Puzzling through the P.M.

While waiting for James I had kept an eye on the foreigners crowding round the bar standing in loud groups, bottles of beer in hand. It was comforting somehow to see them like this and to be a part of it. As much as I loved this city I did miss that American blending of ethnicity, ancestry bleeding together like watercolors.

Americans often referred to themselves as ‘mutts’ as if this was a bad thing. God knows such individual blending was the closest humanity was ever getting to harmony across regional borders.

Right now I was still puzzling out gender preferences at A971 and whether the place was gay or straight in the P.M. hours. When James entered I watched to see if any male heads did not just turn but lingered.  Hmmnn, mostly just cursory glances I noted.

“What are you drinking?” I asked taking his arm and pulling him to one of the high tables I had reserved through strategic placement of my pink Ralph Lauren cable knit cardigan and beloved, though somewhat battered, vintage Gucci briefcase.

“Um,” he looked vaguely towards the bar for inspiration. “Uh, let’s see Corona? Do they have Corona?”

“Stay here,” I said, I’ll get you one. “Oh and do me a favor look and see if any of the guys watch me walk to the bar.”

He gave me his by now familiar puzzled stare, poor Pasadena, but being a stand up guy said only, “Sure.”

The heels on my little brown suede Vamps accentuated my walk there and back.

Handing James his beer I said, “Anyone? No one?”

He laughed, “Most of them.”

“Okay now you walk over and ask for extra napkins.”

Smiling again he did as I asked.

“Okay, the place is straight,” I declared upon his return.

“Sacha, what are you talking about?”

“Wait, wait, let’s toast.” Bumping glass and bottle I said, “Thanks for being such a great guy and coming with me the other day.”

“You’re welcome, now, what was that about? “ He nudged his chin towards the bar and back.

“Trying to figure out if this is a gay or straight bar in the evening, ‘cause there are so many guys.”

He looked around, eyebrows raised, “You’re right. And?”

“I think it’s straight “

“Because they watched you walk by?”

“No, because they didn’t watch you. See if they were gay they could have just been coveting my dress and shoes which are, I am sure you will admit, very desirable.”

“As is the rest of the package.” He raised his bottle to me and I nodded in acknowledgment.

“If they watched YOU, well they were coveting your body, which is also very desirable.” I gave him a teasing smile.

“Speaking of coveting, there is something I have been meaning to ask you Sacha…”

“Sacha! Sweetie!” Margot had arrived turning heads and spilling drinks as she shouldered her way over to our spot. Much kissing ensued before and after I introduced James.

“Of course I remember you!” She told James grabbing a napkin to rub at the red lipstick smeared every so slightly on his cheek. “Sorry. There, now you are perfect again. Sacha has spoken of you as a totally stand together man”

“Stand up,” I interjected.

“Whatever,” she waved her hand, the one with the huge amethyst ring, in a dismissive gesture. “So tell me about yourself, wait I must have a drink first.” With singular purpose she moved to the front of the queue at the bar returning with a large glass of red wine and devastation in her wake. “Now tell me James from America, what are you doing here in Tokyo. And for godsake does anyone have a cigarette?”

Feeling the crowd could hardly stand a third Margot onslaught I said I would go in search of a smoke for her plus I wanted to order some food from the bar’s Tapas menu since I cannot drink on an empty stomach.
 
Standing at the bar waiting my turn I smiled at the man next to me. He looked like a Japanese telecom ad for a foreign executive: High cheekbones, broad forehead, brown hair thick and side-parted, arched brows, dark eyes, bespoke jacket and trousers of superfine cloth. I smiled a little wider but only because I recognized him as the very successful, very satisfied husband of an acquaintance of mine. Pleased with his beautiful children, beautiful wife, beautiful job and anything else you can attach ‘beautiful’ to but not pleased enough to stop smiling at a small blonde waiting for Tapas. I knew men like him, I’d had sex with men like him. In fact if you are at a certain income level it is difficult to avoid men like him in the Tokyo Ex-pat dating scene.

