4400 reasons to go out/ Pt.2

4400 reasons to go out/ Pt.2

I was talking Cricket World Cup with a tall blonde Englishman in his shirtsleeves, Robert. Over bites of shrimp we traded adjectives about the upsets in the Pakistan and Indian teams, the triumph of the Irish, betting scandals, the murder of the Pakistan team coach and the probability that Australia would take it all. I had yet to make it over to the gathering buzzing around the artist here at Natsu’s gallery. We’d been talking about soccer first with a really adorable buzz-cut little round Frenchman, no taller than me who was saying bitterly he would never forgive Zidane for his behavior at the World Cup last summer.

“Never!”

We had chatted more about the poor level of play at last years matches – I had been in Frankfurt for several Games and had scored tickets to the Final in Berlin through my Ex — before the Frenchman went in search of beer and talk changed to Cricket.

I was really enjoying talking with Robert. I liked discussing sport with men, it always made them relax. They are delicate creatures and frighten easily – though it’s supposed to be the other way around, isn’t it. Talking about sport with a woman was lovely for them as it combined two obvious interests.

Formerly I did not have the respect for Cricketers I do now. I was dating a rough and tumble British fellow from the Midlands who reminded me of Sean Bean in his gangster roles. Despite the tough demeanor and swagger he was actually very kind and a tireless lover. During pillow talk he told me all about his cricket days showing me the stitches in his scalp where he been bowled over literally by the ball. That was when I began to follow international cricket. Being Irish American of course I root for the fledgling Irish Cricket team.

I should probably move on though. Is it just me or do other people find it difficult at social events to figure out how long to talk to someone you’ve just met?

Of course I had another problem. Groups of people at parties terrified me. Not all the time, but sometimes. None of my friends could believe I had a low key social anxiety disorder — not somebody who liked casual sex as much as I did.

It was true, though, the anxiety disorder not the sex, though that was true too….

I remember years ago hiding in the bathroom at the American Club or the Okura Hotel or the Imperial trying to get the courage to walk into yet another luncheon sponsored by the American Chamber of Commerce. I was okay once it was time to sit down at the table, slip into introductions and shop talk. I have a lot of confidence in my work and when there’s an entrée, like mass introductions or a press conference, I am fine. It’s just inserting my small self into large unknown groups of people in that limbo time where everyone is standing around.

Sometimes when I just couldn’t bear it I would pretend I had a call on my cell phone and have imaginary conversations until they started to drift to the tables. God I hated myself when I did that.

I was doing pretty well tonight, probably because I knew I could go hang out with Miriam and meet people she was talking with.
Speaking of Miriam. I excused myself reluctantly from the Englishman and walked over to hear her telling an extraordinarily filthy joke about an ant and an elephant.

She must have had more champagne. Once that woman had alcohol in her you never knew what was going to come out of her mouth.
Thomas said they went everywhere at least twice, ‘once to visit, the second time to apologize’.

The artist was from Iceland originally, though now living in Copenhagen.

After the joke she asked, “So tell me, do people live in houses in Iceland?”

Oh god, I thought, here she goes. Her understanding was not great, as I have said. Miriam’s solution to this lack of knowledge was to ask people she met questions about themselves and where they came from. For a child these would be very understandable questions. In an adult who did not – at least obviously — look like a graduate of Special Education, they were, ‘odd’. And since she inevitably forgot half of what any one told her within about 15 minutes – less depending on her blood alcohol level –the conversation could become difficult.

With a slightly frozen smile the artist said, “You mean as opposed to living in caves?”

“You don’t really have cave houses do you? “

Everyone laughed, somewhat nervously.

Miriam laughed too, “No I mean what sort of houses do you live in?”

“Houses with roofs,” said the artist. “Roofs, walls, eletricity, all that.”

I couldn’t bear it and stepped over to admire one of the pieces, all the colors of the sky and ocean flowing in a huge circular, cavernous, bubbly whirlpool. It was so beautiful I wanted to bend time and space and just mix my molecules with the colors. There was nothing brown in it that could be interpreted to be a whale so I was okay.

Natsu stepped over and I said all the appropriate things about the exhibition and the gallery.

He glanced at Miriam with a look that I can only say was ‘enraptured’.

“Your friend is very charming.”

I gave a nervous glance back hoping the artist wouldn’t pick up the sculpture and brain her with it. Some people loved her artlessness others did not. “Isn’t she though?” I said smiling hugely. “You know, Natsu-san, there are so many people here tonight, it’s wonderful for you but perhaps Miriam could come back and look more closely at the pieces on another day? To really appreciate them.”

Oh yea, I was pimpin’ for Miriam. Pimp Daddy Sacha.

“That sounds like a good idea. Besides I believe each time you view these pieces they have some new color or angle to delight you.”

His English really was phenomenal – International School-good or perhaps he grew up overseas. I would ask when he was not so preoccupied playing host.

“I agree, I just want to swim inside the huge blue spiral there,” I pointed to the piece I had been contemplating.

“I feel the same way,” he laughed making a diving motion. “Jump into it!”

A woman approached and said something softly to him in Japanese.

“Will you excuse me?”

“Oh Natsu-san,” I put my hand on his arm. “Maybe I could have Miriam call you and see when it would be convenient to come by?”

Nodding he said, “That would be very nice.”

Score for Pimp Daddy Sacha.

I’m not exactly sure what I expected to happen, maybe I just wanted a little excitement for Miriam before she returned to America, something just for her. Something that was not battery powered.

She had dragged me off to look at sex toys last week and that was without a drop of alcohol in her system. She rang my doorbell at 10 in the morning and asked, “Sacha, do you know where any sex shops are?”

I think I used a very Japanese expression “Ha?” Which translates to ‘Say what??!!’

“Sex shops,” she said again standing there all cute and plump, her auburn highlights shining in the morning sun. “I don’t know where any are.”

“I’m not surprised. One, that you don’t know where any are and two, because they aren’t exactly on every street corner. Anything particular you’re searching for Miriam?”

“A dildoe.”

There she is standing in my front doorway asking me if I know where to buy a dildoe.

I took her arm, pulled her inside and shut the door. “Funny you should ask. I think the best place to go is Don Quijote’s in Roppongi.”

She was not familiar with the retail mayhem that is the 24 hour shopping chain Don Quijote – the company spells it that way to avoid any copyright infringement. Donki (as everyone calls it) http://www.donki.com/index.php has the selection of a superstore compressed into tiny aisles crammed nearly ceiling high on several floors with everything priced way below other places. I went there to buy cute underwear – they have a large stock of tie-on thongs, a personal favorite — priced at only 780 yen (try 2000 yen at lingerie shops) plus pretty stockings for garter belts, etc. again at half price. I also knew they had a large erotic play section — a given since Roppongi was home to many hostess bars, strip clubs and East European prostitute rings run by very large Nigerian men.

“I need to go to Shibuya, though,” she said. “I have to pick up some gifts for Liz’s friends to thank them for the going away parties. At Body Shop, I thought.”

Body shop was practically across the street from Donki.
The problem with the sex toy section at Shibuya was that it stood on the second floor, in the main aisle in front of god and everybody.

Miriam didn’t mind. She had that Gaijin ex-pat mind set that Japan was just sort of BGM (background music) to her life, what others saw her doing did not really matter because they were not really there.

She was totally in to it from the moment we arrived, taking the dildoes down – the samples in their see thru plastic packages — and asking me questions about them.“Ooo, look at this,” she pointed to an odd protuberance midway up one neon purple sample.

I said it looked like the ovipositer from ‘Alien’.

She turned the box over in her hand, “Can’t you switch them on.”

“No,” I sighed. Thank god.

