening an office in New York City, a place I had brought him to twice to meet my family. After endless attempts to get a job where he could use English, one was finally dangling in front of him.

There had been a time I think, when he was still in college, that Kenji genuinely believed all he wanted out of life was me. And I had been a damn fool for falling for it. Your 20s are meant to be a roller coaster, the wild twists and turns, the ups and downs of discovering who you are. Kenji was discovering, apparently, that what he needed was a chance to use his skills and a chance to prove to himself he could do it on his own. He needed that more than me.

The discussion started with his mother. He explained that he wanted to go work in New York for a couple of years. She asked him if he would get married when he returned to Japan. Perhaps he was feeling brave because he thought he might be departing, perhaps it was just the opportunity he was looking for. Either way, he told her marriage was not in the cards, and that he was more than just my "housemate." The irony of him finally telling his mom about us, as he was contemplating leaving me, was not lost on me.

And as for me? Well, that was growing pains of a new sort. Ten years ago I would have thrown a fit. I would have begged him to stay. But I knew from my own experience that there comes a time when you have to stand on your own two feet, when you had to go out and face the world alone. How could I--the guy who had dropped everything to try the challenge of a life in Japan--deny him the right to do the same in the opposite direction? Wanting more than anything to stop him, I instead found myself supporting him in any way I could.

To my horror, I realized somewhere along the line I'd stopped thinking about myself and instead was thinking about my partner.

I had grown up.

The Apartment, Part One

By the end of the first year, Kenji and I were looking for a home together. My relationship with him was very different from any relationship I had ever had before. Kenji was so open and warm, so completely comfortable with his feelings, that years of scar tissue and defense mechanisms were slowly being washed away. I was in love with him, and I was starting to believe that maybe I had been wrong all those years. Maybe living "happily ever after" really was possible.

But of course no life is a fairy tale. Not even a gay one.

Getting a new apartment in Japan is a daunting task. Being such a relentlessly modern country, it is easy to forget that just a hundred and fifty years ago Japan was still a feudal state...at least until you rent. Landlords in Japan still live like the medieval aristocracy (accept they can't behead their tenants anymore). In a land were, well, land is the most precious commodity, they can demand anything and basically get away with it. Despite being extremely small, Japanese apartments are famously expensive, but that's just the start. To move in, you are expected to pay the first two months up front, and on top of that a "contract fee." This is, essentially, a "gift" to the landlord equal to a month's rent. If you are lucky, this gets you into a two or three-year rental contract. When that expires, in order to renew you need to give the landlord another "contract fee." With all all "gifts" to the landlord, you might expect an appliance or two. But apartments in Japan come completely empty, no appliances, no light fixtures, nothing. Thus moving in and setting up house can cost a hefty sum of cash.

By the end of our first year I had the money, and we started looking for a place together. For a gay couple, this is the closest most of us can come to actual marriage. It was an exciting time for me, despite the hurdles. And there were a lot of those.

For starters, as I mentioned, young Japanese men and women rarely moved out of their parents' house before marriage, and the idea of housemates is largely unheard of. When we told the first few real estate agencies we were looking for a two bedroom apartment together, they were not shy about telling us most landlords would reject that. Young married couples were perceived as stable, two unmarried guys sharing rent was not. And since landlords could cherry-pick the tenants they wanted, they wouldn't be shy about giving us the thumbs down.

We kept each other's spirits up, going from agency to agency, sure the next one would help us out. Hopes were dashed again and again. I began to get irritated. I had a great, stable job, good references, and plenty of money. Being rejected because I didn't fit the narrow parameters of the Japanese norm was ticking me off. In addition, the apartments we were seeing were less than stellar. I began to suspect the agents were showing us the bottom of the barrel to give us the brush off.

We moved slowly out of the center of the city into the suburbs. There we found an agency that--though skeptical--seemed willing to play ball. So long as my employers were willing to be my guarantor, and Kenji's father (a city official) was willing to be his, they saw no problems.

The first place they showed us was "the one," and I knew the moment I saw it that Kenji and I would live there together. It was a large (by Japan's standards), two bedroom apartment (two because he wanted to keep up the pretense to his family we were "just friends"). It had a decent kitchen, a great balcony, and plenty of space. This was going to be where Kenji and I really started our life together, and the first real home I had made in Japan.

Shopping for the apartment was a blast. Picking out the furniture, the lights, the drapes, really made us feel like a couple. And being able to see him every day, to have him in the center of my life, was the best feeling I had had in more years than I could remember. He was mine and I was his. We were for each other.