Not that I cared, my attitude towards them was usually the same — I had somewhat carnivorous tastes in the opposite sex.  Meat or grass, it was up to them to decide on their metabolic composition and present it to me. A fact that upset Margot and even me, sometimes. Margot loved and lost but at least she loved. Even the CSI Las Vegas Forensic team would have been hard pressed to find my emotional center when it came to men these days. I had been 19 when I met my husband, not even thinking about serious love, sleeping with boys not men.  How was I to know even after marriage there would never be anything serious about it?

Previous introductions to my psychotic overweight mother and other demented family members not withstanding, there was a time when we were very, very well off. Those pre-Eichler days of housekeeper, cook, gardener, country club and ladies who lunch and plan charity galas. My mother had, at one time, been one of those ladies and had raised me to believe I should give some of the time I spent tottering around in my Chanel pumps to charitable venues. I volunteered my not inconsiderable writing and editing skills for the Tokyo branch of a worldwide NGO helping refugees build schools and businesses in places I was very thankful not to be from. This man’s wife, Donna, headed the fund raising committee. We saw each other at the very elegant soirees termed ‘strategy meetings’. Standing around in my sling backs and Ashida Jun turquoise linen suit nibbling on satay and coconut shrimp, sipping Merlot and debating whether the Holy Brothers in the slums of Calcutta or the Sisters of Mercy orphanage in Nigeria should get the allotments they were begging for. It was always, always, terifyingly surreal.

Donna towered over me in brunette splendor, pale and tall, professionally thin. With four children squeezed out in quick succession she probably hadn’t swallowed food in years.

 We always chatted in that polite pearly way society women cultivate layering like an oyster their real selves behind this frighteningly shiny exterior.

That night at the Westin I found Barbara in the ladies room on the Ballroom floor looking at her hands and crying. It was the night of the gala dinner and auction the organization hosted annually to raise funds. We weren’t true friends but I couldn’t walk away. Could you?

Pulling out the handkerchief crammed into the tiny back pocket of my quilted Chanel evening bag, I handed it to her, saying nothing. This one was another Celine but red with carriages prancing around it. ‘A lady should always carry a handkerchief,’ my mother had said, ‘you never know when you may have to dry tears or tie up wounds.’ This advice along with my sexy walk were two things I had always been grateful to my mother for.

Donna took it, saying without urging, “Bob, Bob looked at my hands and said ‘How can you let your hands get in that condition! You should take better care of yourself.’” She gave a little sob. “How could he say that to me? I have four children, Sacha, you know what it’s like.” She looked at me imploringly and I nodded, “I’m always washing their little hands or washing my own. I can’t help if they get a little red.”

Given the perfection of her outward form I could readily believe she spent a lot of time, washing her hands. Probably like 17 times in a row. Counting the number of times she scrubbed each knuckle – or something similarly compulsive.

She held her hands out to show me. I thought they looked beautiful, fingers long and tapered. I wished my skin looked like hers. I had a sprinkling of freckles on my hands and arms, a legacy from the red-headed half of the family.

“Why did he say that,” she gave a little sob. God knows what kind of level of perfection Bob demanded at home from a woman with nerves stretched tighter than a Bangkok Patpong Go-Go girl’s G-string.

“Don’t listen to Bob. Donna you look beautiful. Your hands are beautiful,” I told her earnestly. “You are a great mom. You work very hard for your kids and your husband to make them happy. They should think about making you happy sometimes and Bob is probably jealous because for once you are getting the attention for all your hard work rather than him.”

The woman had done an amazing job bringing together corporate sponsors for the charity auction, everyone was patting her on the back except the one person who mattered most – he was too busy slapping her on the wrist.

“Really?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with tears. “You think so?”

“Of course I do. You did a fantastic job.”

“That means a lot Sacha.”

I was taken aback asking, “Why do you say that?”

She sniffed pausing to dab at the edges of her nose trying not to smear anymore foundation, “You have a career, plus you do the newsletter and you always look so nice with your Chanel style suits and hair and sunglasses.  Keiko says you’re like a little career Barbie. We all admire you, the other women and I.”

That was news to me. Though I wasn’t sure how I felt about the career Barbie analogy. Coming from these women though I guess it was an accolade.

And here was her husband Bob, giving me the eye. I upped the wattage on my smile as I stepped up to order, “You don’t have any cigarettes do you?”

