For years, way too many years, I paid 7,000-10,000 Yen (USD $70-100) towards the monthly bill of my AU KDDI smartphone. I figured I needed it as the commute to my work was over an hour and a half but then a kind English gentleman showed me a better way.

For years he fought with the Big Japanese phone companies: AU, Docomo and Softbank trying to get a better deal arguing that years of loyalty should mean something but then he stumbled across what everyone in Japan should know about … the big phone companies don’t give a fuck. Then he discovered that a bunch of companies, like and BIC are renting phone network access and then providing coverage directly to customers.

Initially I was skeptical that a new phone company like BIC could provide the same service but BIC is one of the largest electronic stores in the country, if anyone they can handle phone service. So for my new phone provider I choose BIC Camera SIM:


BIC Sim rents the network off NTT Docomo so I use their network, never had a problem connecting and usually maintain a strong connection. I choose the 3GB plan for a monthly 1600 Yen fee (USD $16) and I’ve never looked back. I got to keep my phone number that I’ve had for years, I can SMS number to number and I get 3GB a month to burn though. SMS costs like 10yen but to be honest I’ve never even used it now that everyone has LINE, Snapchat or Facebook Messenger. Even with constant internet usage 5 days a week, 3hrs a day on the train I never get close to reaching my 3GB limit. Mind you its not like I watch NetFlix or Youtube movies all the time, I save that for home and the free Wifi. Every month I save around 5000 yen because I switched from AU to BIC. The only “catch” is you need an unlocked phone. I saved so much that it made sense to cancel my AU contract and pay the 12,000 Yen early cancellation fee. After all after just two months I saved almost that much. It’s been a year now since I cut ties with AU and joined BIC Sim and I have no regrets.

For other “How to … in Japan” guides, try these:

Big In Japan Japanese Bicycles Health Care In Japan Making friends in Japan hostess in Japan
How to become big in Japan How to cycle in Japan Getting the around the Japanese health care system Making Friends in Japan How not to be a hostess

gaijinassbannerThis is a chapter out of my ridiculous memoir I’m writing about my time and misadventures in Tokyo.  The title is called “J-girls.” Reader beware: I’m a horrible person and if you’re just figuring that out you haven’t been paying attention.





Sayuri Gogo was mine and Miho’s boss at our company, Bosmo.

No, I didn’t hook up with Gogo-san.

Although I totally would have.

But I bring her up because she’s the female who most stands out on this particular evening in late April, 2005.  As I mentioned before that Japanese school year begins in April, as does the work year. So, many companies and schools have get togethers and gatherings, usually (always) involving alcohol. Bosmo had organized one such event.

So, at an Izakaya in Takadanobaba I went and gathered with a collection of some of the most inappropriate misfits and dorks I’d ever met.  All of us were working for Bosmo as ALT, Assistant Language Teachers, and all of us new next to nothing about teaching.  What a group of weirdos; Australians, Americans, Canadians, English…and to my horror, I discovered that largely the Americans were the worst of the bunch.

The word had gotten out via Hatch, the Gaylord, and whoever else, that I was serious about kickboxing.  At the long table we were seated at, across from me to my left was a rotund white woman, American, who had heard the rumors. I looked the part, I must say, I had slimmed down to about 96 kilo’s, near 205 pounds, was tall, broad shouldered, tanned and was adorned with some appropriate swagger.  She was medium height, white and probably the same weight as I was and it was primarily focused around her rear and midsection. She had blond hair wearing it up with bangs. She spoke.

“So, you’re the kick boxer guy?” She said as she dipped some fries in ketchup and bit into them.

“I might probably be the kick boxer guy. I’m Eric, nice to meet you.” Nothing wrong with some civility.

“Cool. I do Kung Fu…”

Here we go.

“…I’ve been doing it for like, ten years. We trained so hard. You wouldn’t believe it. Our Sifu used to make us do all these crazy drills and trainings.  Seriously, like, I had to push a nail into a board with my thumb.  We would hit these wood boards over and over to make our hands harder…”

“That’s really inten…”

“…and there were all these black guys in my dojo. Like, all these big black guys and I used to have to train with them all the time and I’d be sweating all over the place and so would they and they’d just stare at me and like…yeah…we trained really hard there. It was awesome.”

Speechless.  Utterly, speechless and I was staring at this person for a few moments before I realized the guy sitting next to me was also staring at her, in a kind of confused horror and I then knew at least one other person here wasn’t completely doomed.  Then she started again.