And this is how it was for three years. We had great Christmases together, with me buying a full-sized tree. We had our friends and his family over for dinners. Having a passion for making cocktails, I bought a large bar and was always having people over for drinks. Kenji's friends, as well as his older brother and wife, were frequent guests, and we would all laugh and drink late into the night. Looking back, those were the happiest three years of my life.

Until, suddenly, it all came to an end.

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.

David Bowie launches a Japanese fashion craze

THE 7-11 BOY

I like 'em young.

Having said that, I do have my limits. College freshmen are on the menu. High school boys--notwithstanding my fetish for Japanese school uniforms--are not. Granted they are roughly the same age, but a line has to be drawn somewhere. That is where I draw mine.

But lines get crossed now and again. Especially when a going away party is involved. And lots of liquor. Here, gentle reader, is the whole sordid tale.

When I first arrived in Japan, I had the misfortune of working for a large English language company. Having taught junior high school kids back in the States, the job attracted me because I would have students of all ages. I would work an eight hour shift, teaching seven fifty-minute lessons. Students came in groups of three or less. I had rich housewives from Kamakura, bored salary men, and high school kids. The variety was great, and my co-workers came from a host of other English speaking countries. It was a fun place to work.

Except of course the bloody company sucked. By and large it was "teaching" in name only. We were essentially instructed to humor the students and make them have a good time to come back for more. In addition, we were pressured to "recommend" all sorts of helpful language books, also produced by the company. It didn't take long before I left, going back to teaching in public school.

One of the upsides was that the company had an apartment waiting for me when I arrived in Japan, an apartment I shared with two fellow Americans. Great guys, we'll call them "Rob" and "Ken." Both were straight, and one had a loud Japanese girlfriend ("Mimi") who felt it was important to alert the neighborhood every time she had an orgasm. As both were equally cool about my sexuality, even to the point of not minding if I brought company home, I was happy to put up with even Screaming Mimi.

Across the street from our building was a Sebonerebon (7-11 for the Japanese challenged). Being a household of three unmarried males, we picked up a lot of junk food and beer there. I, however, developed ulterior motives for hanging out in the convenience store the first time I walked in the door.

He was about 20, with long hair and doe eyes, the kind of guy who can make even the ugliest service industry uniform look hot. Like most young Japanese guys, he was just too pretty, his hair always perfectly coifed, his eyebrows neatly trimmed. And his skin was, simply, amazing. Perhaps it was my imagination, but he always seemed to flash me the biggest, most inviting smile every time I walked in the door. But I don't think he spoke even a word of English, and frankly the moment never seemed right to test the waters. I let him get away.

Meanwhile, Ken, who was half-Japanese, promptly introduced me to his favorite neighborhood bar. The owner was a man who could only be described as a Japanese hippy, and in his late 50s looked vaguely like a Native American with the long single braid he wore at the back of his head. The bar was obsessed with Route 66, and had signs and pictures from that historic American patch of road. But the crowd was always fun, and like Ken, I became a regular there.

When one of our co-workers decided to leave the company, Ken and I planned to throw him a going away bash at our local bar. We didn't bother to rent the place out of anything because we were expecting a smaller crowd. The evening in question began with several pitchers of beer, reminiscences about the job, and bitch-sessions about the company. After a few hours, our gang was getting whittled down, leaving a hardcore four of five of us who were now sucking down whiskey. I think I had even abandoned the ice by that stage.

So through the haze of alcohol, who should I spy walking in but the 7-11 boy, and with him a 30-something Japanese gentleman, also good looking in a kind of salaryman way. When the boy saw me, he immediately seized his companion's arm and dragged him over to our table, sitting down across from me. Ken was sitting just to my right.

Through hand signals and a smattering of English on their side and Japanese on mine, it became clear to me that 7-11 Boy and Salaryman were a couple. Though we chatted on for some time, my memories of the event were dimmed by the swirling caldron of beer and Jack Daniels brewing in my gut. At some point, from my perspective, the lights went out.

I awoke to sunlight burning my face. In true Dracula fashion, I flinched out of the light. As my senses began to return, I realized I wasn't in Kansas anymore, and that wasn't Toto lying down next to me.

It was the 7-11 boy, naked, more magnificent than I had ever imagined him to be. Suddenly it dawned on me that I had gone home with him, had sex, and had not even the slightest memory of the event! I didn't have much time to process this information before something stirred on the opposite side of my body. Salaryman, also naked, was waking up, and smiled when he saw me.