He gave me a grin, reached into his jacket pocket with his left hand – ringless tonight – and pulled out a pack of Salem’s. Flicking one out I took it and tucked it behind my ear.  He laughed at the gesture.

I gave my order to the bar man and turned back to Bob. “Any fire in those pockets?” I asked, cocking my head to one side and running a hand along his chest.

“Burning brightly,” he said low voiced.
.
“Sacha!” Margot shouted from the other side of the bar, “Get back over here!”

Turning away I said over my shoulder, “Good to know. I’ll be sure and tell Donna I saw you.” I waved. “Bye Bob.”

This is why, despite being very naughty, I did not think I was going to Hell. I did far too many good things for far too many people to be on God’s short list.

The dog has his day and so do I

Most of the people at the Wake seemed to be Violet’s friends from AA – which was where she had met Brian (where else, right?) — and marginal nut cases out of the halfway house she had been in for awhile before mother let her move back home AGAIN. After all, who else would come to a dog’s wake?

 Everyone was talking too loudly to each other or, in a couple of cases, to no one at all.

Scott had parked himself with a large Coke on my mom’s oversized and ancient maple stereo cabinet. I made a few obligatory rounds with the snack tray being introduced to people by Brian or my mom, people I hoped I would never have to see again. After about an hour of this Scott followed me into the kitchen, “Do you want to come see some of my work?”

I looked at him from under my expertly mascara’d lashes saying nothing.

“I thought” he continued, “We could go to the Internet café on University Avenue. You know the one by the florist. Have you been there?”

I shook my head.

“They have great coffee, and I could show you some of my stuff.”

It only took me a heartbeat’s hesitation before I said, “The dog is on his own. Lets take your car.”

We sat down at one of the internet consoles, he with a cappuccino, me holding a double espresso straight up over my ice, the moisture beading the sides of the glass. The place was all progressive metal aesthetic with a few touches of Danish Modern. (Danish modern is very popular in the Bay Area.) The walls a creamy yellow, prints of old Russian propaganda posters on the wall matted in clear plastic. Big glass windows looked onto University Avenue, a popular thoroughfare of restaurants, cafes, interior boutiques and the odd Persian Carpet store.

“Show me,” I said, pushing the mouse in his direction.

It was good work, very definitely. “I’m impressed,” I said truthfully. “I like the economy of click throughs you have on the websites. Everyone hates those ones with some stupid opening theme or image scroll or movie.”

He nodded, “I know, I know. I hate those too. I refuse to do them.”

“My way or the highway!”

“Absolutely.”

We laughed.

“I have my own pages of course,” he added. “I am also a performance artist.”

“On line? What do you perform.”

“Well they are kind of still life slide shows.”

“With or without fruit bowl? If it’s ‘with’ I don’t want to know where you put the fruit.”

He had been taking a sip through the foam of his cappuccino as I said this and steamed milk and cinnamon sprayed out onto the screen as the laugh caught him. We both grabbed at the napkins, unbleached brown ones of course, and dabbed at the screen.

“I see, you are a disgusting still life performance artist.”

Still laughing he said, “Dangerously close to the truth.”

“Do you have a homepage?”

Shaking my head I said, “No. I write about the internet and technology but it is more a business than a personal passion.”

“What is your passion?” He was looking me in the eye when he said this.

Reaching up I wiped off a little steamed milk foam from the side of his mouth, “Men.”

“You like men?”

Nodding I said, “I like men very much indeed.”

His glance wavered and his eyes slipped down to stare into his cup, “Are you married? You have a ring and all.”

“Yes I’m married,” I took a long sip of espresso feeling it fill the back of my mouth and throat with bitterness. “I like men. I like men a lot. I just don’t like husbands. Not anymore.”

His glance flicked back up to mine, his face a little flushed. He had a very nice mouth, the lips with just a hint of fullness.

I turned away from him to look out the double glazed windows. The sky had begun glowing a faint orange and pink through the blue. People passed by on the sidewalk, their features becoming more indistinct as the evening slid closer on the horizon.

Scott stood, walking over to the counter. He returned a few moments later with a plate of what looked like almond croissants. I love almond croissants. He set the plate on the table between us, sitting back in his chair, legs open in front of him. He looked out the window then at me, leaned forward moving the croissants aside and put one hand on my forearm.

