XXV. Tokyo Decadence, Part Three

Evan was interested. He surprised himself even more than he surprised me. I may have been jumping for joy, I don’t remember. All I know is that he told me to calm down, that nothing was settled yet. He had to run the idea past the club’s owners. Ordinarily, he had the authority to hire anyone as he saw fit, but for something like this, he wasn’t willing to make that decision on his own. And since no description of my act could truly do it justice, he said I’d probably have to do another audition for them.

I lay on top of my cheap dorm bunk bed, dreaming about the job. I never even remotely considered professional male stripping before, but now it was everything I ever wanted. Not only enough money to live on, but money which was shoved into my crotch by bored Japanese housewives. And who knows, I might have a good chance of picking up one or two of the very bored ones.

Late the next morning, I got the call on the payphone in the hallway. Evan set up an audition with the owners. He wanted me there at four o’clock that day.

I sat in Evan’s office, wearing the smoking jacket and jester’s hat, waiting for Evan’s cue. The door opened, Evan stepped in. He looked nervous, “Okay, they’re here. Go. And good luck.”

I strode onto the octagon once again. I could see the owners sitting together on a couch against the wall. I was surprised – they looked like two respectable, professional couples. I was expecting something a little sleazier, a Japanese Bob Guccione, perhaps – open shirt, thinning perm, a couple of giggling bimbos hanging on to him. But these people were well-tailored, conservative even. There had to be more to them than met the eye. When I saw the slits in the women’s skirts, offering glimpses of well-toned thigh, I took it as a good omen.

Evan came out of his office to stand beside the owners. One of the men spoke to him in Japanese. Evan told me to begin. It was the same routine as the day before. I took off my jacket slowly and shimmied, but I couldn’t quite lose myself in the fantasy like before. I was trying to gauge the reactions of the owners. The men sat motionless, stone-faced. The women merely crossed their legs occasionally. I didn’t what it meant, if it meant anything at all. When I twirled the jacket over my head and let it fly, my aim this time was better: it landed at their feet. One of the women picked it up, brushed it off and carefully draped it over a chair. Not exactly tearing it to shreds in rabid devotion, but it was nice of her.

I lost my nerve when it came time to finger my bellybutton (Evan seemed relieved). I felt it best to proceed directly to the balloon penis act, which garnered a few covered-mouth giggles from the ladies and polite applause from the men. When I revealed the big finish – my ejaculation, there were gasps. They weren’t exactly sexually aroused gasps, more like scandalized gasps, followed by Japanese murmuring. Evan brought me my jacket and escorted me offstage. The owners again applauded politely, stood up, and walked single file into the office. Before closing the door behind him, one of the men called Evan over and said something while gesturing towards me.

“What did he say? I asked.

“You should put your pants on,” Evan translated.

We waited for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes outside the office. I asked if this was a bad sign. And what about that gasp? And the murmuring? What did those mean? Evan didn’t know. He said he’d been living in Tokyo for close to nine years and still couldn’t figure the Japanese out. The office door opened. They called Evan inside and shut the door again. After a few more tense minutes, Evan emerged, shaking his head. The vote was three to one. Three in favor, one against.

“Why are you shaking your head? I’m in, right?”

“No, not in this club. The vote has to be unanimous. If one has doubts, they all have doubts.”

“That’s not fair! I want a recount. Who voted against me? It was one of the men, wasn’t it? It couldn’t been the women – they giggled! One folded my jacket! They loved me, didn’t they? Just give me a minute with them, I could convince them…”

“Look, it’s over, forget it. Let me buy you a beer,” Evan walked me over to the bar.

The owners filed out of the office and passed me as they exited the club, each bowing in turn. The woman who picked up my jacket flashed me a quick thumbs up before she left. Again, not my fantasized reaction, but it was nice of her. Evan opened up a couple of large Sapporos and sat down on the stool next to me.

“It was one of the men, wasn’t it?” I couldn’t let it go.

“Yeah.”

“Did he say why?”

“You were just too hairy,” Evan said, “Maybe if you were black…”

XXIV. Tokyo Decadence, Part Two

“You can begin whenever you’re ready,” Evan said.

“What, no music?” I asked.

“Hey, I’m giving you a break as it is.”