Screw the Lost Weekend, this was the lost threesome. How did I get there? How did this happen? Almost immediately the alarm went off, and the two leaped out of bed. Salaryman rushed into the shower first, put on a suit in record time, and popped out the door. This left me alone with 7-11 Boy.

Trying to play it cool, I asked if we could see each other again. he readily agreed. We exchanged numbers, as I noticed several condoms strewn across the floor. At least we seemed to have been safe. I started to ask him about the night before when he told me he had to get ready for school. Confused and badly hung over, I thought he meant university.

As he tugged on his clothes, he opened the closet and out came the Japanese boy's high school uniform. I must have audibly gulped. I had been sure the kid was at least 20, but in Japan it was so hard to tell. But wait a minute? hadn't he walked into a bar and been served last night? Then again, I was in no condition to remember what he was drinking.

As he buttoned up the uniform, I nervously asked how old he was. I didn't understand the answer so he indicated with his fingers.

16.

Stunned, I asked where we were. It was his mother's house, but she usually stayed the night with her boyfriend. Then I asked who the Salaryman had been. I didn't understand the answer until he showed me one of his high school year books.

Salaryman was 7-11 Boy's PE teacher.

Less than four months in Japan and I had already landed myself in a threesome between a high school kid and his phys ed teacher. This country was going to be the death of me.

Post Script: It goes without saying that I never set foot in the 7-11 again for fear of actually running into him. I actually had to send housemates to buy supplies for me. Fortunately, I left the company and the apartment not too long after these events.

GAY JAPAN, Part Two

Being me, one of the first things I did upon arriving in Japan was seek out the gay scene. As Janet Jackson so eloquently phrased it, “I’m not the kind of girl who likes to be alone,” so after two nights in Nihon it was time for a hook-up.

My Lonely Planet Tokyo guide told me that the main gay scene in the country was there in a district called Shinjuku Nichome (just “Nichome” to both its victims and its regulars, the two of which are often confused and frequently the same thing). The guide didn’t say a lot, but it named a few bars that were foreigner-friendly (an issue I’ll get to momentarily). Living outside the city, I decided to take the fifty-minute train ride in and scope things out for myself. I had a pocketful of money, so even if I couldn’t score I could check myself into a hotel.

As befits any epic quest, finding Nichome was like seeking the bloody Grail. I had maps, but in the maze-like streets of Tokyo getting spun around is easy, particularly if you can’t read Japanese. I circled the area several times before finally discovering this hidden Shangri-la, only to be severely disappointed.

Except for late Friday and Saturday nights, when the bars fill to capacity and start leaking out on the streets, Nichome looks like any other part of town. Used to the gay scenes in Manhattan, San Francisco, and Bangkok, I was expecting dance clubs brimming with topless Japanese hotties. What I found were tiny, hidden closets where subdued regulars huddled around bars too shy to make eye contact. I exaggerate…but just a little.

Like most aspects of Japanese life, the gay scene is separated, labeled, and neatly arranged into several tiny Type-A divisions. While hitting a bar in, say, the Castro met rubbing shoulders (and occasionally other body parts) with straight men and women, gays of all strips, and equally diverse specimens of lesbian. The bars in Nichome each seemed to cater to one specific variety of clone. Most didn’t open their doors to women, and most excluded foreigners. Each focused on one particular -sen.

A –sen is a type you are attracted to. For example, a gaisen is a Japanese individual attracted to foreigners, while a gebusen likes chubby boys. If you didn’t fit the profile, stepping into a particular bar could be a chilling and chilly experience.

“Arty Farty” was and is the major exception. Though it has moved locations since I first landed, it has always had a dance floor and let all types of people in. Granted, the entire freakin’ bar could fit on just the dance floor of a club elsewhere, but that’s life in Tokyo. The guidebook had mentioned the place as gaijin-friendly, so it was the first place I sought out.

What I lack in ripped abs and bulging biceps I more than make up for on the dance floor, and hoped to use that to my tactical advantage. Naturally, when I arrived no one was dancing. Even the gay bar I used to visit in Tucson saw more booties shaking than this one. This left me with little option but sit at the bar. This was, I would discover, standard operating procedure in the gay Japanese world.

