This One's for Mogura

Mogura asked the question:

Dude, if I were you, I would have come down with a "sudden case of the flu", and take her to the nearest love hotel for a spanking.

What happened with her? Please tell me you made a move...

So here is the answer:

Well, that was within my first months of arriving in Japan many years ago. Believe it or not I was actually semi-concerned about breaking the socialisation policy at that time. What a naive idiot I was.

Anyway, there actually is a pretty good follow-up story to this. I was beside myself with horniness at that time, as anyone can imagine. And I don't just mean that actual time of the 'panty-show', I mean every single minute of my first three months in Japan I spent hopelessly wanking five times a day, getting used to mosaiced genitalia. And yes, to answer your first question, must have been a couple of pulls between lessons.

So during the JFK lesson, I was too speechless and discombobulated to make any kind of real effort at picking her up. By the way, I wasn't gonna mention this in the first post, because the story already strains credibility enough, but this woman was a goddamned nursing student at the local nursing college.

Well, after jerking-off to every conceivable imagery I could incorporate with her starring in the vision, I started thinking about the real thing.

I, like many other temporarily disillusioned foreigners in Japan, was wondering when the sex parade was gonna start. Three months and I don't I managed so much as a drinking party.

One of the main problems was that I was broke as all hell. Even after every payday I was paying people back and literally surviving for 27 days on a stash of noodles, miso, rice, and a giant jug of Suntory Red. This went on for about four months. One of the reasons I came to Japan in the first place was due to my abysmal financial state. I had the twin flaws of gambling every cent I ever had and drinking to cope with the aftermath. I was kinda like that Ausralian guy who just won the Booker Prize without the Booker prize, or any hopes of ever winning any prize.

So as anyone knows scoring babes requires a certain amoint of coin stashed and ready. In my opinion you can't really go out on a proper date without 30,000 prepared in advance. Am I right? That is an adult date. One that takes everything into account. At the very least 20,000 to pay for dinner, drinks, more drinks, and a love hotel,and any other expenses that may arise.

So I was living out of a fucking dresser drawer filled with dried starch. I rememeber one day, a week from pay-day. I had soba and miso left in the house and pancake powder. But I had no eggs or milk to make the pancakes. It was morning and I had had soba for breakfast the last five days in a row. I decided to mix some water with the pancake mix. I ate as many spoonfuls as I could stomach and then headed off to my 'job'. On foot because I had no funds. An hour into my walk and nearing the my dreaded branch of hell I started to feel pain in my stomach. It quickly became excruciating and felt like someone had forced a balloon down my throat into my stomach and was then inflating it.

Only later I learned that swallowing raw pancake mix is a verifiable causer of death in some humans. The nature of it is that it expands and releases gas and thus should never be consumed raw lest your intestines swell up like mine were at that moment.

I spent the day doubled over in severe abdominal pain. That night when the swelling and pain subsided I got drunk as hell on Suntory Red and beat off like nine times to panty nurse's image.

So you can see that I was in no condition to ask her or anyone out. Also I since our first meeting I hadn't even seen her on the schedule let alone in the classroom.

Well, some more time passed. I was broke. I remember all of my fellow drones complimenting me on my sensible idea of bringing my own lunch to work. One day I came into the slave factory and looked at my daily sentence: There she was. On my schedule. Payday was a week away. My next day off after the next payday was ten days away. It was my window, and I planned to seize the opportunity.

Surely I would still have 30,000 yen three days after payday. I would ask her to meet me.

I bound into the lesson confidently and cool. Hey! Long time no see. Sachiko, 'Yeah. Hee, hee, hee, hee. I didn't your class. I happy your class again. Hee,hee,hee,hee...' I was in. No doubt.

So I taught my suavest 7A and then with five minutes left somehow directed the conversation, as you do, to your day off and what you do. My day off was Friday, and she was a student, so I knew there would be no problem. Where do you go shopping? Oh Shinjuku? I love Shinjuku. Yeah I am going there a week Friday. Yeah. We should meet, hah,hah..... (Not completely commitally to affect the possibility of joking in case of humiliating rejection,but...) She says, yeah, I love Shinjuku I wanna go to Shinjuku. God was that easy. I say, okay meet me at Alta at 7pm. Ok, Alta 7 pm. I say, here is my phone number, then she says, oh, okay, here is mine. It was like winning the lottery. It was a continuation of the immortal panty day, and now more tangible than ever.

The masturbation resumed over the next ten days at an astonishing rate. Pretty much every moment of my day involved some kind of new and creative idea of me and Sachiko in the love hotel.

Payday was fast approaching but so were the people laying claim to my money. I owed everyone. But nothing would separate me from the 30,000 yen I would need for that night.

Payday arrived. I paid off my local creditors, including my rent and utilities. I had 35,000 yen. Friday, my day off, was three days off. Tuesday and Wednesday were spent in an alcoholic, masturbatory delerium. I think it was around that time I discovered Gal's Shower magazine. It only added to the frenzy.

Now at this time I think probably a lot of people are quite naturally wondering why I didn't just go to Roppongi and pick someone up there. The answer is that I am simply not the kind of person that knows where to begin with that kind of approach.