She just kept taking them down and looking at them and commenting on each. The rest of the customers and staff were enjoying this endlessly. Two foreign women chatting in the sex toy section. Made their day, we did. One guy kept cruising back and forth in my peripheral vision, just sort of randomly piling things into his shopping basket so he wouldn’t have to leave. The actual dildoes were in small boxes and wrapped in non-descript paper so customers could take them down to the cash register without total character disintegration.

“Sacha, what are those?”She pointed to the portable vaginas.

The man looking at jigsaw puzzles – he was very absorbed in them — directly behind us, made a small choking sound.

I said, “Those are for men. They simulate the real thing.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, very common. They can be quite expensive. High end models, pardon the pun, are actual casts of porn stars’vaginas.”

“No, really? Oh my goodness.”

In the end she declared most of the dildoes were too small or too oddly shaped – I couldn’t argue with her there. Perhaps it was in deference to Japanese men’s size, or lack thereof. And so we left for the Body Shop, much to the disappointment of everyone on the second floor.

Natsu the gallery owner was not battery powered plus he was very charming. Whether he was big enough I could not say but at least he was biological and interested.

4400 reasons to go out

4400 reasons to go out

I was stretched out on the bed, my computer balanced between my open knees because I couldn’t be bothered to rest it on a pillow though the bed is littered with them. I had season 2 of the 4400 on the DVD player as background while I worked on a story about yet another lineup of cell phones – virtually indistinguishable from the previous lineup. I didn’t really like the 4400, I just wanted something in English in a format that would not drive me screaming to bounce off the walls while I pulled this stupid article on phones together. Something that wasn’t Jag or MacGyver or Nip and Tuck or any of the other mind numbingly boring series they broadcast in English on cable here.

Speaking of mind numbingly boring, I’d had lunch with a famous foreign photographer the other day who said his favorite TV series was ‘Jag’ I nearly choked on my Brazilian barbeque. That and Walker Texas Ranger are one of a small group of horrific shows that seems to show up on my TV no matter what country I am in. It’s like an electronic haunting. Jag? How could this photographer have fabulous aesthetics but no taste?

Anyway.

In the name of God, the thesaurus, and the holy ghost, I had used every adjective in the English language that could be applied to cell phones over the past year and half as a telecom coorespondent. There was just nothing left to say.

The Guinness jingle sang out on my cell phone.

“Hello Gorgeous!”

Miriam.

“Hey Miriam, how are you?”

“Fine, fine. I was wondering are we still going to that gallery opening tonight?”

“Yes of course, what time is it?” I checked my watch. “Getting dressed pretty soon shall I ring your doorbell at 7?”

“That would be great. Isabelle is at one of her little friends, Katy is having a sleepover here and Liz is going out for another going away party.”

Liz is going out to get wasted in Roppongi, is what I thought. A few months ago I would have said ‘to get wasted and have random sex with sailors’. After several long months of family therapy regarding her behavior Liz had decided she was a lesbian and now she was only interested in touching girls. This was, I pointed out to Miriam when she told me about various overheard conversations between Liz and other girls in her class, an improvement.

“At least you don’ｔ have to worry about her getting pregnant,” I had said.

“Great, you’re all set. See you soon.”

Screw the cell phone lineup.Time to decide what to wear.

Luckily for us Thomas was on a business trip in Dubai from today off to negotiate gazillion dollar contracts for his company and $500 hookers for himself. So we did not have to come up with an excuse for why we did not want him to come.

With no Red Hot Chili Peppers concert to entertain us Miriam, Thomas and I had ended up at the Bamboo Bar in Xen the other evening on the 5th floor of the West Walk at Roppongi Hills.http://r.gnavi.co.jp/fl/en/a384153/ For me that meant an externally cheerful but internally awkward few hours. He kept looking at me. You know, look, looking! At least the food was good, though small compensation for the lack of concert going.

I had not brought James from Pasadena. I like James. He had potential. We’d walked over to the Starbuck’s at Palette Town adjacent to the Nomadic Museum after spending a couple of hours at the Ashes and Snow exhibit. I thought he might even be one of those very, very few guys who made me lean against the subway walls every once in a while and sigh. My current man, the big one, had me doing that. The problem with him was he spent most of the month tearing around the world for his investment bank employer. I was lucky to see him once every few weeks. A girl needs attention. With him I was mostly sighing against the subway walls out of frustrated sexual tension.

Tonight though was the opening of the new exhibit of glassworks at Natsu’s gallery in Harajuku by some European artist – who cared what his/her/its name was. That was not why we were going. We had met Natsu at Noriko’s Boutique opening and I could see how much he enjoyed talking to Miriam.

The days were counting down to her banishment back to the US in April – I did not want to think about that – and I was hoping some attention from Natsu might give her self esteem a small boost.

If you threw a duck into the air on Venus — forget the physics of it just imagine — okay, if you threw a duck into the air on Venus and watched the crushing gravity of that planet smash the bird down into the Venusian rock you would have some idea of the relative level of Miriam’s opinion of herself. She seemed to think Thomas’ man whoring ways were some how her fault. It drove me, hell it drove all of us, fucking crazy.

An hour and a half later we were each armed with a glass of champagne and a big smile. I had on a matte black jersey dress with short fluttery sleeves and ruffly hem. I paired it with my mock-crock stilettos, a couple of gold chains and two strands of pearls. Miriam liked very feminine colors and flowery prints in light airy materials. She looked very nice. Cuddly pretty, her eyes sparkling bright.

Everything was sparkling and bright inside the gallery, the lighting bouncing off the glass sculptures and cascading from the walls onto people’s faces. The center of the gallery was dominated by a bristling starbust sculpture the color of orange coral that towered up at least ten feet.

Natsu had seen us come in. He walked over and held out his hand to Miriam and then me to shake saying in his very excellent English, “Hello again. I am glad you could come!”

“This is fantastic,” I breathed.

Miriam nodded, “Lovely.”

Natsu bowed us towards a group of people gathered in one corer of the room, “Come meet the artist.”

I noticed the gallery owner was wearing a different scarf but still one of Noriko’s signature designs.

Sipping my champagne I followed slowly behind scanning the room for interesting faces.

Ashes and Snow

Ashes and Snow/dating pool/swimming with whales/

Ashes and Snow.

No, not an analogy for my love life.

You know.

Dead and cold.

Though god knows there have been weeks.

No. Ashes and Snow http://www.ashesandsnow.org/ is the title of the amazing Gregory Colbert photo and video installation touring with the Nomadic Museum now in Odaiba by Tokyo Bay and running until June 24th.

I was getting to know this exhibit very, very well. Not that it wasn’t worth several viewings. I had gone by myself one afternoon soon after it opened when I needed some time away from the computer and various deadlines just to think. For an imaginative person like me the exhibit hit all the right buttons and I spent several hours spinning stories in my head looking at Colbert’s mystical pictures of people and animals.

James from Pasadena was hightailing it out here by cab from the Shiroganedai offices of Sony Music to visit the exhibit with me. Again for me, first time for him. We were having a date. He’d called me earlier that morning.

Driving back from the Garden Center I was stuck in a patch of slow traffic. Family mart and 7/11s stretched down the highway an endless procession of convenience. I had been to the Garden place on the way to Kawasaki, there on Dai Ichi Keihin past the drive-thru McDonald’s. Out in this part of town the shrubs and trees had faded to the color of concrete and bleached asphalt, what greenery was left looked as though it was being absorbed into the Gray Collective its biological identity leaching out like a Borg conscript in Star Trek. My cell launched into the theme from my favorite Guinness commercial I had converted into my ringtone. Guinness was my special friend.

“Hello?” I said warily since the number was not on my list and it is against the law to talk on your cell phone in Japan while driving. I glanced quickly in the rear view mirror. No motorcycle cops in sight.

“Hello?” said a man’s voice I didn’t recognize right off hand.

“Hello,” I said again.,
“
Sacha?”

“Yes.”

“Hi Sacha this is James.”

“James?”