I was soon joined by a young, extremely cute Japanese boy we will call “Hiroki.” In the dim lighting he looked twenty going on sixteen, but since the bars had age limits I figured he had to be older than he looked. I had just come from work, and was still wearing my suit. “Suits” were, apparently, Hiroki’s –sen.

When it became clear that he was going to just sit there until I made the first move, I gambled he spoke English and struck up a conversation. He did, and quite well. I told him I was new in Japan and that this was my first time in Nichome (he did not, however, grasp the meaning of the phrase “fresh meat”). He was from Kyushu, which I new was one of Japan’s major islands, and was attending university in Tokyo to become (he said) a doctor.

We flirted for about an hour. Strike that; I flirted and he sat there with a blank expression on his very attractive face. He offered to show me another bar I might like, and since I was making no noticeable progress with him in the confines of Arty Farty, I figured a change of scene might be advantageous.

He took me to GB, which, though I have never discovered what it stands for probably is just “Gay Bar.” It is the epicenter of the gaisen scene. Located in a single basement room, GB consists of (in no particular order) A) a single square bar in the center of the room, B) stools around said bar, C) a narrow shelf running around three other walls with stools for sitting, D) a tiny little men’s room, E) a horde of middle aged white guys with barely legal Japanese companions, and F) a few mounted television sets constantly recycling all the videos from Kylie Minogue’s Fever. No dancing, just drinking and trying to pick up the guy next to you.

Hiroki and I sat up against the wall, and he told me after the first round of drinks that he would leave soon for another bar, while I could stay and find a boy I liked. Taken aback (having had more than my share of Asian boys in San Francisco, did my charms suddenly not work in Japan?), I told him I had already met a boy I liked…him. With the same blank expression, not missing a beat, he set his glass down and said “let’s go to a hotel.” Success had never felt so anti-climactic. No worries. The climaxes would come later.

I had read about Japan’s “love hotels,” a topic that deserves its very own blog post and will get one at a later date. Suffice it to say now, they are cheap hotels that cater to couples having anonymous sex. Hiroki would have none of that, and wanted a “real” hotel. He walked me several blocks to one that he knew.

The room was a bit more than ten thousand yen, roughly a hundred dollars. For this you got a microscopic room, big enough for a double bed and not much else. For the entire evening Hiroki had been as lifeless and bland as a department store mannequin. On the walk over we had barely spoken, and I was beginning to think the only thing he had going for him was that he was hot. The moment I shut the door, however, Hiroki was all over me, moaning, rubbing, struggling to get my clothes off. It was a bit like flipping a robot’s “on” switch.

We had sex in the shower first. To save space, the toilet was also conveniently located in the shower, which at least gave us a place to sit. After, he told me he had to go. “But we just got here. Couldn’t you stay a little longer?” Instantly he was ready for action again and dragging me to bed.

This was to set the night’s odd pattern. We would have sex. He would say he had to go. I asked if he could stay until morning. We would have sex. Wash-rinse-repeat. He didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to cuddle, he didn’t want to answer any questions. He just wanted to have intercourse in every way humanly possible, immediately switching to “bland” while we were catching our breath in-between.

The next morning he walked me back to the train station, again like a robot. We might have been total strangers rather than two people who just shared a night of amazing sex. At the station, he bowed, and told me he'd like to see me again, so we exchanged numbers, honestly for my part. But he never called me, and the number he gave me was false. On all subsequent forays into Nichome, I never saw Hiroki again.

This was my first intimate encounter with the Japanese "public" face and the "private" one.

GAY JAPAN, Part One

One might expect the Land of the Rising Sun to be gay friendly. After all, during the Edo Period the samurai, like the Spartans before them, practiced sodomy. Women were fine for continuing the family line, but real companionship and pleasure was often found in fellow men; usual younger boys. An older samurai would take a younger squire under his wing, teaching him not only the arts of war, but love as well. We see this, for example, in the works of Saikaku Ihara (1642-1693). It's even said that the founder of Noh Theater was the lover of the current Shogun (military ruler of Japan) at that time.

But that was, of course, the aristocracy. Japan, in its rush to modernize, embraced middle class Western ways in the Meiji Era (the late Victorian and Edwardian periods). After centuries of feudalism, they tossed the baby out with the bathwater, adopting not only Western technologies, but also fashion, cuisine, and sexual ethics. Prior to this period, meat was not on the menu (for Buddhist reasons). After, eating meat was fine because that is what they did in the West. The same went for the way homosexuality was viewed.