The truth is, in spite of what I write, I always had looked for women who could hold conversations and be interesting to hang around after the fucking got old. I had shagged my share of women, but not by going to bars and picking them up. I thing every guy develops his own style with the babes and mine just didn't usually include chatting up babes in bars and then bringing them home for a shag, minus the time or two the loose bird just flew right home into the nest. But in Japan, without the money, without the language, I felt totally unarmed, until Sachiko the Nurse presented herself.

Well Thursday night rang around and I finished my dreaded shift at the factory and clocked out at nine. Some of the boys were heading to Roppongi flush with their new payday cash and heading to GasPanic for a night of wild debauchery, or so they hoped. Those of you in Tokyo may remember Gas Panic was a pretty wild place back then. I saw girls dancing on the bar and flashing titties and panties to the crowd of drunken, foolish, servicemen, salaryman and occasional Nova twerp. But the thing that attracted me was that drinks were only 300 yen, all night Thursday. At that stage I still had 25,000 yen. Yeah, it was a little beneath my goal of having 30,000 yen for the date, but what the hell. It was plenty enough to go through with every thing imaginable I could hope for.

Well, what the hell, I deserve it. Shit, I could drink 15 drinks at Gas Panic and still have more than 20,000 for the next day. I have lived a wretched existence not just in teh past three months, but for the past three years. Fuck yeah, I'm gonna have a good ol' time. The suffering is over. The days and nights of solitary misery are over. I am not a bad person. I just did bad things. Forget Vegas. Forget Reno. Forget Morocco. Forget Honduras. Things have changed. This Nova gig is bullshit. This crap's beneath me. Man, now is the time. I always knew I was special. Well, fuck yeah. I am gonna go and get drunk like the old days and have a fucking good time like I used to.

Well, I mentioned about gambling and drinking, but I also forgot to say that somewhere down the line I was variosuly diagnosed as bipolar, borderline and one MMPT (Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Test) determined me to be psychotic. No joke. This fat fucking psychiatrist who my poor Dad paid a fucking mint sat there with spaghetti stains on his shirt, belching garlic, telling me quite calmly that the tests indicate I may be dangerous, but probably only to myself. No FUCKING SHIT you beast.

But that was all behind. Just me and Sachiko and 20,000 yen. And nothing but a night at Gas Panic between us. What could possibly fucking go wrong?

Well, and this is not a joke, I woke up at six AM the next morning in a homeless person's blue tent in Yoyogi-koen. It was the sweetest morning I could ever remember. You know how sometimes when you are so fucked up that you have some moment of peace in the very wee hours of the morning before the pounding hangover begins? When your eyes are closed and a nice breeze is blowing, and birdds are singing. And you feel some kind of great comfort? Well, I didn't experience that. No, it was just sheer, utter fucking horror. Where the fucking hell on earth am I and why in fucking hell am I here? But it was so comfortable. It was a green folding cot. The light was just beginning to show through the blue tarp of teh exterior. There really was utter calm. And birds really were singing, and I was snugly rolled in the fetal psotion inside a very nice blue North Face sleeping bag. After I opened my eyes I didn't move for about five minutes. I thought maybe it wasn't me in the bag and that was the problem. But it was. I just blinked, but was afraid to move any other muscles. Then it donned on me. This is a fully equipped, well-used homeless shack, so where is the person who lives here. There was even a clock, and I could see the hour. Knew by the birds it was morning.

I pulled myself out of the bag, then noticed that I was wearing my blue faded shorts. And nothing else. No other sign of any of my belongings either. But remarkably in the cargo pocket of my shorts was my phone. Only. No wallet. No keys. No change. No money. Just a phone. With great fear I pulled the phone out to read the dialling history. Pleae God. No. Please God. No. Please. Please. And then against all odds, nothing. I hadn't placed a single call since the day before yesterday. That meant Sachiko was still on.

In spiteof the state of things I was still focussed. I teetered to the edge of the tent and just as I began that way a youngish Japanese man poked his head in as if he had no idea I was there. He looked at me with the horror one may have reserved for the invaders at Okinawa in 1945. He ran off without a split-second's hesitation.

I staggered out of the tent of course having absolutely no idea where I was or how I got there, but was extremely relieved to see my trusty blue mama-chari faithfully standing outside the little shelter. It wasn't locked.

I briefly scanned the ground around me. There was nothing. I just nonchalantly, and in a somewhat relieved way hopped on the thing and headed off toward the fountain area where the capoeira people practice their strange martial dance form.

I was bare-foot, naked but for my shorts and riding through the city to Shinjuku where I lived. It always amazes me how quiet Tokyo is at six AM and that day was no different. Fortunately there were not many people out to see this bizarre ride of ignominy through Harajuku, and then up Gaien Nishi Dori where I rode past a group of runners from a high school. They saw me coming up the sidewalk in front of the Olympic Stadium. Their faces betrayed no amusement at seeing this dishevelled gaijin cycling naked toward them at 6 AM. Then spontaneosly, as if victorious, I raised my right fist and shouted, "Ohayo Gozaimasu" to which they all robotically and in complete agreement replied in kind.