Wasn’t this just a sparkling exchange.?

“We met briefly at Fujimama’s a short time back, you gave me your card.”.

“Oh, James from Pasadena, right?”

“That’s right.”

I had liked him so switched on the charm.

“You’re still here? How are you? Any more thoughts on my theories on the sexlessness of Japanese men?”

He laughed, I liked his laugh, it was deep and throaty. “No nothing earth shattering. Actually I went home to LA for about ten days. I’m back now, obviously, and look to be here probably for a month and maybe more. I was wondering if maybe, um, maybe you could suggest someplace interesting to go? Me being a visitor here and all. I have the afternoon free today.” He of trailed off in what I had to admit was a rather charming manner.

Running at super speed through my head my little travelogue of ‘things to do in town’: temples/Harajuku/Shinjuku/3-chome/clubs/Museums/Asakusa/Onsen bathes/river cruises/Tokyo Tower. The travelogue screeched to a stop. “Do you want tourist places or pop culture or what?”

“It doesn’t have to be tourist stuff. Something, I don’t know, maybe quiet?”

“There’s a great exhibit over on the other side of Rainbow Bridge, It’s from the States but pretty cool. The venue itself is by Japanese architect Shigeru Ban . http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shigeru_Ban Do you know him?

“Nuh uh..”

“He does amazing things with paper – not like origami and stuff – big things, pillars, houses. Very cool durable, strong objects you would not think could be constructed from paper. He did those paper houses for the Tsunami victims.”

“Sounds good.”

“Actually it was in LA a while back but maybe you didn’t catch it. The building is amazing you won’t believe how visually exciting metal containers, black sheeting, grey stone and paper pillars can be. The place is like a cathedral.”

Sitting at my computer I brought up the website, “Give me your email and I’ll send you a map of how to get there.”

There was the slightest pause. “I was thinking, um, you know, that maybe we could go together.? I know it’s short notice and all but are you free this afternoon?”

He wanted to go someplace together, someplace that apparently did not involve immediate access to food, drink or sex – which was sort of my regular pattern of dating. Personally I felt the only reason to go out with men was if there was sex involved at some point, you have your gal pals for everything else that matters.

Well, it could be fun. I had not been on this kind of date in awhile. What the hell.

“I have to be somewhere at 7 p.m., but I’m free until then,” I lied.

Actually the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert I was supposed to be attending tonight with Miriam and her man whore husband Thomas had been cancelled at the last moment. One of the peppers got sick. Bastards. And we had such good seats at the Tokyo Dome arena. We were talking about going out for dinner, maybe to Bamboo Bar at Roppongi Hills instead.. I was still feeling uncomfortable about being out with Thomas, over and above his man-whoredom and decision to remove my best friend Miriam to several thousand miles distance – there was the whole sex fantasy thing Miriam had told me after too many G&Ts. When we were at What the Dickens. Plus Miriam and I really just wanted to go out together so we could talk about him behind his back.

My lie to James gave me an out in case I decided he was no fun at all. If he was a great guy I might bring him along but that was doubtful. I preferred to keep my men and my friends on very separate planes of existence.

“Great, where should we meet?”

“Could we meet there? Would you mind taking a cab or the train?”

“No, I can take a cab. No problem.”

“Okay, tell him to take you to Odaiba Kaihin Kan station on the Yurikamome line, I’ll spell it for you better write it down.”

I did and he did.

“You’ve got my cell number; call me when you get across the bridge. I’ll drive over and park.”

“Great see you soon. I’m leaving now. That’s okay isn’t it?”

“Jeez give me like an hour. I need to drop off some plants at my house, I was at the garden center. Okay?” I also needed time to change into something a little more feminine. I was in my Skinny jeans, v-neck navy merino wool sweater, layers of silver necklaces, big bangle earings, and white Lacoste down parka with the racoon fur trim. When I meet guys I like to wear a dress or skirt.

“Oh, okay, no problem.”

Driving like a mad woman home then on to Odaiba I managed to keep him waiting only a few minutes. We walked through the unimposing little doorway into the Nomadic Museum. I let him pay for the tickets since it was his invitation. I am no Feminazi and perfectly happy to let guys pay. They make more money than I do anyway.

Though it’s mid- March the day felt very wintry, cloudy with a chilly wind snapping at my calves. I was wearing a soft, fuzzy black turtleneck sweater dress that I know showed off my butt and narrow waist plus boots – the cavernous museum is unheated and freezing cold. Inside the boots I slipped my secret weapon, the little oxygen activated heating pads made to slip in shoes– which along with my Cashmere coat and gloves I trusted to keep some of my body heat inside. My lack of body fat looked great in clothes but left me prone to hypothermia if I wasn’t careful. Really.

“Tell me you’re impressed.” I nudged him in the arm as we paused at the start of the wooden walkway winding throughout the exhibition between the islands of grey stones and huge photo canvases of rice paper.

“Jesus Christ.”He gazed at the long nave, photos on either side with the altar way at the end broadcasting one of the two nine-minute films that were part of the installation.

“Jesus Christ,” he said again.

“Bet you never thought plastic sheeting and metal containers could be so awe inspiring.”

“Never in a million years.”

We slowly walked along pausing at every picture, going back to several. My favorite was the one of three elephants in the water and a woman in a sari, standing in front of them, the water up to her breasts gazes into the distance.

He had spent time in India and Sri Lanka – two countries I had yet to visit.

“The main film is 60 minutes long, I forgot to warn you,” I whispered as we turned the corner into the next hall.
His eyes got wide, “That’s like practically feature length.”

“It’s worth it though; I’ve seen it through so if you get bored just say so.”

If you come in at the beginning Colbert is swimming very artistically with a woman and manatees – I think, it could be a Dugong, I am no expert on the differences – and later in the film with whales. When the whale scene emerged I physically cringed, shrinking down into my coat.

“What’s up,” James whispered, his mouth close to my ear.

“For years,” I whispered back. “I had recurring nightmares I was swimming in a clear blue ocean, shallowish with dark rocks and overhead humｐback whales were passing over.

“Always humpback?” He asked.

“I think so, sometimes blue whales if it was really bad. Their giant bodies pressing me back into the rocks. I was so scared, not of drowning, because I could breathe underwater, but being crushed. Looking up I could see the sun shining through the clear water and I wanted so much to swim up to the surface.”

He edged a little closer, the seats were round flat wooden barrel shaped things of differing heights. Slipping his hand in mine he said, “Close your eyes I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

And I did.

Performance Anxiety/Little Men/ Big Guys

Performance Anxiety/Little Men/ Big Guys

My ex had so thoroughly broken my heart that I knew I would never fall in love again. Fall in ‘like’, fall in ‘lust’ but love. No. My French Pal Margot seemed to think this situation would eventually change. Margot believed my heart was made up of that liquid metal like in Terminator 2 – it would eventually just congeal back into solid form and take off running.

My heart however remained resolutely locked in the parameters of current physics the jagged little pieces scattered around my body.

It didn’t stop me from dating.

I have, though, decided to avoid Western men married to Japanese women.

I am sorry but they are out of my dating equation entirely from this moment forward.

Finito. I’d say kiss my little white ass but they are too afraid.

It’s like trying to get a virgin into bed.

Sitting at the bar or restaurant having a drink with one of these fellas, chatting away – I am great at chatting – and you can see the realization of what they are attempting to do creep into their consciousness.

He is imagining me naked.

Then he’s imaging himself naked.

Now he is imagining the two of us naked。

Together.

The panic shines out of his eyes like a beacon, the words projected on the opposite wall – Performance Anxiety. ‘Having sex on with an experienced Western woman who knows how to put the motion in that ocean’ performance anxiety. ‘

He has not been with someone like me since freshman year in college or maybe never. The parting – always the same – at the station a quick handshake. I know without a doubt I am never seeing that fool again.