“Sacha,” he said.

I looked at him.

“Sacha,” he took a deep breath. “What do you say we get as close to exchanging body fluids as a layer of latex will allow?”

I felt myself go hot. “I love it when tech men talk dirty,”I said and I kissed him hard right in front of everybody in the café, my arms round his neck, my tongue in his mouth.

Sex seems so banal on the big and small screen, in countless porn magazines; the mechanism clichéd into parody.

Unless it is you.

Then that perfect synchronicity of movement is anything but banal. When it’s you and him, your nails digging into his buttocks, pulling him deeper you know, right then, without a doubt there has to be a god. Not Jehovah but a nice generous god who when he set the universe in motion said, “They are really, really going to enjoy this.”
 
Much later we lay together across the bed, damp and limp. I was on my stomach, my chin on the pillow, absently pulling tangles out of the back of my hair. Scott lay with his head on the small of my back, tracing and retracing the lines of my bottom.

Scott had reminded me what a wonderful thing a cock was. I hadn’t forgotten, just sort of put it out of my mind. Think about it. A cock –

I’m sorry I just cannot call it a penis, not in a sexual context. A penis is what a little boy or a sexless man has.

A cock is perfectly constructed for pleasure. Form and function in true harmony. The full tip, the velvet soft skin over steel when he wants you, the way it slips over your lips and along your tongue a preview of that more perfect penetration. Cocks are why women understand gay men and gay love stories, after all, we reason who WOULDN’T want one of those things inside you?

“Are you going back?” He asked.

I shrugged, “All my stuff is there.”

He snorted, “It’s just stuff. Don’t you want to stay here?”

I propped myself up on my elbows, “Honestly I don’t know right now. If I stay here I might have to interact with my family, plus my specialty is business in Asia.”
 
Scott sat up, slipping his hands under my stomach, turning me onto my side.  He lay down next to me, one leg draped over my hip in that definitive male posture of possession, however transitory.

“I’m scared,” I said quietly. “Scared of the changes, scared of failing.”

“It’s good to be scared, you know.” He said equally quiet. “Being scared means you’re doing something different. I’m scared every time I start a new web project. I spend the day before the presentation usually in the bathroom swallowing Imodium and Pepto Bismal with equal desperation, my mind a total creative blank.”

I laughed.

We said nothing for awhile, then he tipped me onto my back, moving to press his belly against mine, “I’m scared, but I’m happy,” he said in my ear. “What do you want to be?”

So the dog did not die in vain.

I took Scott’s advice and decided I’d rather be scared with a chance of happiness than complacent and miserable. Though some time passed I eventually made the break from my husband.

Cynthia’s advice to stop being a Smile Slut has been more difficult to internalize.

But at least now I really have something to smile about.

Spy Girl / Love in the Afternoon

“You go in after them and see which button they push,” I whispered to James pushing him to the love hotel entrance.

“What do you mean ‘which button’?”

“Christ haven’t you been to a Love Hotel?”

He shook his head.

“All the rooms are displayed on an electronic photo board. Below a picture of the room are two buttons and two prices: one is just to stay for a few hours; the higher price is for all night. Pushing the button alerts the clerk behind the screened-in desk to ring up the price, pull the key and flip the switch on the lighted number above the room. It blinks to show you that room is yours.” I pushed him towards the hotel, “Now go!”

He blinked rapidly a few ties at this rush of information on the nuances of the Japanese love hotel system, “Oh.” He said and trotted off.

He came back out shortly, “302.”

“Now we go in and get a room,” I pulled him along with me. Please god let there be one left.

Since it was still early in the lunch hour shagging frenzy there were still several rooms to choose from including one – thank you God — on the third floor. Oh yea, the powers that be wanted me to track Thomas.

I punched 310.

A little sign by the receptionist said, “No room if you cannot speak Japanese”. I speak Japanese just fine. I paid the clerk who BTW sits behind an opaque shield blocking out all but a view of his/her hands. Of course the same anonymity is not reserved for guests bent on shag fests since the lobby in every love hotel in town had several closed circuit TVs filming all who pass through their soiled hallways.