“I think I’ll try kickboxing. What dojo do you go to? Where is it?”

“Um, it’s actually, rather…far.” I mumbled, picking a beer which might be mine, I didn’t know, and taking a drink from it.  It isn’t mine I then realize.

“Cool. Well, let’s train together for sure.” She said as she jammed several ore fries into her mouth.

And then I said, I had to say because I was compelled but I knew I shouldn’t say but I couldn’t stop myself so then, almost a whisper, barely audible, I had to let it go.

“But, like, I’m not black.”

The guy next to me choked on something and the girls chewing slowed down for a moment, as if everything had gone into slow motion, but then a moment later it picked back up and she said, food visible in the mouth: “But there are black guys at your dojo, right?”

Hand up, GARCON! Whiskey!

Garcon means boy.

I turned to the guy next to me who was looking at me with a gleam in his eye and we were both sharing the same thought and it was: Can we make it out alive?

“I’m Eric.” I said.

“I’m Ben.” He said.

“What the fuck is going on here, Ben?” I said as I looked nervously around the room.

“That’s a good question. Where are you from?” He said, slowly eating a pickle.

“New York. You?”


And that is how I met my best friend, compatriot, co-writer and legal guardian for the next ten or so years, Ben Ducas.

The night wore on. Miho would smile at me from another table and I’d smile back, only to realize that the  person sitting next to her,  Hatch, thought I was smiling at him and he was beaming back at me and I’d quickly look away, terrified.  Around last call of our two hour nomihodai, all you can drink plan and the grease which keeps Japan moving, a long conversation about Japanese tattoos climaxed with some pasty, skinny-fat white guy standing up and lifting his T-shirt to expose his flabby abdomen which had a large orange tiger head tattooed on it.  It looked like a pancake covered in lava, and somethings one can never un-see.  Ben was staring wide eyed in shock/horror, I was choking back vomit and tears. It was a tense moment.

Ubiquitous karaoke followed.

Miho was chirping away on the mic, some Japanese pop song, and an Aussie named Keith, who I had met the year before, leaned in to talk to me.  Keith, it’s worth mentioning, was a hiking and exercise fanatic.  He was 190 centimeters tall, so nearly 6’5” and heavy set.  He eventually would get fired for hanging his sweaty training wear, he’d cycle to school, in part of the kitchen at one of his schools.  He was baffled on being fired because “What’s the problem, it’s warm in the kitchen it helps my gear dry out.”

He leaned into me now in the Karaoke both and said “We are taking bets on who is going to take home either Gogo-san or Miho.” I gave him a glance.  Taking bets you say?

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Simple, you can put money on who is going to shag one or both of them tonight. They’re both wasted.”

He was giddy as a school boy for this greasy business.

“Who is betting on taking Miho home?” I inquired.

“Um…” He actually had a piece of paper with names scribbled on it. “…Jake, Brian and me.” How he managed to say this with a straight face baffled me, but I knew something Keith didn’t.

“I’ll take all that action.  Miho doesn’t go home with any of you and I’ll give you 3:1 odds.”

He stared at me now, and smiled a little. “Not much confidence in your boys here, is that it?”

“I’m sure you’re all heart breakers, I just think she’s a good girl and will be heading home on her own. That’s all.  You want this action or have you lost your confidence then?” I smiled back and waited.

“Very well. It’s done.” He said and scribbled something on the paper.  “If you don’t mind I have some work to do.” And off he went, first to the two other guys, who looked over at me like I had a fish bowl on my head, and then toward little Miho, who was just finishing her song.

The last hour rolled by. I sang some songs, crooning into the mic, and I made some jokes with Ben who was turning out to be a damned funny guy.  All the while I kept an eye on Miho, who was getting more attention than she’d ever gotten in her life.  The poor fools, little did they know what she could do to them in the sack; suck their life force out and leave them for dead most likely.

But that wasn’t going to be an issue for them tonight.  The only issue would be the money leaving their respective wallets next week when I collected after, shockingly, disappointingly, none of them could get horny, drunk as a skunk Miho to come home with them.

None of them needed to know, of course, that she already had plans to come to my place after the party anyway.  Knowing that I won a few hundred dollars helped mediate the beating Miho gave me in the sack that night too, the alcohol working its endurance magic and me going for hours.

I had scars, marks and bruises for a week and a half.