My opinion of so many American and European men who marry Japanese has always been a bit problematic though I have no problem with Western women hooking up with Japanese men. I feel sorry for them since I fell into that trap myself, that’s all.

But we were talking about men. I tend to believe it’s because these guys just could not handle, well, someone like me. High maintenance conversationally and sexually; demanding strong opinions, political stands and orgasms from my men and NOT necessarily in that order sweetheart. So they run to the ESL charms of a local marriage.

This little Northerner finally persuaded me to just give up on that combination. We had met online. He said he was pining for sex and intimacy and darling that’s exactly what I am happy to bring to the table. The look came into his eyes about 45 minutes into our Belgian beers and pommes frites – yes we were at Les Hydropathes, why do I end up there? I hate Belgian beer. The Performance Anxiety practically blinded me as it shot out of his eyes like laser beams, bouncing off the glasses and bottles lined up behind the bar. Brusque handshake at the station and that was the last I saw of the little Northerner.

Let me contrast to lovers past and present who are married or were married to Western women. No handshake for them brusque or otherwise. In Tokyo — with the Ex-Pat crowd — it’s a kiss on the lips at the end of the first date which if you reciprocate signifies the deal is done, thank you. We shall be seeing much more of one another in the very near future. Better yet, half way through that first drink he says, “Want to go somewhere else?” and I say, “Oh yea Baby.” And it’s off to shagging heaven at the nearest love hotel.

Well, the Northerner had only been a just-in-case back-up, a snack between main courses. And my current man was definitely a main course type of guy.

There is nothing a petite woman loves more than a large lover. Absolutely pulse poundingly primal that pairing. I was lying along the curve of his body, my back and bottom pressed into his chest and stomach, his warm breath on my neck. We were taking a break between lovemaking chatting quietly about movies or this and that. My iPod lay on the pillow by his head, sound turned up to maximum so we could hear it pretty well through the earphones. Fall Out Boy’s ‘Sugar We’re Going Down’ was playing for the second time.

Guys are very visual in their turn-ons for me though, it’s music all the way. I had a Playlist just for making love to: lucky Playlist number 7.

I had exchanged playtime playlists a week or so ago with a man I currently had in a holding pattern/ I had thought we would be hooked up long before this but he had a pesky product launch of mammoth proportions and budget that kept interfering with our getting together. It annoyed me as I really was wondering what kind of ride he would prove to be, his emails were always so intriguing and we had met twice for dinner.

“Interesting choice of titles,” he had written to me. Looking closer at my song list. I laughingly had to agree, it hadn’t struck me before. Fucking Freudian !

Playlist 7:
Do You Want To – Franz Ferdinand
In a Cubicle – Rinoserose (minus all the fecking accents they have on their name…)
I Like the Way – Body Rockers
Jerk it Out – Caesars Palace
Lying Is The Most Fun a Girl Can Have…– Panic at the Disco
Sex and Money – Paul Okenfold
SexyBack – Justin Timberlake
Voodoo Child – Rogue Traders
London Bridge – Fergie
Rudebox – Robbie Williams
Pump it – Black Eyed Peas
Promiscuous Girl – Nelly Furtado
La Tortura – Shakira
Steam Machine — Daftpunk
California – Phantom Planet
Far Away – Nickleback
What Goes Around Comes Around – Justin Timberlake
Sugar We’re Going Down – Fall Out Boy
Over My Head – The Fray
On the Way Down – Ryan Cabrera
Me & You – Cassie
Make This Go On Forever — Snow Patrol
Sex and Money — Paul Okenfold
Well, you get the idea.

Depsite his physicality he was into classical music and was giving me a hard time about Fergie’s song ‘London Bridge’.
“WHat does that mean ‘Everytime you come around my London Bridge wants to come down’? What’s she trying to say.”

“It’s about sex darling. Just sex,” and I flipped around pressing my breasts into his chest and my mouth to his lips.

Japanese have this candy called ‘Melty Kiss’ and every time this guy’s lips pressed down on mine that’s exactly how I felt, I melted. He was delicious and wandered into my thoughts way too often. He was so big even in my boots I had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him. He laughed that I always wore my boots into the room at the love hotel. Japanese take their shoes off at all times when entering a room with clearly defined boundaries like a love hotel’s (or most homes between entryway and inner sanctum).

I said there’s nothing like a woman in garter belt, stockings, boots and very little else.

He always wanted to get me out of them.

One time, it was only the second time we had made love; he sat on the bed, slowly unzipped them and slipped each boot expertly off my feet.

It was such a sexy, sexy moment, the kind I’d really never had with my husband.

He stood then and pulled me to him, I could barely reach his mouth leaning my head back until I was unbalanced. He grabbed me tighter to keep me from falling. Holding me with both hands around the back he half carried me onto the bed laying me down. His strength was a revelation.

When I was with him Margot’s liquid metal did not seem so far fetched. This guy had come as close as anyone in the last five years to softening the edges of my heart in a fashion measurable at least through a subatomic microscope.

Ascending libidos/Declining birthrates/ Part 2

Ascending libidos/Declining birthrates/ Part 2

“So tell us,” Lisa said quietly leaning close, the gold beads and tortoise shell chain links of her necklace nearly falling into her appetizers. “Tell us Sacha why Japanese men are so sexless.”

All eyes turned to look into my baby blues. Since I had been married to a Japanese I was totally by default considered the resident expert on this country’s national identity including any and all perversions, aberrant behavior (at least from a Western viewpoint), dating and married life.

Sighing I said, “Actually it is true. Japanese are probably the most
sexless people on god’s industrialized earth.”

“No!” Said Lisa “I don’t believe it. Everyone likes sex.”

A man at the next table nodded vigorously.

“You’d think,” I said sipping my wine. “Yet surveys have shown again and again that Japanese have the lowest rate of sexual intercourse in any of the industrialized countries.”

“Yes, yes, yes, so true Sacha you are telling the truth,” Margot banged her fist on the table. “I read that study as well. Appalling. What was I thinking?”

Eleanor, an American I did not know very well she was friends with Margot, pushed her plate away, a frown between her professionally waxed brows, “But pornography is huge here, I mean they read those pornographic manga comic books right on the train.”

“That’s the only thing that’s huge with Japanese men,” I said half to myself. Behind me I heard a snort of laughter. Turning I saw a foreign man, longish hair, stylish trim mustache and goatee, dark brown with a bit of gray dressed California music-business surfer but with money casual. I smiled a sideways smile that showed off my dimples before turning back to the table. The girls had heard what I said and all were laughing except Miriam who had to have it explained to her.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Really?”

I nodded, “Unfortunately, despite the wishful-thinking-enormity of male penises as depicted in Japanese wood block prints, yes it is true.” I held up my hands forestalling comments, “Yet that is not the reason for asexuality in Japanese men. I have a theory.”

“Noodles?” Said a voice at my left.

The waiter, burdened with two plates of handmade Chinese noodles and Stir Fried Wild Mushrooms with Truffle Oil leaned over my shoulder looking for a place to set the platters.

“Bring more wine,” Margot said, handing the bottle over after we had cleared room for the dishes.

“Two bottles,” added Steffi.

It took a few moments to sort our plates out with Fujimama’s http://www.fujimamas.com/tokyo.html oh-so-savory confection before I could continue, mouth full. “Okay, to paraphrase an old Monty Python routine, I have a theory and it is mine.. My theory,”

“Is that dinosaurs are thin at one end, thick at the middle and…” said a voice.

Looking behind me I saw the same man with the goatee,

“Ah ha! A Monty Python fan,” I said treating him to the full wattage of my smile. “But you are naughty for listening in so I will ignore you now,” I laughed to show him ignoring him was not what I intended at all.