Buoyed by this moment of early morning solidarity I rode the rest of the way home drunkenly giggling though rather the way a person does before he offs himself or someone else.

Thanks to some extraordinary foresight on my part I had a spare key taped to the top of my mail-box. But after a night like that, all bets were off. I fully expected it to not be there. Yet, it was.

Now. My possessions. I had already through simple deduction determined that I must have somehow gotten myself home. Then gotten my bike and returned to the night. Inspite of all this, I was in a fairly calm state of mind. I calmly and without high expectations opened the door. Nothing was remotely amiss. My clothes from the night before were just where they should have been, scattered around my floor. And there on my shitty little plastic table were my wallet, keys and any other essentials. As far as I could tell, nothing was missing. But I postponed a peek into the wallet the way you don't check a lottery ticket right away in order to let the suspense build. One thing was wrong in the bathroom. And that was (skweekah you will appreciate this) a foot long turd, probably mine, was neatly glued to the bathtub in a perfect line parallel to the long side of the tub and directly in the middle of the thing. Nice one Bernard.

I bundled up my hands with toilet paper and calmly removed the shit to the toilet and flushed. Then I thoroughly rinsed the residue with the hand held shower nozzle and even used a scouring soap to clean it. This is Japan after all, gotta keep a clean tub! Then, amazingly, I took another fresh giant shit.

But instead of feeling better, the way a shit in the morning should make you feel, I felt worse. I had to practically drag myself back to my one room. I unrolled my futon and lay down. I was really drunk and feeling really woozy all of a sudden. I lay breathing heavily and even moaning. One eye was pasted to the futon but the other was open and scanning the room. I saw the Gals Shower within arm length. I pulled it over. Bukkake. Wow. So much semen. I whacked off, and then passed out.

By the time I woke it was three pm. Four hours to 'the date'. By this time I realised it was over. Not just the date, but everything in a philosophical, existential kind of suffering way. I laughed again. Even if there is fucking money in that wallet, how in hell am I gonna right myself for a night with this babe?

It was three pm and I was still entirely incapacitated to the degree that just standing caused extreme pain in my eyes and head and every organ in my body. Of course, money being what it was, there were no remedies around.

But fuck, if there was money I would go. There wasn't. There was ironically, and cruelly, and strangely, and inexplicably, twelve US dollars in my wallet. Twelve freaking US dollars.

I actually cried. Then I jerked off again. But I was only postponing the inevitable, and the later it got the worse. I had to call her and cancel the date. And so I did. And she reacted indignantly and angrily the way I would expect a woman or anyone else for that matter to act. Why? I am sorry, I just can't. I have a problem. Uhh. I don't understand. We meet at seven, ok? No. I can't, I have a problem. I don't understand. I can't come. I have a really bad problem. Uhhhh?? Ehhh??? I made plan to meet tonight. We have plan. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. But we have plan.

And so it went. And that is the rest of the story Mog. Since you asked.

EPILOGUE

The next night I was recovered enough to go to the local free Internet place across from the Hyatt in Nishi Shinjuku. Not the Park Hyatt of recent Hollywood fame, but the other one. I was dejected, and suicidal. Next to me is this foxy Asian babe. She has her hair in two tails coming out the side of her hair like high school girls wear. She was wearing baggy sweats and a tee-Shirt. She was a goddess. I kept looking at her. Finally, she says to me in perfect, American-sounding English: Hey, do you speak English? Do you know anything about Shinjuku?

I stared at her dumbly."Well, yeah...sure. Why are you on vacation?"

"No. I am a flight attendant for Singapore Air. We stay over at the Hyatt if we do more than a night in Tokyo. But Its my first time here."

Holy fucking shit. I had 200 yen and twelve dollars in my pocket. A nurse and a farking flight attendant. The farking Hyatt.....

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

EPLIOGUE PART II

I didn't see Sachiko around Nova at all after that. In fact was hoping she wasn't vindictive. Turned out she was, a little.

About two months after the debacle date that never happened I saw her on my schedule in a group lesson with two other women. I thought, hell, nothing too bad happened, I can get through this one.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that only two women were waiting for me and neither were my Sachiko the panty-flashing nurse. I was even more happy when after fifteen minutes of my brilliant lesson she hadn't arrived. Then, about twenty minutes into it she came. Against regulations I might add. But there she was. She saw me through the plexiglass a mile away and I her.

She didn't say a word in the lesson, and even affected a scowl. The mood turned, and the other women began to sense it. I had fucked this girl over the wrong way, and now they were all against me. With five minutes left in this torturous lesson Sachiko actually began to cry, or rather whimper, to which the other two responded by taking very sisterly care of her, while looking at me like I was some kind of rapist.

EPILOGUE PART III

In the end, I discovered that all along Sachiko was banging another Nova teacher on his lunch breaks at her nurses dormitory. She ended up marrying a salaryman and moving to Toyama.

Thanks for reading this nonsense.

Cheers,

BG