But at least I won the bet and seeing Keith dejected, flagging down a cab to head to Roppongi with Brian and the plus sized Kung-fu princess in tow, in a desperate attempt to find some ass, anything, sent me to my midnight rendezvous of battle-sex with a smile.


gaijinassbannerThis is a chapter out of my ridiculous memoir I’m writing about my time and misadventures in Tokyo.  The title is called “J-girls.” Reader beware: I’m a horrible person and if you’re just figuring that out you haven’t been paying attention.



Aya, Akiko, Ayumi

June in Japan is mostly about humidity, or humidity and rain, or humidity, rain and no public holidays.

It’s the only month on the calendar with no public holidays and it’s also the month before exams in the Japanese school system.

In short, June was a fucking drag.

Despite this, June was an important month for me.  I had my first fight scheduled for early July and I was training hard in preparation for this.  It was a small venue, Differ, in Ariake against a nobody who had three fights already, but for me it was my debut and a big deal. I was training hard, sparring often and doing all the road work. I had even stopped eating meat as I heard it could negatively affect stamina.

I was also doing the rounds to all my schools and just hating every moment of it.  Standing in the front of a class of ten year olds and lamely trying to coordinate some activity with a nervous Japanese  teacher was like a kind of hell for me, and forcing myself to go to work was a day-by-day chore.

In one class in May, maybe my first class at that school, bunch of 5th graders so about 10-11 years old, I had been introduced and the teacher, a Japanese woman in her early thirties, asked the class:

“Does anyone have any other questions for Eric-Sensei?”

One boy in the middle of the class, little pudgy with a buzzed haircut, raised his hand.

Shitsumon arimasuka?” Do you have a question, she asked. He nodded.

Chin-chin ha nan centi desu ka?” How big is your dick?

I just sighed, looking at this kid as I felt the air in the room all being sucked out in slow motion, the teacher immediately locking her eyes away from me, freezing in place and turning bright red all at once.

Silence in the class room. Frigid and arctic silence, until one girl whispered.

Kimoi…” Gross…

After this I then made it my mission at this school to always make intense eye contact with that teacher every chance I got.

Kimoi, indeed.

So, June was rolling on.  Ayako, having finished her year of student teaching was an actual elementary school teacher this year and was losing her mind.  The life of a Japanese elementary school teacher is hectic and the life of a first year Japanese elementary school teacher is hellish.  She was at work till ten, nightly, unable to leave until her seniors left and they couldn’t leave until their seniors left who couldn’t leave until the vice principal left who then couldn’t leave until the Principal left.  It was bullshit and she was not around so much, just one or two weekends a month and even then, she was heavily burnt out.

One weekend she had attended a mandatory Nomikai, or drinking party for teachers, and gotten utterly smashed.  Mailing me that she had arrived at the station, after twenty minutes without her showing up I mailed back and got a singular reply.

In trees. Please come help me.

Just outside the flat across the little bridge toward the station, in a crop of bushes, there she was, lying  flat on her back; she had completely lost the use of her legs and tumbled over into the bushes.  I literally had to carry her to the apartment.  I think this was the only weekend in June I saw her at all.

Idle hands are the devils play thing.

So, Aya.

I had met Aya on AFF. She was 19, pre-med at some university, had braces and was a crazy kid.  She loved sex and loved being kinky.  Besides me, she was sometimes, kind of off and on again, sleeping with some 40 year old body builder who owned a private training gym in Roppongi.  His cock was about 20 centimeters long and huge and I knew this because she showed me a picture of it while she was riding me one time. Aya would get especially turned on when she could tie me up, hands above my head, and then tie up my cock and balls as well, and spend two hours licking me and making me go crazy. How she did this so well while having braces, I have no idea but it was amazingly, thankfully, not a factor.

Broke, I had borrowed thirty-thousand yen from her.  I actually paid her back too, so like, miracles do happen.

Akiko was a very cute, tall, student teacher, from Akita, whom I had  met the year before however it had taken me till June to trick her into sleeping with me, which I did and it was damned sweet because it took so long.

We had met off and on, always very platonic; a coffee here and a lunch there.  Then in June, after I had volunteered to help her at a festival for her university in Tama, we ended up back at her little apartment to eat dinner, shower, etc.  Just totally friendly, until I got some beer in her. Well, then it was making out, her face bright red from the booze, barely a single can drunk I might add, and then I had her stripped down to her conservative pink cotton panties in no time. What a body Akiko had; tall, long limbed, flat tight stomach, great firm titts and a very cute, very Japanese face with adorable yet alert brown eyes.  Laying there next to me on her futon she was really something to see and she got down between my legs on her knees and began sucking away on my throbbing cock.  I came in her mouth which, I think, shocked her as she looked totally at a loss of what to do with my load in her mouth finally with effort, gulping it down, and within five minutes I was hard again and had her turned around, ass up, face down and me pounding away.  It was all worth the wait.  Then, I borrowed thirty thousand yen from her because I was broke.