“Okay, my theory. Soy beans as you may or may not know are full of estrogen. Soybeans figure in all of Japanese cooking from Soy Sauce to tofu. I believe that the build up of estrogen in Japanese males eventually leads to the suppression of testosterone, thereby lowering the male sex drive and making Japanese men more effeminate.”

Margot, the chemist, looked at me from across the table with a stunned expression, “Oh my god Sacha, that makes very much sense.”

“So much sense,” corrected Miriam helpfully.

“So very much fucking sense,” amended Margot reaching for her wine glass. Margot was coming out of a long relationship with a Japanese lover who, I gather, had not been loving with a frequency to her satisfaction.

Lisa looked from me to Margot, “Estrogen in men is a bad thing.”

“Very bad,” I agreed remembering my ex whose sex drive had rolled over and died a slow death some years before our inevitable divorce. 。

Over shared bites of Hot Chocolate Waffle with White Chocolate Ice Cream, Warm Almond Cake and Raspberry Compote, and gorgeous Passion Fruit Pompadour with a Coconut Cookie along with a double espresso for me and cappuccinos for the rest of the ladies I explained some of the reasons behind Japan’s rapidly declining birthrate putting forth my other theories from the estrogen soy bean equation, young professionals raising dogs instead of babies plus a healthy dose of ambivalence from so many young women regarding the non-participation of Japanese men in the child rearing process.

Well, said Miriam scraping up the last bit of waffle and cream “Things are not looking good for the Japanese.”

The other women nodded solemnly.

We paid up and headed out sharing the steep stairs with the people from the table behind us including the Monty Python quip man.

“I heard your theory,” he said as we paused near the downstairs counter, his group putting on their coats, mine all heading for the bathroom.

“Yes, I rather thought you were listening.”

He took a brown wool coat handed to him by one of the other men, “Thanks, Bill.” Putting it on he said, “Have you conducted any experiments?”

“You mean like force feeding soy products to several lovers and watching their cocks shrivel and die for lack of use.”

His eyes got large but with amusement, not shock.

“No, “ I admitted with mock seriousness. “I have not. I am afraid I am not willing to take Japanese lovers just to prove a point. Yet I feel it is a very valid theory.”

“Seems scientifically sound to me.”

“This is your professional opinion?”

“It is.”

I held out my hand, “I’m Sacha.” I gave him my killer smile knowing I looked great tonight, wearing my little Pucci-inspired skirt in a sky blue-white-brown print. It sat on my hips and to be frank didn’t extend very much below that finishing up with a flirty ruffle. I’d paired the skirt with those Nine West ankle strap sandals http://www.ninewest.com/n/browse/product.s?productId=2848291&source=category&index=7&prodIndex=55&listSize=68
(the Palmyra ones) and a V-neck cashmere sweater in the same chocolate brown as the skirt. My chunky gold Juicy Couture necklace, Cartier watch and Cartier gold bracelet added up to make me finger lickn’ grown up girl good.

“James.”

“You look like you’re from California, are you from California? I’m from California,” I had to get contact established quickly as I knew the bathroom break would come quickly to an end and the girls would demand my presence as we exited en masse to head for the station.

He nodded, “Pasadena.”

“Really? I love Old Town Pasadena though I’m from San Francisco.”

“San Francisco. Excellent.”

“Isn’t it though. Well, James from Pasadena it looks like my gal pals are ready to go.”

He cocked his head to one side, wanting I felt to say more but waiting for me.

Not being shy I took the initiative, “Are you visiting or living? Here, I mean.”

“Visiting but in an extended way.”

Reaching into my pocket I pulled out a business card, “If you want to talk more about scientific theory, give me a call.”

“Sacha, come on!” Steffi shouted at me. I saluted, “Coming Commandant. Bye Pasadena,” I waved.

To be continued.

Nine West online: http://www.ninewest.com

Nine West Boutique In Harajuku, Tokyo: On Omote Sando, open daily 11-8. Tel; 03-6418-8870.

Ascending libidos/Declining birthrates

Ascending libidos/Declining birthrates

Disclaimer: Though all the stores, galleries, restaurants and etc. introduced here by yours truly are real, any similarity to any persons living, dead or very naughty encountered in my escapades is unintentional. All names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

After the second glass of house wine and between crispy fried Calamari with Sambal and a Grilled Chicken Thai herbs and silk noodle soup, Margot announced apropos of nothing, “Japanese men are sexless. That is more than my opinion. It is true a fact,” She drained her glass to emphasis her disgust.

“Sexless!” Boomed Steffi who found it difficult to speak at all but full volume. “What do you mean Japanese men are sexless. Don’t they like sex?”

I gauged that we had succeeded in capturing the attention of most people there at the upstairs dining room of Fujimama’s http://www.fujimamas.com/tokyo.html . You’ve been there, of course, everybody goes there. Just off Harajuku’s Omote Sando boulevard a few steps from the corner of Meji Dori in a converted tatami warehouse. We had debated asking for one of the little tatami mat dining rooms – there were six of us — but I was wearing my new Nine West ankle straps sandals with the gold chains and didn’t want to have to lean over to take them off – not in this skirt. People looked our way and I advised Steffi that she might want to lower her voice a little. Being large and German this was almost impossible for her to do.

We had all been to a boutique opening for designer Noriko Matsushita – several friends were loyal patrons of her work. Noriko had finally raised enough money to open her own shop. Tiny as it was the premises were still in Harajuku. A real coup. The place, Marugumi no D-Shop lay along the side street flanking Ralph Lauren’s flagship store right behind the Police Box. Admittedly it was about 100 meters from Omote Sando and sitting slightly to the side on the first cross street to the left but the address was a good one.

Everyone bowed and hugged and cried out congratulations. The little place was packed with Japanese and towering foreign women –Noriko’s designs were stunning on large women – which was why all my Scandinavian and German friends shopped here and I only made polite noises. My small frame just could not carry off the bold patterns.

Lisa was helping to kick off the happy day by purchasing one of the designer’s signature knee-length coats of baby bottom soft black wool, reversible to her original hand dyed Japanese designs. They were fucking gorgeous. Really, I say that in complete admiration. Her work took traditional Japanese motifs from wood carving, folk toys and wood block prints then re-interpreted them in bold colors – each color mixed by hand in Kyoto. She could even provide custom colors in whatever fabric her patrons desired. .Unable to wear the clothes – pants, dresses, short coats, jackets, all in her signature style — I did like to toy with the idea of purchasing one of the tote bags or even better the slouchy shoulder slung versions both styles covered in the same gorgeous patterns.

So far I had resisted the urge to splurge, I am not a tote bag kind of a gal. Bourgeoisie and proud of it I’d rather spend the same amount of money on something from Coach. So despite accompanying my friends to Noriko’s shows and showings, I had so far failed to actually purchase anything. This did not seem to bother the staff who treated me like an old friend always including me in the hug fest, event gifts and mandatory glass of Sake or Umeshu sweet plum wine.

While Lisa tried on several coats and Steffi admired the shawls (she already owned three and Margot had at least $10,000 worth of coats, shawls and jackets hanging up at home) I exchanged air talk with an elegant Japanese man in traditional brown wool Kimono, and kept an eye on Miriam who was being chatted up by a very handsome young man wearing one of Atsuko’s wool mufflers tossed artfully over his light blue linen shirt.

Cute, this one, I had to admit. Despite my moratorium on local boys I excused myself to Kimono man, strolled over and asked if Miriam would like another glass of sake — knowing full well that, being very well brought up, she would feel obliged to introduce me to the young man.

“Oh yes, sake please. Um, and Sacha this is Natsu, Natsu this is Sacha. She is very clever and speaks Japanese.”

He said ‘How do you do’ in unaccented English.

Miriam smiled and said very carefully, her short tem memory occasionally checked out of the brain hotel completely so she was often careful with introductions. “Um, Natsu here owns a gallery, is that right?”

Natsu gave a slight bow in agreement.