I had had several days of aimless wandering with Thomas and my GPS phone before striking gold today. It had been frighteningly simple to slip the GPS traceable phone into a side pocket of his bulky canvas business tote. In a black plastic cover I had found for it the thingwas practically invisible.

Around lunchtime Monday I had established an operations post in a coffee shop near his office, triggering the phone a couple of times an hour and checking where he came up on the map. Being your own boss had its advantages – I never had to answer to anyone for my time – and being able to take your entire office with you in a laptop PC had major, major advantages for fledgling spies like myself.

Monday and Tuesday he never left Marunouchi, his office was in one of the office blocks near Tokyo Station. Tuesday he went out with a bunch of friends from the office drinking, and drinking, and drinking at Paddy Foley’s Irish bar in the basement of the Roi building in Roppongi.
http://www.paddyfoleystokyo.com/
I went nearby to Gas Panic Club – not the Club 99/Cafe, the other that re-invented itself as a lounge — where I knew I could hang out indefinitely for 400 yen Cokes. Around midnight I got tired of being hit on by investment bankers and Nigerian pimps wondering if I was an eastern European hooker on the lookout for a new sugar daddy and decided I didn’t love Miriam enough to stay there any longer and went home to bed.
http://www.gaspanic.co.jp/*web_04out.html

The next day I spied the smart way, staying home and checking the GPS every hour so I could concentrate on finishing a story I had researched last week on the cell phone-activated lockers at Tokyo Midtown. Coin lockers at the complex were accessed through a touch screen (Japanese or English) and your cell phone: first you specify if you want to put things in or retrieve your stuff from a locker. Button pushed it asks if you want to use your cell phone or a bar code (that is accessed through the camera and bar code reader built into Japanese cell phones) choose ‘cell phone’ and a number pops up, dial the number and wait. The screen gives you your number back (with several digits blacked out for security) say ‘yes, that is my number’ deposit your coin into the slot (100 yen for the first three hours) the locker pops open. Put in your stuff, shut it and it locks electronically. Very  Midtown. Very Tokyo tech. 

Anyway, I just checked occasionally on his whereabouts which were much the same until evening when I tracked him down to the big Nishi-Azabu Gonpachi with a group of clients. They might have been heading to a hostess club or someplace but I wouldn’t be able to follow there and that wasn’t the dirt I was looking for. http://www.gonpachi.jp/en/nishi_azabu/home/location
Thursday seemed to be a favorite day to meet for affairs that and Tuesday. I speak from experience, here. Fridays were so often family or client nights out. I figured if he was going to play that would be the day. For my plan to work I needed a partner in crime. You can’t just walk into a love hotel by yourself and get a room, you need a partner. This was a two person job.
James from Pasadena and I had met for lunch a few days before. He had said he was looking for adventure on this trip. Adventure was my middle name or it should have been. I called him on his cell and arranged to meet in front of his office building Thursday morning.

“What’s up?”

With some hesitation I outlined my plan asking if he might be able to get a long lunch hour on short notice to accompany me to a love hotel.

Contrary to what I expected he thought it was hilarious I was doing this. As he told me later, “I didn’t look at it like a male/female thing but a best friend thing. If it had been my best friend I would have broken my ass to help him as well.”
James was turning into a stand up guy. Who would have thought a casual remark at Fujimama’s and my lack of morals could have brought us into a fledgling friendship. Not that it would last, they never lasted and besides he would be back in LA in another month.

Just as I had predicted, Thursday was the day. We tracked him to Shibuya– James was amazed with my spy toys — and I knew from many past experiences which group of love hotels in the hilly streets near Tokyu Department Store Thomas the man whore must be heading for.

As we made our way out of the love hotel elevator to 310, I pretended to take a wrong turn and gosh I tripped, spilling my purse’s contents right in front of 302. On cue James came over to pick the things up, from my pocket – I was wearing a really cute trench coat from Comme Ca, I pulled out the palm-sized cell phone activated spy camera I had written about for my tech column last year. God knows why these things were not illegal, there was no legitimate purpose to put something like this to. I slapped it onto the wall – my back to the corridor, I didn’t see any cameras but that meant nothing — with some white tape to camouflage it. Leaning down to ‘help’ James I slid the thin voice activated microphone and recorder into the corner, it was only a few inches across and in the dim light of the hotel hallways the thing was invisible.