It was a difficult to just begin a striptease, especially with no musical intro. Evan suggested imagining the club as it was at night, full of giggling Japanese women, housewives mostly, looking for a little excitement. (Has anyone ever actually used this kind of advice? Aside from sexual fantasies, I could never sustain a visualization for more than thirty seconds. Well, a sexual fantasy would be appropriate, if I could overcome the shame…)

I closed my eyes and imagined a bevy of stunning Japanese women in their thirties and forties, all properly and conservatively attired. The slits along the sides of their skirts offering tantalizing glimpses of well-toned thigh, however, told me their propriety would not last long.

I slowly unbuttoned my smoking jacket, slipped it off one shoulder, then the other. I shimmied it halfway down my back like Marilyn Monroe with a feathered boa, making the most of my small, yet jiggly, man-boobs. Whipping the jacket up over my head, I twirled it around a few times and let it fly. I meant for it to land into the audience, where the women would fight over it, and subsequently tear it to shreds, but my timing was off. The jacket flew off, up and behind me. Unintentional, but effective: Evan chuckled. The act was working. It was time to get really shameless.

Standing naked save for a leopard print g-string, another borrowed garment, I proceeded to erotically massage my loose belly while I moaned, licked my lips, and rolled my eyes to the back of my head (facial expressions of a sort seldom seen outside of an old-timey Prince video). I sucked on my finger, stuck it into my belly button, and, well… fingered myself.

“Alright, you’re kind of creeping me out now,” Evan said.

Feeling it was best to move into the big finale, I finished masturbating my navel. I reached into my amply stuffed g-string, rummaged around a bit, and pulled out a long, thin balloon. I stretched and pulled at it as sexily as one could stretch and pull on a balloon and blew it up. A twist, a twist, a fold, and a twist, et voila – a three foot long phallus, complete with head, scrotum, and a small handle behind the scrotum, which allowed me to carry the phallus between my legs while I strutted about the stage displaying my inflated manhood.

I turned my back on the screaming, nearly naked throng, their hair teased to a frenzy. Reaching again into my bag of tricks, I pulled out a white balloon. I blew in a small bubble of air, worked it to the end of the balloon, and inserted the thin end into my “urethra,” all the while miming masturbation. Just before climaxing, I spun back around to unveil my finest creation – The Ejaculating Penis Balloon Trick. (I developed this one working adult parties in San Francisco. Always got big tips.) The audience let out a collective gasp; some fainted. Just as the remaining conscious, panting, practically rabid women crawled over their fallen friends to rush the stage, Evan brought me back to reality.

“Okay, I get the idea. Get dressed.”

To be continued…

XXIII. Tokyo Decadence, Part One

Help Wanted: Foreign Men Needed for Strip Club

My English teaching plan was not working out. The days were long since past when some guy without a degree could waltz right into Tokyo and land a high-paying gig just by being a native speaker. I landed a few private lessons here and there, but they weren’t nearly enough to afford four dollar bowls of noodle soup and seventeen dollar movie tickets. And with the US dollar dropping every day against the yen, I was losing money just getting out of bed. I needed a job fast. Male stripping… why not?

There were actually quite a few reasons why not. I was an unlikely candidate for the job: short, bald(ing, at the time), less than classically handsome and somewhat overweight. (I had recently lost a fair bit of weight, but it left my skin a little… loose – when I moved, it brought a whole new meaning to the term “rippling abs.”) And, I was hairy. Very hairy. Entire body covered with hair hairy. All together, not the standard male stripper package, even in Tokyo, where tastes did not always run mainstream.

But I had a plan. I phoned the number in the ad and spoke to an American, Evan, who managed the club. I managed to steer the conversation away from any description of myself, deftly focusing on my charming personality and stage experience. It seemed to work. We arranged to meet at Shinjuku station. I asked him what he looked like – beating him to the punch – in order to spot him at the busy subway stop. He told me he was tough to miss.

As I made my way through the sea of Japanese commuters, I saw what he meant. Evan was unmistakable: tall, black, and built like a linebacker. He towered above everybody else. I waved to him as I approached. He looked behind him as though I was waving to someone else, then turned back to me. We made eye contact. His eyes widened just a little as he realized who I was. His lips pursed and drew to one side of his face. I stepped up before they could form the words, “I think there’s been some mistake.”