“And,” continued Miriam in a slow measured voice, “It has shows of, um, Japanese,” she glanced quickly at the young man who nodded. “And also foreign artists.”

“How interesting,” I said. “What show are you having at the moment?”

“We’re just getting ready for an installation of glass works by a Dutch artist.” His whole posture was attentive towards us, inclining his head this way and that to keep eye contact with us both. Very polite, a good sign.

“When does the show begin?”

“Next week.”

“I’d love to see it,” I said smiling at him. His hair was wavy, mid-length down his neck, one side swept across his forehead much like the scarf thrown over his shoulder. His eyes were bright and clear. “Miriam I know would love to see it also.”

“Oh yes, I like galleries very much.”

“And glasswork,” I added.

She looked at me a little quizzically.

“You do,” I said emphasizing the words.

She nodded on cue, “I’m sure I do.”

Reaching into his pocket he removed a card case in Vuitton’s Damier Canvas check pattern http://www.louisvuitton.com, handing us business cards for the gallery. “Please do come, the first day, the 16th from 6 p.m., we will have some wine, you can meet the artist.”

I gave him one of my own cards, Miriam watched us, she did not have name cards and was always fascinated by my easy ‘call me’ familiarity with people and card exchanges.

“I did that for you kiddo,” I said a little while later following a long and tortuous exit of hugs and air kisses from the shop. We were walking briskly, trailed in Lisa and Steffi’s wake on the way to the restaurant. Our German friends were both 6ft tall with legs up to their armpits. Miriam and I could never keep up. Margot and Eleanor were behind us heads together sharing confidences.

“Did what?”

“Advanced our introduction to that yummy gallery owner.” I looked at the card, “Natsu. Yummy Natsu Wada. Couldn’t you see he was chatting you up?”

She looked at me, “No, he never was. Men don’t chat me up.

“Sure they do, silly. Lots of men like little curvy women like you.”

“I’m heavy not curvy”

I threw one arm around her shoulders and squeezed, “You are to curvy! And there’s a whole category of men who certainly do like your type. It’s not threatening. I scare off so many guys with my blonde Bevery Hill’s rich bitch appearance.”

“Sacha you are not a bitch, how can you say that! You’re a lovely person.”

“I know I know it’s just that visual impressions you know? My ever present Gucci or Chanel dark glasses, long salon straight blonde hair, the Brand bags and jewelry. It takes a strong successful confident guy to get past that apparently.”

She said nothing.

“Forget me. Girl, you need to start believing in your assets, especially now that you are heading back to the US.”

“My assets are a size 12.”

Nudging her playfully as we waited for the crossing light at the Meiji Dori intersection I laughed saying, “And an adorable size 12 at that! You and I are going to the opening.” I figured even if he was gay and just being nice, Miriam’s self-esteem could definitely use a boost of male attention. She would never do anything with him anyway.

Unlike me.

To be continued

Marugumi no D-Shop, Designer Noriko Matsushita: Tokyo, Shibuya-Ku, 4-25-10 Jingumae. 03-5770-7900. Open Noon-8 everyday.

Doggy fashion, dog men, doggy style and Japan’s falling birthrate

Doggy fashion, dog men, doggy style and Japan’s falling birthrate

Men are like dogs. Not all men but some. The men I’ve been meeting lately anyway. They like to chase things. Like dogs. Once they catch it and toss it around a bit they lose interest trotting off to find the next moving object. I seem to attract way too many men who fall into that chase category. They send me long e-mails or phone calls – on the cell of course, never give out your home phone — detailing how romantic they are,  each email  more excited and endearing than the last.

That is before we have sex.

After we have sex – which is always  really, really great BTW,  

……

Exactly.

Been there too, haven’t you girls?

Dog men. All about the chase. Once they’ve caught you they lose all interest. Now I know it’s not because sex with me is boring. I have always been a delicious package of sexual fantasies fulfilled. Who needs sex toys? So I don’t take it entirely personally. It’s a gender thing. Still it’s a pain in the ass to have to start looking all over again. Especially in this town. Most of the foreign men are after Asian tail and I just can’t work up interest in the local boys.

So in my present mood I decided to go on a walk and count the number of dogs in dresses. This is not a futile quest in Tokyo. Japanese love to dress their pets in the most awesomely humiliating fashion possible. Even men do this. Despite my many years living abroad, I still find it slightly odd to see a grown man walking two long haired Chihuahuas in frilly dresses and matching hats – the dogs, not the man. Put you right off your food that.

I force my pal Tricia, a dog owner, to come with me on this quest. She and her partner Leslie only dress their dog, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel called Mutti, on Halloween yet she knows many boutiques full of dog couture. I suspect — if she thought we gal pals would not find out — her little dog would be parading around the town in a variety of spiffy outfits. Maybe she dressed him up in private. Like those guys who lock their bedroom doors and wear their wives’ underwear.

For dog spotting I wore my own underwear along with black slouchy suede boots, skinny jeans and a close fitting black knit tunic sweater cut just low enough – both from Uniqlo believe it or not. Uniqlo had, to be totally honest, a lot of hideous crap. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Made in Chinese sweatshops by blind designers ugly.

(BTW have you ever been in a Chinese department store? Try strolling through the cashmere sweater section in one of those on Nanjing Road in Shanghai, good god. It’s like an experiment to see which hideous combination of colors and patterns can produce an epileptic fit the fastest.)

Yet hidden in the stacks at Uniqlo were often real gems and better than that, affordable gems. You just had to look. And they made great skinny jeans – as long as you really are skinny, which thanks to going to bed hungry most nights, I was. http://www.uniqlo.com/jp/

Suitably attired, we started out in Odaiba – the bayside shopping, dining strolling area on the other side of Tokyo’s Rainbow Bridge – at Venus Fort http://www.venusfort.co.jp . The ground floor is dog friendly – most shopping malls do not allow canine customers inside – and included a large pet store and doggy couture boutique.Leslie had declined to come with us. Tricia and she had been together for several years, hooking up at one of those Gay and Lesbian nights advertised in Metropolis’ Classified section. I got to know them when they moved onto my street. Leslie was a big noise in international advertising and Tricia a photographer. They were very creative though I found Leslie a little serious, one of those women with furrowed brows who probably chewed on the bones of her subordinates and spit them out in decorative patterns. Their house was gorgeous and playful, full of art, candles, Tricia’s photos and twinkly lights. Leslie was the Daddy, Tricia was the Mommy, and Mutti the baby. http://metropolis.co.jp/classifieds/biz.asp?action=home&pid=0

We grabbed some ice coffees from Starbucks, sat down and set to counting. After an hour’s work here is the list:

Dachshunds, currently Japan’s most popular breed led: with 22 – really, 22 dressed up wiener dogs. One of my favorites was the long-haired miniature Dachs in a faux leopard fur coat and pearl ear bows, also the little one in the tail length black leather coat.

Chihuahuas: 16. One tiny long haired blonde pet dressed in pink sweater, denim mini-skirt and silver necklace looked uncannily like Paris Hilton.

Frightening.

Especially because I really liked the sweater.

Miniature/toy Poodles: 11 One of them was wearing a Hello Kitty outfit. That is just wrong!

Shih Tzu: 4

Papillon: 4 (all in dresses, every one)

Yorkshire Terrier: 4, one pair in a dress and trousers respectively.

Pekinese: 2

Pug: 2

Border Terrier: 1

French Bulldog: 1 However Frenchie gets extra points since he was riding in his own stroller – pushed by daddy – and sporting a jeweled collar.

Boston Terrier: 1, it was dressed in camouflage colors — we almost missed it!

Man in a bright flowered parka: 1. Tricia and I decided he counted.

