|Blogs > saxyjazzman > Tokyo Nights|
I’d come in from the wind-blown outside staircase, just off the dressing room, where I'd been warming my horn up. The little room off the stairs was a flower garden of hostesses. All the girls were hunched over their cellphones, calling customers. They get their business cards and call a few days later. “Where are you now? I miss you. I really enjoyed our conversation…” and so on.
Entering, I spied at my feet a beer glass filled to the brim with water and old cigarette butts. A chick hunched on the floor cried out, "Abunai!" I saw she was smoking two cigarettes at the same time. I tried to explain a picture book I have with Japanese gadgets, devices designed to be "almost useful." The one I had in mind showed a man wearing a gauze mask holding 14 cigarettes for people who need super nicotine hits during their breaks. The book's name is "Chin-dogu," literally, "strange tools."
This was even tougher in Japanese than I thought. When I said, "chin-dogu," the girl looked up delightedly and shouted, "I know - vibrator!"” (Chin-chin is slang for penis, and dogu means tool.) Every girl in the room stopped to look at me. Not cool club-politics-wise. I cleared my throat, said I didn’t mean that and eased out. But the little one kept flashing her eyes at me. Baby face. Skin like milk. Shoulders like barbecue chicken. Beats Julia Roberts in a lip-off.
Then she began popping out little comments when she saw me. “Yes, I love you!” she exclaimed once in passing, apparently a real-time decision. Soon after that though, upstairs, outside the dressing room, she greeted me, shouting, “I like dick! I like big dick!” What do you say to that? “Gee, you’re in luck! I happen to have one on me right now.” I just leaned close in and whispered that I liked pussy. Major squeal.
“You’re cute, saxyjazzman!” she decided, and then began to tell me every night. “Isn’t saxyjazzman cute?” she’d ask the other girls. “I like dick!” she shouted in the kitchen at me as I ate my dinner. The staff looked at her, then looked at me.
“It’s American style!!” Rika exclaimed.
“I don’t think so,” I mumbled, picking at my teriaki chicken. I gave nightly reports to my buddy Jack.
“She’s wants you, saxyjazzman. She’s saying: ‘Here I am -- take me.’”
“She’s so young, Jack…”
“Young is good. Don’t worry about that. You need to get laid.”
“But she’s twenty! She’s nearly younger than my daughter. And what if she falls in love with me?”
Jack was just LITTLE cynical. “She won’t fall in love. You don’t mean shit to her. All these girls think about is themselves. They’ve been catered to since they were five. If you can scratch their itch when they need it, they’ll let you. She says she likes dick? That’s exactly what you are to her, that’s all. So what’s not to like?”
Here I was, graced with a steady gig for the first time since the Eighties. Fucking it up it was the last thing I wanted to do. But one night I'm sitting next to my neatly-coiffed manager, Kawasaki-san, at the pink-marble bar in the VIP room. The gig was over, and I was relaxing with a beer. Rika spotted me and made a bee-line. “Oh. saxyjazzman,” she bubbled, sitting down between me and Kawasaki in her jeans and little top. Her eyes sparkled, and one breast rubbed lightly against my arm. Next thing I knew, we’d exchanged numbers. We agreed to go dancing soon. Now, there’s an iron rule in these clubs: foreign musicians stay away from Japanese hostesses. But when she walked away, Kawasaki turned toward the bar and sighed,
“I, too, am butterfly.”
Cool guy! The night came. I brought the car and waited on a side street for Rika to get off work. Around 2:30 she found me leaning against a building like Bogart and pranced over to me joyously. She’d lost the evening dress and was cunningly cute in jeans and a short top.
“Let’s go to the car. . .” I offered.
"Go dancing!" she said evenly, so I gestured down the stairs to Pickford's, where all my black buddies were pumping out hotter-than-July hip-hop on a big stage. There was no audience except for four hot young Western women and a aging Japanese beatnik. One of them, a blonde, got up and showed us every possible way to shake, at top speed, an absolutely perfect body. After a while, I pulled Rika onto the floor. We drew close to the band, and Rika stood right in front of the lead singer, grinning, entranced at this paragon of black sexuality. The singer, undulating, singing, rapping, had no problem with this. I danced nearby, feeling idiotic, trying to find a nice Hebrew groove.
We drifted into the group of dancing women and suddenly everyone was dancing with everyone. One of the blondes swept over, slipped her hands under Rika’s breasts, weighed them, and exclaimed, "Oh, ippai, desu-ne!" (Oh, how full they are!) Rika was this new ingénue on the scene. She was smiling like it was a new ride at Disneyland. I had my arms around the stunning blonde, people were sweaty, everything was slinky and wet. The scene shifted and now a wizened Japanese uncle who had been jiggling on the periphery drew Rika into his arms. I glanced over worriedly, but a lovely Italian woman in my arms was whispering, “No jealousy! No jealousy!”
Time slipped away. It must have been around 4 AM. We rested, tried to talk, then got up again and fell into a torrid front-to-back bump, my arms around her, my hands grazing whatever I found, while Rika did nice things with her derriere. I liked the taste of her ears.
We wound up in my car at 5 AM. I was supposed to sleep at a nearby hotel for an English intensive the next morning. But I’m not Bukowski. I'm not a lot of guys. I spent the Eighties being trained by Berkeley feminists. I figured there would be another time, so I took her home. I was George Bush Sr. not finishing off Sadaam.
On the way, I stopped the car on a side-street and did research.
“Rika, my wife" (WRONG!!) "told me my moustache hurts her when we kiss. Does it?”
I lean in for a couple of soft tastes of her angel lips. “Itai desu-ka?” (Does that hurt?)
Rika looked quizzical. “Nai-desu.”
I started the motor. Rika now seemed to give off just a little tension. We got to her neighborhood, and she jumped out and sprinted down a narrow old street like an teenage escape artist.
We went out again a few months later. This time she danced like a 16-year-old possessed. I kept up with her for nearly an hour. I remember her gyrating on her knees atop a bar-stool, her memorable mammaries jouncing inches from my dazzled eyes. It all came to naught. I said something in the car in front of her apartment about needing love. Everyone knows you can’t say things like that. She nodded understandingly and didn’t answer her phone any more.