True, by Western standards, Japan is still very, VERY gay. Boys and men often appear far more feminine than their Western counterparts, in part because of DNA (they tend to be slighter, less hairy, more delicate looking), but also because of very different attitudes towards masculinity. You will find Japanese boys plucking each other's eyebrows, sleeping together naked, hugging, touching, and horse-playing in ways that would make most Westerners scream "gay! gay!" A recent visit by my (very) straight brother confirmed this. The fashion sense, the hair, all sets off any Westerner's gaydar...despite the fact that the boys are straight.

In addition, there is no religious nonsense clouding the issue here. Neither Shinto nor Buddhism shares the obsession with the bedroom that Christianity has, and despite centuries of missionary activity, less than 1% of the Japanese population goes to any Christian Church. As a result, the Japanese do not have the absurd sexual hang-ups Western civilization has.

But this doesn't mean being gay is fine. It is, in a sense. Gay people are treated fairly well here. And though I don't have any statistics handy, it strikes me from eight years of living here that far more Japanese boys are inclined to engage in mutual kissing, stroking, and masturbation than Western teens, even when totally straight. Being a gay teen or twenty-something is fine. After that, it becomes problematic.

You see, Japan also has a strong Confucian strain from China. That means getting married and having children is a duty to your ancestors. Of course, most Japanese these days don't phrase it that way...they only know that by 30 they should really start thinking about marriage and rugrats. You have no idea how many gay Japanese guys I have known, who despite their parents looking the other way during their twenties, suddenly expect them to marry in their thirties. And a shockingly large number do (and cheat with guys on the side). This makes homosexual experience a prerogative of the young. Gay sex is fine, so long as you get married and make babies.

to be continued...

The Boy, Part One

The problem with dating younger guys is that all the growing up you did you have to go through all again. All the uncertainty, the self-discovery, and the brutal adjustment to the working world you lived through in your twenties you get to experience vicariously, sometimes with unexpected consequences.

About a year after dumping Shouhei I met “Kenji.” He was a 22-year-old university student, finishing up his last year. An English lit major, he was working on his final paper. Coincidentally the topic was Mark Twain, one of my favorite authors, and it was refreshing to talk to a guy about something other than hair, underwear, and pop stars. He was plowing his way through A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, and I actually re-read the novel to talk it over with him.

The age thing bothered me a little. I was 34 at the time, leaving only a dozen years between us, but with the exception of the Seven-Eleven guy I’d woken up with after getting a bit too drunk, twelve years was the biggest gap between me and any guy I’d ever been with. Kenji was unlike any other Japanese guy I’d dated before, and I had trouble believing he was (as he confessed to me) gay. The majority of the Japanese guys interested in gaijin were on the passive side, expecting you to do all the work (both in bed and in conversation). I was aware, of course, that Japan had its share of macho, butch tops, but none of them seemed interested in foreigners, who are generally perceived as being loud and aggressive. From what I had seen of the Japanese gay universe, the line between the active senpai and the passive kouhai was deeply established, with foreigners collectively stereotyped into the former rather than the latter. As a result, I had been on scores of dates where the boys sat there like lumps, looking pretty, waiting for you to do all the heavy lifting. After awhile, it was wearying.

Kenji, however, was extremely out-going, funny, self-confident, and even playful. He didn’t have the withdrawn and guarded attributes I’d gotten myself used to in Japan. In fact, there was something so innocent about him, I found myself wondering how he’d managed to escape donning the cynical armor most gay men put on after a few rounds of the dating scene. The answer soon became clear.

The first few times we were intimate, he was very passionate, but seemed a bit nervous. He would come over to my place and we’d fool around for hours, but nothing hardcore would happen. Then one night, he decided to stay over, and as they said back in high school, things went “all the way.” As we lay there naked in bed, he confessed that it was the first time he’d ever had sex with a man, and then apologized, expecting me to be angry that I had been his first.

I wasn’t, of course. I was deeply touched. “But you told me you’d dated other guys before,” I said. He admitted he had, but things never progressed that far. Then he told me one of the most horrible (and funny) dating stories I had ever heard.

Having come to the conclusion that he was gay, he started visiting internet chat rooms, hoping to meet a nice foreign guy. He eventually found a Canadian we will call “Todd.” Todd seemed nice, sweet, affectionate. After a few dates, Kenji nervously went back to his place for what would be his first sexual experience. As they moved slowly towards the bedroom, Todd told him he’d really love it if Kenji would give him a “golden shower.” Kenji, whose English was excellent but didn’t quite extend into the bizarre depths of the sexual world, was baffled. Unwilling to reveal his ignorance, he agreed, thinking Todd wanted them to take a shower first. But as things showed no sign of moving towards the bathroom, and Todd was waiting with expectation on the bed, Kenji was forced to admit he didn’t know what was going on.