With a new spring line up of MLB Yankees, Dodgers and Cubs logo jacket and pant ensembles batting in sales home runs, dog clothier and pet accessory boutique
Pet Pradise , http://www.creativeyoko.co.jp/ had all the business it seemed it could handle that Sunday at Venus Fort. At least so it seemed to Tricia and I as we sipped or ice coffees and tallied the tails. Credit cards in hand, young men and women and their dogs browsed display racks at the large store. What I find somewhat strange at this and similar dog boutiques in Japan is the large number of cross species outfits available: bumble bee costumes, Pandas, brown bears, ducks, chicks…Not only do the owners want to dress their dogs, they want to dress them as other animals.

I saw Tricia look longingly inside, “Go on,” I said giving her a nudge towards the wide walk-in entrance. “You know you want to.”

Edging towards the shop she said, “Well one of Mutti’s friends, you know Paula that I walk the dog with? She’s part of our morning walking group. She’s having a party for her dog Max. Maybe I’ll pick up something just to be polite.”

Like Park Moms, Dog Moms (and Dads and Gay partners) organized play groups as well.

The shop sold two 16,800 yen doggy strollers while I hung outside counting, Do they have doggy strollers in other countries? Have you seen one? They look very much like the human baby variety but have zip around enclosures to secure the pet inside. These strollers are pushed not by strange people in too many hats and scarves and with questionable oral cleansing habits, as you might imagine, but seemingly well-to-do couples with designer bags who have decided it is much more fun to have puppies than children.

I believe this displacement of the nurturing instinct onto pets is another reason Japan’s birthrate is the lowest in industrialized countries. Humans are, after all, hoarders by nature. We hoard not only the necessities of life but attention as well. Sharing is not instinctive. Think of the years parents shout ’share’ at their children, ’share goddamnit!’ In these days of emotional self-involvment, many people would rather redirect that attention from others in a neat endless loop around themselves. ‘Sharing is for suckers’ has become many people’s mantra.

Why have babies when you can raise a very small dog anyway? No schooling costs, no playground or PTA social politics to deal with, mom can keep her job – always an issue here in Japan — the benefits seem very enticing. Dogs are also obedient, well, probably as obedient as most kids, and will never argue about what to wear.

Tricia came out with her brightly colored bag. “I found the cutest little flower print dress.” She smiled. I peeked inside the bag to see the frilly baby-doll sized confection.

“Isn’t Paula’s dog a boy?” I asked, “And a Labrador?”

Tricia’s smile slipped ever so slightly. “He’s gay,” she said firmly shutting the bag.

Ah this brave new Bow Wow World that has such people in it (to paraphrase Aldous Huxley…)

To be continued

Reflexology, Man Whores and New Lipstick Part 2

I walked down the stairs and into Les Hydropathes. Minimalist black and white décor, knee-crampingly small tables, itsy bitsy plastic modular chairs and the best selection of Belgian Beers that I had found in town, not to be honest I had searched that hard. Tokyo Food Page http://www.bento.com/tokyofood.html described it in ‘Jetson’ terms. Somehow Jetsons and Les Hydropathe did not quite synch for me, TinTin and the Smurfs, yes.( Much more Jetson like is the amazing Atomium museum in Brussels representing a molecule’s nine atoms…. http://www.atomium.be/. Totally Jetson worthy that would be made even more so if they created a replica of the World Clock in Alexanderplatz, Berlin and stuck it by the entrance. But, I digress.)

Miriam I saw had already arrived and was surrounded by the gang; Margot, Lisa, Steffi, and now me. Hugs and kisses all around European style. We always had to hug each other even if we had just been together hours before. I ordered a Stella Artois and some pomme frites sans mayonnaise.

“Is it true? Are you leaving? I don’t want you to go!” I said all in a rush. Miriam had been my best friend for some years now – despite astounding differences in temperament, upbringing and education — she was my go to girl for a comfortable chat. Everyone needs a friend for a comfortable non-political chat.

Miriam had left Moorestown, New Jersey a few short years after marrying Thomas. She had met him at a friends wedding. He had taken her breath and a short time later her virginity away. Small. Shorter even than me, but plump and round where I was petite and slim. Her auburn had recently, upon my urging, been spiced up with autumnal highlights painted in once a month at SinDen’s Gaienmae Salon http://www.sinden.com/e/index2.html. Miriam was one of those women who told you things in strict confidence. Of course she told those confidences to most of her friends individually which meant we were all more or less swimming in the same pool of personal data regarding her husband and their deteriorating relationship. Margot had spoken with her over the phone, learned of impending banishment and eventually reached all of us.

Thomas was a charming bastard. (Though I did not refer to him in those exact terms when Miriam was around.) He fancied himself a sensitive intellectual and went through personal crises on a regular basis. Crises he had resolved before by sleeping with other women, on the sly he thought. Miriam was a good person and we loved her dearly. Her mind was neither sophisticated nor deep yet she saw enough to know he was giving it up to other women; women who excelled at witty comebacks and political analysis between blow jobs and orgasms rather than six course meals, fluffy soufflés and well ironed shirts. Yes, she ironed his shirts. It’s appalling, I know. My neighborhood alone had four dry cleaning services within a 100 meter radius. Plus several delivery cleaning companies that zipped around the residential streets in Suzuki mini-vans picking up and dropping off every day of the week. Only the most poverty stricken in Tokyo ironed their own shirts. Miriam insisted it was her duty, I said she was being Betty Crocker.

I hadn’t been comfortable around Thomas since Miriam, after several G&T’s at What the Dickens in Ebisu http://www.whatthedickens.jp/ (interesting nouveau pub fare but I’m a real traditional fish and chips with my Kilkenny kind of a gal) one evening, decided to confess to me her husband’s’ sexual fantasies. I tried to stop her,“Please Miriam, TMI, too much information, I don’t want to know!”

“They’re just fantasies!” She insisted.

We now had the full attention of several men sitting near us ‘one of whom was very, very good looking and had been glancing my way since Miriam had quizzed me about masturbation. Miriam had that sort of naiveté that found the foulest dirty jokes cute, yet had no insight into sexual double entendres or anything more complex. She had no sexual frame of reference aside from Thomas and since we had become good friends came to me for affirmation on various intimate questions – which she seemed to have no shame talking about in public places. Tonight that had included whether most women masturbated or not – and that was after only one drink.

As the men at the other tables inched slightly closer she announced the fantasy Thomas kept going on and on about involved having someone watch while he made love to her and then switch partners – and switch again I assumed while he watched. This person she said in a loud voice just before standing up and trying to sing with the band – this fantasy third woman, was me.

Awkward.

I saw him all the time in fact the three of us were going to the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert next month. Now I knew why that smile kept flashing my way.

Really awkward.

I maintained a strict hands-off policy for husbands of friends, neighbors and even acquaintances – though the rest were fair game. Of course I know other men’s wives were calling me exactly what I called Thomas.

Funny how selective your conscience can be when it’s your own personal pleasure.

I am a nice person
but
I am not a nice girl.

“He wants me to go back, he says, find a house and set things up for when he quits his job. I have to find a job too.”

“In other words,” I said to Margot later that evening when we rode the train home together. “He wants Miriam to fall back on while he falls on top of someone else.”

“He’s always talking about quitting,” Lisa said. “You said so. All he ever does is complain about the company. He’s never going to quit.”

I had to agree, “It is just an excuse, you know that.”

“What about the kids?” Roared Steffi signaling the waiter for another beer. Steffi was large, German and loud but in an extraordinarily endearing way.

“We’re putting them in boarding school, or rather his company is while I look for a job. He says I have contributed nothing to this marriage, he does everything.”Self esteem was not a strong point for the woman and she had done very little arguing wit him about her place in the family value pyramid I guessed.

Lisa had her arms crossed over her low-cut black sweater. She was also German, though raised mostly in England due to her father’s work. She was as tall as Steffi but where Steffi was imposingly dynamic, Lisa always managed to be incredibly feminine, her short hair blonde and wispy. She was my role model for 24/7 pretty. I mean the woman could ride her bike in suede mules! “You’ve been raising three kids, moving from continent to continent with his postings, keeping house, cooking beautiful meals,” Lisa said in a sympathetic voice. She had a lot of empathy which was another reason I liked her.