“Before you say anything,” I said, “let me just say two words – Novelty Act.”

I took up where I left off on the phone, pleading my case point by point. He had his doubts, but, God bless him, he also had an open mind. His club had a lot of competition in the area; he was looking for something to make his stand out. And maybe, just maybe, this short, bald, flabby, hairy man would be the ticket. “It would help if you were black,” he said, “Japanese women love the black man. (He later confided that this was the main reason he stayed on in Tokyo after he left the service.) Well, you made the trip. I might as well let you audition. But you’ve got a lot of convincing to do.”

The club was empty for the afternoon. Evan turned one spotlight on the small octagonal stage rising a few inches above the floor. It was surrounded by tiny octagonal tables, built for holding only drinks. Evan told me to get ready and went into his office. I unpacked my costume. First, the brown, Hefneresque smoking jacket which I borrowed from a friend with Rat Pack aspirations. Then my prized possession – the one thing I owned that I would run into a burning building to save – my felt jester’s hat. This was not just any jester’s hat, no, my friends, not one of those limp, floppy jobs with the tiny bells. This was a king among jesters, the horns full, stuffed, upright, proud, erect, with big, puffy, yellow balls bursting forth from the tips. You didn’t have to be funny when you put this hat on, the hat alone would make you funny. I had been travelling throughout Southeast Asia for over a year with the hat in my backpack, never knowing exactly why, but perhaps waiting, however unconsciously, for this very moment. I tied it on as Evan walked in. He stared at the hat and shook his head, chuckling. He fell back into the narrow naugahyde couch that lined the wall.

It was showtime.

To be continued…

XXII. The End of the Trail, Part Three

What with Jim here and all, the Jungle Adventure Tour Company really didn’t need me anymore. I started thinking maybe it was time to move on. As impossible as it seemed, I had grown tired of the jungle. It wasn’t much of an adventure anymore. I jumped off enough waterfalls, hiked enough trails, and been charged by enough elephants. It had become a job. We’d drive past the bush, we’d hear the crunching and stop, elephants would come out, we’d watch them, always stay too long, the elephants would get sick of us, they’d chase us off, then we’d go look for more animals. Anything after a while can become drudgery.

Maybe I would go to Vietnam. It was just opening up to tourism at the time.* Travelers occasionally came through and told all kinds of exciting stories. It sounded exotic, maybe even dangerous. It was Vietnam, after all. Or I might go to one of those silent meditation retreats down south. It would be different, a challenge, to say the least – not speaking for ten days, only meditating, sleeping on stone beds. Then I could pop on over to Koh Phan-gnan in time for the Full Moon Party, cover myself in Day-Glo paint trip the night away.

I got excited just thinking about it. The decision was made. The where would work itself out.

I told Tom and Maow over breakfast. I was getting a little sentimental over my rice porridge, “I want you both to know that I’m very grateful and I appreciate how you’ve taken me in like family, but it’s just time to move on, you know?”

“Sure,” Tom wiped the last remaining porridge out of his bowl with his finger, “that’s no problem.”

“It doesn’t have to be right away. If you get busy, I can stay on another week or two…”

“No, that’s okay, we have Jim” Maow said as she cleared the table and went into the kitchen.

Tom took the Bangkok Post and went to the bathroom. I sat at the table and convinced myself that long, sentimental goodbyes were probably not the Thai way. Probably a Buddhist non-attachment thing. I didn’t think I would be leaving so fast. I was really leaving. Nothing was stopping me. There was nothing left to do, so I went to my room to pack up. As I left the Jungle Adventure Tour Company compound for the last time, I passed Jim playing hacky-sack.

“See ya.”

Either he knew and didn’t care, or didn’t know and didn’t notice my backpack. I didn’t particularly care either way. “Yup,” I replied, my version of the Thai goodbye.

I walked to the train station in town. I took off my backpack and sat down on a bench by the tracks, waiting for the next taste of Tuna Fish Ice Cream.



* This was 1992. My apologies to any of those readers who thought this story takes place present day.