Sacha, tech commando. 

We entered our room at the opposite end of the corridor.
I left the camera up and running, the batteries could go several hours. Service time at the hotel was three hours (only 3,680 yen a bargain!) which meant they would be out no later than 3 p.m. and that was being pretty generous. According to Miriam Thomas was a 20-miute kind of guy.

James seemed to be having a great time. Contrary to my expectations he did not try to come on to me, make suggestive remarks or watch the porno channel. Instead he found a samurai drama on the super wide screen TV and was making up hilarious dialogue for the characters. Creating insane sub stories to movies and TV is something my childhood friends and I had always done, I joined him and pretty soon we were both doubled over with laughter at our efforts.

I had my cell phone in my hand – the camera synched with it via software you install at set-up — and I kept glancing at it. A flicker of movement caught my eye at about 2 p.m. Someone came out with Thomas. Not the person he had gone in with. Not at all. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary. 

Jumping up off the couch I said, “We’ve got to go!”

He made a face, “Oh Sacha, no. What about our story? We haven’t resolved the issue of Sakura’s deep and abiding love for the master Samurai’s horse?”

I grabbed him by the sleeve, “Come one you!”

The cell screen showed Thomas a short time later leaving with the girl he had entered with. Giving them time to enter the elevator I dashed over to 302 to retrieve my equipment. We took the stairs, waiting while they cleared the receptionist. We didn’t have to worry about acting suspiciously this was a love hotel, it was impossible not to act suspiciously. I gave him a few minutes to clear the receptionist — all you need to do is hand over the key and walk away after all. Coming out of the recessed entryway I screeched to a stop, they were only a few yards away.

Waving James back I crouched in the arched entryway while Thomas and the woman stood, heads together. James took a separate set of steps and waited out in the street – most hotels had several entrances or paths through to the main entrance. Several guys passing by looked at me knowingly, figuring I was waiting for a client. One, a foreign guy approached and I hissed, “For god sake just fuck off!” with such menace he turned tail.

With a kiss on the cheek, Thomas and the girl finally separated walking off quickly in different directions. I counted to ten then hightailed it after the girl clattering up the hill in my Python pumps. (Japanese girls had taught me that it is indeed possible to run at very high speeds in heels it just takes the same kind of reckless ‘mountain biker on a rocky trail’ courage.)Doubling my speed I ran around and stopped dead in front of her.

“That was my husband you were with,” I said in Japanese. She made a move to go around me, her head down.

I said very quietly and very clearly, “Listen woman. I already took your picture, if you don’t want it on posters around Shibuya with the words ‘prostitute’ written across your pretty face you will stop now and tell me one thing. How much did he pay you?”

She looked at me, obviously mortified.

“I just want to know how much and you can walk away.”
After a few moments more she said, “10,000 yen.”

“Jesus girl,” I said in English to her retreating form, “You come cheap.”

Back at the foot of the hill James waited.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

Taking a deep breath I said, “I guess I did.”

Spartans, texts and tears

“For gawdsake Margot, stop behaving like a child and act your paycheck.”I ran my hands through my hair in a nervous gesture I had never been able to cure myself of.

Margot had been furiously texting her lover all through our lunch. He had been sending messages back equally livid with rage. Margot, a robust 5ft 10 is not someone I think of who loses her cool in public but she was sitting opposite me at French Kitchen in the Grand Hyatt at Roppongi Hills with the tears running down her face, her fingers flying over the tiny keyboard. http://tokyo.grand.hyatt.com/hyatt/hotels/index.jsp

We were on one side of what I thought of as the ‘catwalk’ — the entrance that bisected the place — and in glorious view of all the diners. She hadn’t been crying when we sat down or I would have requested a table on the terrace — despite the lingering cold.

The waiter was very concerned and brought over a warm towel for her to wipe her eyes. I smiled and then shooed him away.  The Japanese at the tables near us were equally concerned, the foreigners, mostly European, amused. I waived my glass in the direction of one of the staff. Christ I needed more wine.