“I want you to piss on me,” Todd told him. “Please? All over my body.”

Kenji, horrified, grabbed his clothes and fled the room. The fact that this wasn’t enough to make him swear off men entirely was admirable.

He laughed when he told me about it, so clearly no permanent damage was done. “Welcome to the gay world,” I told him. “Though I’d heard much worse stories of the first time!”

He snuggled against me. “That wasn’t my first time. You were. And it was perfect.”

It was the beginning of something really great.

Being Two-Faced

A few nights before leaving San Francisco for my bright and shiny new life in Japan, a gay Taiwanese friend invited me to dinner. It was years ago and I can't remember the name of the place, only that it was on a hill near Coit Tower and it sold only varieties of quiche. But I digress.

Solemnly, after the plates were cleared away, he gazed at me from the other side of the table. "When you get to Japan," he told me, "you have to be careful. Don't believe anything anyone says. The Japanese have two hearts and two faces."

I was shocked, indignant the way only a young, liberal, former Teach For America volunteer could be. I knew of course that there was still some bad blood between Japan and its neighbors, but "Ning" (all names in this blog have been changed to protect the innocent) was a member of the young Asian demographic awash in and enamored with Japanese fashion, manga, and video games. Surely Ning, who gobbled up Japanese magazines to copy the latest hairstyles of the Johnny's Entertainment idols wasn't holding on to the memory of war atrocities? It smacked to me of simple bigotry, and I believe I said as much to him. Ning just shrugged. "Maybe. But sometime you are going to remember what I said."

Flash forward three and a half years. Shouhei and I had been together for two years, and things were going well. We'd been to China and Thailand together, and he had come back to meet my family in the States. We weren't quite living together, but I had a key to his apartment and spent half my nights there. The sex was happening less often than it had, but when it did occur it was fantastic. He'd said he loved me and I believed it.

If there was a problem, it was that he worked to hard, but this was hardly unusual in a country that coined a word, karoshi, for death by overwork. He left early and came home late, often very late if etiquette required he go out with his co-workers. That he often did not answer his phone annoyed me, but this was Japan, not the States. The rules were different. Almost none of the Japanese guys I had met were openly gay, and they liked to keep their private lives hidden. For Shouhei, that meant keeping me hidden. I had long before put aside jealous suspicions in an attempt to live as I should "when in Rome," to understand him on his own terms.

It was one of those evenings. He was out. I was waiting. I decided to check my emails as I often do, when suddenly a message popped up from another gaijin, written in English. It was only two words.

"Hello Sexy!"

I ignored it. Shouhei had forgotten to sign off and this guy--possibly his ex, whom he was still friendly with--was messaging him. After a few minutes, another one appeared.

"What's wrong? Shy?"

I clicked on the box, but of course the software on Shouhei's computer was in Japanese, a language I was struggling with back then. I wanted to log him off.

"You weren't so shy the other night."

Still ignoring, I made a guess and clicked the cursor on a box I assumed would shut it off. Instead, his email opened. Not his regular email. A separate email, all in English. I read.

There were dozens of emails from dozens of guys, going back the entire two years we had been together. I didn't read all, but I read enough of them. Shouhei had been meeting guys behind my back the entire time, and I hadn't a clue. I remembered suddenly making love the night before, with him looking up at me with soft, sincere eyes, telling me how much I meant to him. It was the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. When-You-Get-Home-I-Am-Gonna-Kick-Your-@$$.

Ning could have phrased his assessment of the Japanese character a bit more diplomatically (which would have been the way the Japanese would have done it), but he was not essentially wrong. They call it here tatamae and hon'ne, saying or doing whatever is necessary to maintain an atmosphere of harmony and peace and the "truth." Most cultures do it to an extent, but like sword-smithing the Japanese have perfected it. It is even part of the language. As a trilingual French friend of mine recently put it, "French is the perfect language for expressing emotion. English is the best language for swearing. And Japanese is the supreme language for dodging questions, being evasive, and hiding what you really mean."

The astute reader may wonder what the photo above had to do with the actual content of this post. I had to get your attention somehow.