THE MONEY BOY

THEY SAY THAT ANIMALS can sense when an earthquake is coming. Somehow, their keen senses detect the oncoming arrival of disaster. Similarly, I once had a student who suffered from epilepsy. She went everywhere with a dog named Ginger. Ginger could somehow sense when the girl was going to have a fit, and would start barking to warn her. The girl could then lay down and get ready so the attack did not come by surprise.

If only they could teach dogs to predict dating disasters.

Just imagine the bar of the future. You wander on in with your dog at your side, stroll to the bar, and order a martini. The dog lays down at your feet, perhaps lapping at a bowl of water. Along comes Mr. Disaster. Oh sure, he looks good--they always do--but your dull human perception can't detect the rotten core. Your weak nose can't catch the old leather whiff of serious baggage. Your puny ears can't hear the dry tick of his dull and humorless soul. Fortunately, you have your Guide Dog. As the fiend draws near, she lifts her head, folds back her ears, and starts growling. Mister, this just ain't happening. Piss off. Hallelujah! Man's best friend to the rescue. What's that Lassie? This jerk has serious commitment problems? What I would not give for a dog like that.

Take the cautionary fable of the Money Boy, for example.

Once upon a time, a single English teacher living just outside the metropolis of Tokyo paid a visit, as he often did, to those dens of iniquity collectively known as Shinjuku Nichome. Settling down into a quiet section of just such a bar, the young man drank a local concoction known as the Lemon Sour and watched the boys prance by (prancing being a form of locomotion not solely reserved for gay men in Japan, but common to most of the male population under 30).

After awhile, a very attractive young man wandered over, and stumbling over the rubble of monumentally broken English, asked if he could sit down. Now, our intrepid hero was never one to turn down a young and pretty boy, no matter what linguistic barriers stood before them. He asked the guy to sit, and they struggled through a conversation.

He was such a nice young man. His family was Catholic, placing them in that rare 1% of Japanese who are Christians. because of this, he had done a lot of volunteer relief work overseas. He even produced a digital camera full of photographic evidence to prove it. A poor college student, he really wanted to practice his English, but had no money. Could the English teacher help him out? A language exchange perhaps?

Three meetings later, the English teacher and this lovely young man began to exchange just a bit more than language. Well, alright, a lot more. The guy could not possibly be more perfect. Sweet, considerate (sending little emails throughout the day), cute, earnest, thoughtful. An all around delight. And dynamite in bed, it must be said (yes, stop pretending that doesn't matter).

And so, feeling that helium in your head buoyancy that comes with growing infatuation, the English teacher went about his business until he was at a friend's house, watching TV and having a drink or two. It was a Saturday night, and he received a text message on his phone. It goes something like this;

Hello. How are you?

I am fine. How about you?

I am Nichome.

You are in Nichome? (the English teacher begins to feel alarm here...no, they had not promised each other anything yet, but the boy was already out cruising the bars again? What had he done wrong?)

Yes. I in Nichome.

(playing it cool) Oh. Meeting any nice guys?

Actually not.

Oh? Too bad.

Maybe you not understand.

Why? What do you mean?

I working.

(slightly puzzled...the boy mentioned a part-time job in a department store) In Nichome? Where? You work at a bar?

No. I am so busy. University student. Department store. And Nichome. I urisen.

("Urisen?" We have passed the limits of the English teacher's Japanese) What is that?

Me. I sell me.

What do you mean?

Sex. I sell my body. Get money. But tonight no customer.

Ah, the nice Catholic boy. The nice Catholic boy who also happens to be a male prostitute. The nice Catholic boy prostitute that you just started sleeping with.

Thanks Lassie, where were you when Tommy got stuck in the well.

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 Boy, Part Two

Seeing the world through Kenji's eyes suddenly made me realize how far I'd fallen from grace.

Once we crossed that first barrier together--getting him through his very first sexual encounter with a man--Kenji threw himself into the relationship totally and completely. We had had sex, and in his mind that meant A) he could trust me utterly and completely, B) we were officially a couple, and C) we would be in love forever. It never crossed his mind that I might have lied to get him into bed, that I might have two or three other guys on the side, that I was an emotional basket case waiting to blow up, or that I'd get bored in five minutes. All the things that run through the average gay man's mind when dropping his pants with a new partner were not running through his.

It was early in the relationship, and having discovered sex Kenji couldn't seem to get enough of it, coming over to my place three or four times a week. Always enthusiastic, I was surprised how fast he caught on, his initial clumsiness rapidly evolving into a real sense of what I needed and wanted in bed. After one particularly fantastic lovemaking session, we lay in the semi-dark of my room. He was on his back, I was propped up on my elbow beside him, my other hand resting on his naked (and incredibly flat) belly. He looked up at me and his eyes said it all; he was head over heels in love. He hadn't learned yet not to trust, to always be on guard. His heart was on his sleeve. "Later, maybe a year from now, do you want to move in with me? We could get an apartment together."

Suddenly, I was not a thirty-something gay man. Suddenly I was starting all over again, a young man on the verge of my new sexuality, which stretched before me sunny and blue all the way to the horizon. That was the way he saw this world. He didn't know that sex was the cheapest commodity on the market, that it could be bartered and sold half price and in bulk. He didn't know that men could swear they loved you and see an endless string of other guys on the side. There had been no Shouhei in his life. No one had lied to him, cheated him. He was the boy I once was, thinking that the way the world worked was that you found your soulmate, fell in love, and lived happily ever after.

I realized that night, then and there, that I had stopped believing in love. When the hell had that happened? Had it been when the first person I ever loved walked out, telling me he'd found someone else? Had it been during the endless string of guys I dated after, trying to fill the gaping hole he had left when he went away? I remember that after he dumped me, I dated with the intention of finding new love. One by one, the pattern was the same. We would meet, connect, have sex, and then it all went wrong. He already had a boyfriend. He had a wife. He was just after sex. He disappeared without ever explaining what went wrong. Somewhere in the process, I gave up on the love and settled for just the sex. And once that happened, sex had somehow become boring. Then it had to be threesomes, or sex in the bathroom of a club, or an alleyway...anything to shoot fresh adrenaline into something that had become banal and stale. Like the man behind the curtain, all the magic had been stripped away.

But in Kenji's eyes, I saw it unclouded. That real love. That innocent expectation. That connection. Uninjured, he was content to stand naked before me with his heart in his hands, while I--layered in enough character armor to deflect a grenade--watched. It was at that moment that I understood this was my chance. It was Lucifer's chance to crawl up out of hell and hang with the angels again. A chance to be in a relationship that was not a lie.

I removed the armor, and surrendered. "Of course, I would love to live with you."

Teary eyed, he hugged me, and I realized I had meant what I had just said.