The problem was her lover. It fucking always is, isn’t it? God in heaven. For all of us.  Besides not being sexual enough – we had danced around that issue a couple of weeks back at Fujimama’s following Noriko’s boutique opening – the real reason things were going from bad, to worse, to past tense as in ‘my former boyfriend’ is that he was just not smart enough for her. Margot was a biochemist, PhD biochemist, I have mentioned she worked for a huge European pharmaceutical company, but she had a rich and varied curiosity about cultures, art, society, individuals. It wasn’t that he could not keep up with her verbally, Margot spoke excellent Japanese, much better than me in fact, and switched happily back and forth. He hadn’t a clue to the building blocks of her conversations. Just the other night we had met up for a drink – not, not, not at Les Hydropathes. Though it was still a bloody Belgian place, this one called Belgo across from the police headquarters by Shibuya Station. I swear if I meet any Belgians I will shout at them “Stop building goddamn Belgian Bars in Tokyo!” They must put something in the beer that keeps certain susceptible people – mostly Europeans of my acquaintance– coming back. What really amazes me is I have not met one Belgian at either of these places. They probably all go to the Irish pubs which is where I would rather be as well.

Lisa, Margot, Me, and Margot’s man Taki were together. We gal pals usually did not bring men along on our outings; there was an unspoken agreement that if at all possible meetings be girl only. She had asked though and we could not think of a nice way to say no. Don’t you hate that?

We were joking about the Spartans –Sparta is very much in vogue due to the film “300”’s huge and unexpected success.
Margot and I were raving on about the film. I had been in LA just recently and seen it in Pasadena (of all places) and Margot had apparently watched a highly illegal bootleg from the Internet. We were explaining to Lisa about the insanity and inherent cruelty of Spartan society plus its overwhelming Gayness.

“Jesus,” I laughed. “In the Spartan army ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ would have applied to straight guys sneaking off to have sex with women.”

We all roared.

Except Taki.

Margot did some smooth translating of our talk just in case he hadn’t understood, though he spoke excellent English.

Lisa said 300 sounded nearly as Gay as Troy.

“Ohmygod!, Much worse!” I said.

 We all laughed more.

“What’s Troy,” asked Taki.

“You know,” I said quickly. “The movie Troy with Brad Pitt as Malibu Achilles and Orlando Bloom as Trojan Barbie?”

Margot was doubled over with laughter.

Taki looked blank.

“Troy. The Trojan War. The Trojan Horse,” I added,
“Trojan condoms…”

Taki gazed out blankly from his black brown eyes. He was good looking, a little shorter than Margot. High cheekbones accentuated by his close-cropped hair and fashionably short beard and moustache– sort of like several more days growth than Jack on ‘Lost’.

Margot said ‘Trojan Horse’ in Japanese it was I don’t know, something, something ‘Makiba’.
 
Taki said again, “What’s the Trojan Horse and why was it in Sparta?”

You know it wasn’t like Taki was a moron Margot had picked up solely for his sexual prowess. He worked in international acquisitions for a huge Dutch investment firm. I guess as long as his acquisitions did not involve history, art or culture then it was two thumbs up for the man.

We had all been brought up politely so no one stood up and shouted ‘you fecking idiot, you make 100 million dollar deals for your company how can you not know what the Trojan Horse is?’ Even though I know I wanted to.

Instead there was the smallest heartbeat of a pause in the conversation before Lisa asked him if he had seen any films he liked recently. I could tell Margot was appalled.

I know. You don’t have to say it. We are all elitist snobs. I admit it. It comes with the college education and the ex-pat lifestyle. Whatever business you are in, if you are in the global marketplace you meet a lot of smart people and you had better damn well be smart yourself to keep up with the conversation or  you would find yourself making small talk with the maid in the kitchen.  Ah but what about Miriam, you might be thinking. Miriam was a ‘homemaker’ and could cook like a Kitchen Goddess. When they entertained people from the office everyone was much to busy stuffing their mouths with her excellent meals to be concerned about IQ levels.

Margot and Taki had been together two years now. Ignorance of the Trojan Horse is not break-up material, you might think. Not something to end a relationship over. Who gives a fuck about Trojans or Spartans?  Well, Margot was French. The French like to argue and talk and expect you to keep up your end of any encounter or they grind you into the ground. Frankly I never had understood what she saw in him but that’s often the case with your friends’ partners isn’t it?