XXI. The End of the Trail, Part Two

Tom thought it would be a good idea that Jim and I do a tour together, that I might teach him the subtleties of the trail. I let him take the lead on the day hike, hanging back to observe, and, if necessary, lend a hand. But it wasn’t necessary. In fact, he barely had to pay attention to the trail. He walked it backwards like a campus tour guide, regaling prospective freshman with facts about the school, “… and we have over 3000 species of plants, 320 species of birds, and 67 species of animals…”

Where the hell did Jim get this information? On the job all of three days and he’s spouting facts and figures like Ranger Rick. I’d been here for two months and I never heard any of this. Tom never mentioned it. There was no information to be had at the Khao Yai National Park Information Center, nor were there any guidebooks to the park that I knew of, at least not in English. He didn’t read Thai too, did he?

“… two kinds of deer: the Sambar Deer and the Barking Deer, or Muntjac…”

We had two kinds of deer?

He pointed out the Sensitive plants, or Mimosa Pudica and the Dipterocarpus trees (or, as I called them, “the big-ass trees with the huge roots. You know, like in Apocalypse Now? When Chef goes off to look for mangos, and he crawls over those huge roots? That kind of tree. Remember? And the tiger comes out of nowhere, and Chef’s screaming ‘Fucking tiger! Fucking tigerrrr…!’ That kind of tree.”).

I had nothing to teach Jim.

We finished the tour, as we always did, night-spotting for animals. Tom drove the pickup truck down the two-lane jungle road, the travelers all loaded in the back. I stood on the left rear fender, Jim on the right, each of us holding a spot, lighting up the trees on our respective sides. I felt like being somewhat useful, so I explained our spotlighting technique, “… you want to methodically comb each tree up and down and look for…”

Jim banged on the side of the truck, “Hold up! Stop the truck! I see eyes!”

Tom stopped the truck. Jim took a closer look at the twin reflections up in the tree with his (own!) binoculars, “Ooh, it’s an animal alright… What could it be…?”

I knew it was a civet. It was always a civet. After two months, they were about as exotic as pigeons. But I couldn’t tell the travelers right away – part of the fun was building the suspense. Jim picked this up as well, “Hmmm… it looks like… Yes, I do believe it’s a… it’s a civet! Who wants to take a closer look?” he passed around his binoculars and explained what a civet was.

I had to admit, he was pretty good at feigning excitement and working the crowd. Then again, maybe it wasn’t feigning. He was new. Civets were still exotic to him. He hadn’t seen 16,732 civets in the last two months, night after night, doing absolutely nothing but lying in the branches licking themselves, the lazy fucks. Jim was genuinely excited. And I wasn’t.

The night crept on. And on. And on. We must have driven up and down the road half a dozen times. We saw more civets, of course, spotted a few monkeys (Northern Pigtailed Macaques, thank you Jim), both kinds of deer (one has a white patch on the chest, I forgot which), and then, more civets. It was getting late, but Tom wanted the travelers to get their money’s worth. He kept driving, hoping for something big, like elephants. I personally had run into enough elephants. I was starting to feel bad for them. We were always interrupting their dinners, shining our spotlights in their faces, when they only wanted to eat in peace. It was no wonder they got pissed and chased us off – we were the telemarketers of the jungle.

And, to be honest, I just didn’t feel like that kind of excitement right now: the stopping and ogling, the oohing and aahing, the bluff runs and screaming, the close calls and narrow escapes. I was exhausted. Jim was more than happy to keep going, though. He greeted every pair of eyes with the same enthusiasm he had when he started the trek, the same enthusiasm I had only two months before.

It had to have been two in the morning. We weren’t going to see any elephants. Or tigers. Or Guar. Or Dholes. I sprawled out on the floor of the truckbed to try to get a little sleep. Just as I was nodding off, there was another bang on the truck. Jim, again with his binoculars, “Hmmm… What could it be…?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jim! Just call it a civet and let’s go home!”

Jim lowered the binoculars and glared at me. The travelers just looked confused. I stood up and banged on the side of the truck, “Tom! Let’s go home.”

Everyone took a spot on the small benches. I sat on the end, my legs dangling out the back. Nobody said anything, just stared absently at the passing jungle. When we got back to the compound, the travelers all went to their rooms as Jim and I unloaded the truck in silence. Right before he went to bed, Jim said, “‘Call it a civet and let’s go home?’ Real professional,” then walked off.

Maybe it was time to call it a day.

To be continued…