“That doesn’t count, does it? That never counts.” Margot was upset. “I need a cigarette.” Pulling a pack from her coat pocket, a very nice vintage Burberry trench BTW, and searched for matches. Margot smoked despite working for a huge European pharmaceutical company and understanding the consequences. I handed her a pack of my very adorable animal matches. (Always carry matches in case of an emergency). Each matchstick had a little face on it of a panda, kitty or pig depending on the package. Just 157 yen at RanKing RanQueen on the second floor of Shibuya Station right by the JR exit. They were by the Kokeshi Match Sesakujo,
http://www.kokeshi-m.com/kokeshi.htm

“Margot, you more than anyone besides a health professional know how bad it is to smoke. You trained as a pharmacist!”

She took a deep drag, “Sacha dearest, I smoke for my past not my future”

Who can argue with that?

“Sex?” demanded Steffi surprising the bartender who had kindly brought over her draft. “How will you see each other for sex?” Steffi was a firm believer in regular sex between husband and wife. She and her husband were my heroes, they loved each other dearly had been together since high school and as Steffi never tired of telling us and anyone within 20 feet they still had fire for one another. Her mother said the same thing, “Fire! You must keep the fire and the passion!” Affirming she and Steffi’s dad were still smokin’ hot. I guess it was a genetic marker my ex and I had been missing. “You may not see him for months, yes? That is not fair to you.”

She was of course leaving much unsaid. We all knew Thomas would not be facing the same sexual deprivation dilemma.

Miriam sighed, took a sip of her wine – she did not drink beer – and admitted, “Been a bit limp lately so I don’t see as how it will make much of a difference if we are apart. I do like my sex though.”
We all nodded in agreement to the latter.

“But you do not want to go,”Lisa put one hand on Miriam’s shoulder.

“I know, we’ve lived overseas for 16 years, I’m a professional ex-pat I don’t know anyone back in Jersey anymore, or how to live in America. America is for vacations. Really though what’s the point of staying if he doesn’t want me here? I’m talked out; he’s made up his mind. I’m supposed to start getting bids from the moving companies; we’re sending much of the furniture back. The kids and I leave in April.”

“April!“ We moaned.

Though I continued to make sympathetic sounds as we all discussed the inevitability of her departure, privately I was not surprised. Monogamy was the natural state for wolves, eagles and, I heard but had so far not found substantiating evidence, pigeons. Higher life forms, at least this particular higher life form in her Gucci pumps, had more complex emotional and physical needs.

Monogamy was like Santa Claus; eventually many of us discover it’s a myth.

Les Hydropathes: Parco Part 1, B1, Open 10-2 daily. (Lunch starts 11;30 though) 03-5456-9123

Reflexology, Man Whores and new lipstick

Disclaimer: Though all the stores, galleries, restaurants and etc. introduced here by yours truly are real, any similarity to any persons living, dead or very naughty encountered in my escapades is unintentional. All names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

Reflexology, Man Whores and new lipstick

     Margot called me just as I was settling in for a cup of hot herbal tea after 50 minutes of sybaritic bliss at my favorite Tokyo reflexology salon, English Garden in Meguro Station– of all places. The place was total indulgence so you can imagine I am a regular. First of all they provide the most amazing deep plush reclining chairs and foot stools, each one set in its own little curtained alcove which your masseuse closes off for you once you are set to begin. Of course by then your feet are up on a fluffy towel and you are clutching the softly humming relaxation pillow cued into new age music flowing through oversized earphones. Curtains shut you embrace a disembodied sense of joy as your feet are cleaned, caressed and pressure gently applied to all those nerve endings that somehow are centered in that region bringing health and joy to your battle scarred little body.  
     Unlike Chinese reflexology which involves a certain amount of screaming and begging for mercy, English reflexology is about gentle yet effective pressure. Oh, touch me there darling, touch me again. 4800 yen for 50 minutes is money more than well spent. When I have really been in the wars I add on the ten minute neck massage and hot foot bath. Tokyo has a number of English style reflexology salons (as well as Chinese, Japanese and Korean which really are all variations on the same theme) but I put my money on English Garden. Plus, you don’t have to worry about how you’re dressed, they provide soft cotton lounging pajamas (and a changing room) to change into in case you are in your skinny jeans – which I often am since I look so good with them tucked into my brown suede boots or the cute little low cut mahogany-colored pumps with the oversize gold buckles I picked up at Marui in Shibuya. Wait, I digress. Oh, and if you can manage a bit of Japanese they give you an analysis after the massage of problem areas their magic fingers have found.
      So there I was slowly coming out of this blissful state with my complimentary tea when the cell buzzed into life. Caller ID said ‘Margot. Margot was French with an atrocious accent we all would have killed to have.
     “Hallo? It is I, Margot.” Which was how she always announced herself.
      “What’s up,” I sighed dreamily not quite ready to let go of my euphoria for reality.
      “Oh my god Sacha, it is happening. Blake, that bastard, is forcing little Miriam to return to America!” Though it actually sounded like ‘ohmygawdsaaashaaaeetezzhapenneeng!’ See what I mean about the accent? I, however, was used to dealing with ESL people and had no trouble translating.
      “Bastard!” I said.
      “Yes, yes, it is so! Come now we will meet at that Belgian pub in Shibuya to destroy his character.!”
      “As well as diss the Belgians?”
      “That is a given,” she sniffed. No love lost between her and the Belgians due to an unfortunate love affair in her teens with a bi-sexual Belgian chocolate maker. She’d stumbled in on him and his boyfriend sprinkling bittersweet morsels over one another and never forgiven the country though for some inexplicable reason she liked this bar.
      “I will be there soon,” I said setting the tea down on the lace covered side table. “Let me run home and change into an outfit suitable for character destroying. See you in 30!”
      I grabbed my Vuitton backpack and rushed out without finishing the tea. Nearly thirty minutes and one taxi ride later I walked up the hill on Koen Dori.
      Prior to my close encounter with the magic fingers of my masseuse at English Garden it had been a busy day with a quick press conference for the launch of a Japanese cosmetic company’s spring line and a write up for my fashion editor out in cyberspace and work on a bigger piece covering several design lines for cell phones here – particularly how Softbank was positioning its revamped Vodafone image as a cool contender instead of dorky wannabe. The press conference – all pink and fluffy – had left me feeling winter wilted. Depressed I had listened to Muse all the way home on my iPod. To cheer myself up I picked up one of Shiseido’s Integral line lip sticks available at Japanese drugstore cosmetic counters (not the department store line). You know, the one Angelina Jolie is advertising. Despite the fact that the woman could smear prune extract on her lips and still look gorgeous, the lipstick really is magnificently glossy though the spatula tip takes a bit of getting used to.  The best thing – no taste!
      I’m dieing to kiss someone but not meeting one of my men unfortunately until several days from now. So instead there I am striding up the street on the way to Parco department store – which also has the Belgian Bar open to 2 a.m. in the basement. Go figure. I was wearing a slim short A-line black wool dress (which I would never admit to having bought at Zara of all places), several ornate silver necklaces, my black Gucci retro pumps with the oversized double ‘G’ logos in silver on the toes and my long blonde hair held back by a pair of black Gucci sunglasses. My lipstick made me feel springalicious and definitely up to an evening of rending and tearing our friend’s man whore of a husband while drinking Belgian beer on tap.
To be continued.

English Garden (03-6408-8363, open daily 10-9; Meguro Hilltop Garden Green Kan, 2F)
Other branches in Nihonbashi (03-3273-5297); Ginza (03-5524-7310); Denenchofu (03-5483-6776).

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