So there we were at the very overpriced French Kitchen the day after she had picked up her toothbrush, La Prairie moisturizers, Chanel compact, various undergarments and cleared out of Taki’s apartment. They didn’t actually live together; they sort of vacationed at each other’s places. It was not going to be an amicable split.

Waving the wait staff person back I cancelled the wine order and asked for the bill. A  short time and 7000 yen later I steered Margot still crying and texting madly out of the Hyatt and into the main plaza area of Roppongi Hills over by the giant steel spider – that horrific sculpture dominating the entire plaza and stood her under it.

“Why are we here,” she growled. She hadn’t finished her Poisson du jour when I pulled her out of the restaurant but she’d already over-salted the dish with her tears.

I said, “Since I am sure you are going to go all black widow on me I thought you might as well stand here and absorb spider vibes.”

“What do you mean going black widow, what are you talking about Sacha?” Though with her accent it sounded more like: ‘whadddyuumeengoiinngblackweedooow…’ all slurred together. At least she hadn’t said, “wwhadddyuumeengoiinngblackweedoooow… Sacha you bitch.” Which always comes out very clearly for some reason.

The wind was howling through the steel and concrete black hole tunnel the Mori Tower had created with the high rises. My hair kept attacking me. Brushing it desperately out of my lip gloss I said, “My darling Margot you have been crying and texting for over an hour now, plus you look very menacing and remember how you put Maurice in the hospital? I didn’t want you to leap up and start throwing plates at the wall.”

That’s actually how we met. Not because she threw plates at me. Because she had thrown them at someone else. We shared the same lawyer and met in his offices.

She had brained her then husband Maurice after being informed by one of the secretaries at his company that he was sleeping with the receptionist and the translator and, I believe, his boss’ secretary. There may have been more but I lost count. I don’t know about the rest of the world but office politics are much better at sleuthing secrets than any private detective agency, at least in Japan.

Maurice collected Japanese pottery. Really pretty expensive Japanese pottery from places that seat you, bring tea and cakes and unwrap the pots, bowls or whatever from velvet lined boxes.  Margot had broken every bowl she could get her hands on, a number of the more valuable ones over his head. Luckily they had been married in Japan, not France so they were not bound by arcane French divorce laws over the settlement. Besides Maurice was having trouble with his short term memory if not his conscience and wasn’t quite sure why he was being divorced. The pain medication made him very mellow which had been an added plus.  He was also sleeping with his lawyer (a woman), my lawyer told me, and she apparently wanted the divorce sewn up neatly and quietly and Margot — who is very pretty — firmly out of the picture.

I was going through my own divorce when we met. Lawyer/client confidentiality was apparently a very Western concept because he told me all about her divorce and I am sure, shared all the juicy details of mine with Margot. She brained her husband for being too highly sexed. I ditched mine for not being sexy enough. We were so simpatico very soon she was an integral part of the group.
“Really Margot, you have been talking for three months about ditching Taki. You have said again and again,” (and again and again and again…) “How he just wasn’t smart enough for you, that you were carrying the whole relationship and he couldn’t relate to you.”

She practically snarled, “So what, maybe I didn’t mean it. Did you ever think of that?” She tried to snap her fingers under my nose but they were so numb from texting they just sort of cramped in mid-snap. Instead she waved them around in front of my face in what she hoped, I am sure, was a sarcastic manner.

“Margot, you have been behaving very unlike a woman with a PhD in biochemistry, a six figure income and  balls — metaphorically speaking – the size of Michelin tires.”
 
Her face scrunched up and she looked very unhappy.

Oh Jesus, I had said too much.

“But I don’t want it to be over.” The tears flowed anew.

“Because you still love him?” I asked incredulously.

“No Sacha don’t be so stupid. Because I don’t want to have to find another steady man. Not again.”

Well there was no answer for that. None at all.

I rammed my head against that wall sometimes once a month it felt like. That charming pathological aversion to any sort of possessive relationship I had developed from being married to my ex condemned me to a series of short term – though no less sexually exciting – affairs.  I was always on the hunt for the next guy.

Poor Margot. I might be used to this but I was damned if I could be so sanguine about her. Why couldn’t Taki be horny enough and smart enough?

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.

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.

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