This, it turns out, really turned her off.  She was studying Cambodian in university as well, which turned me off.

Ayumi was a private student, 34 or 35, and a nurse at a hospital near Shinjuku.  I had been giving her lessons, at my flat, for about four or five months when one day, somehow, the topic of bondage and being tied up came up.  She had never been tied up so I explained that I was quite good at it, and if she ever wanted to experience that, no problem, I could help her.

Now, Ayumi wasn’t particularly pretty, but she had a nice body and a thick ass so when she said “Can you do it right now?”  I was immediately hard and up and gathering my ropes.

Tied at the wrists, behind her back, upper arms and breasts tied as well, all this over her clothing.  Then a double line of rope going from a loop around her waist down between her legs and back up her ass and tied to the wrists, this line was pulled tight putting pressure on her genitals through her jeans and she let out a very awkward and obviously uncontrollable moan/croak.  Once it was all tied up nice and tight I stepped back and sat down, staring at her.

We were in the little living room area and I was sitting down on these cream colored leather sofa chairs Peter and I had found outside some office building, while they were having a cleaning crew in, and absconded with.

“How does it feel?” I asked her, grinning.

She couldn’t even speak.  She was obviously losing her mind and sinking deep into that trance some subs can get.  Her first time, according to her, and she was already losing it and going deep.  I could see her sweating lightly and and every time she moved the ropes between her legs pulled and tugged on her clit, pussy and asshole a little more, her jeans and panties bulging up and adding to the pressure.  “Turn around and show me your ass.” I said flatly. She obeyed, slowly turning around, her legs shaking a little, and she stopped when her thick ass was facing me.

I unzipped my jeans and began jacking off.  I reached up and grabbed a handful of jeans and ass with my free hand and squeezed.  “Turn back around.”  She did and her eyes locked on my hard cock and me cranking it. “Get on your knees, Ayumi.” With a little difficulty she got down first on one knee, then the other.  I stood up right in front of her so the head of my cock actually touched her nose, pushed at the base of it awkwardly and I kept it there so she could smell my dick.  She let out a high pitched noise, kind of a moan, and I then began to rub my shaft all over her soft face, damp from sweat.  Her mouth was agape and she clearly wanted it filled, which I helped her with by grabbing a handful of her hair, and thrusting my cock, balls deep, into her mouth and throat.  The gagging and choking was immediate and epic, I let it pass and then looked at her, drool dripping from her chin now and nothing she could do but let it.

“Do you want this cock in your mouth?” I asked her, hands on my hips, cock shooting up at 45 degrees, gleaming in the lamp light with her spit and mucous all over it.

“Yes sir, please.”

Her “First time” my ass. This slut had been around the block and that was fine with me.

I gave her a royal, hour long, face fucking, finally, cumming in her mouth around eight-thirty.

Ayumi and I would move on to sex and more restraining and humiliation through June and over the summer all of it culminating in her tied up, wearing a diaper with me throwing almonds at her which she was supposed to catch in her mouth, then soon thereafter I borrowed her digital camera, and seventy-thousand yen from her, because I needed a camera to take pics of girls I was humping and the money because I was broke.

Neither of these ever got returned.

June was a busy month in 2005.



This is a chapter out of my ridiculous memoir I’m writing about my time and misadventures in Tokyo.  The title is called “J-girls.” Reader beware: I’m a horrible person and if you’re just figuring that out you haven’t been paying attention.



Although my head was largely inserted in my own ass all through 2004, I can remember clearly and state that the phone website, TokyoGaijin, and  the website Adult Friend Finder were connecting me with lots of women who were very eager to sow their wild oats.

I had no game what-so-ever at this time either. My life consisted of jogging and shadow boxing in the mornings, going to one of my schools to do as little as possible during the day , and then me dragging my sorry ass to the gym to be beaten up and exhausted after work.  Money was tight and the rice and canned tuna menu reigned supreme with Wednesday night pizza and beer, courtesy of Ayako.

I didn’t have many friends at this time, any friends really, except for the occasional coffee with another ALT after a work function. So, the loneliness coupled with my intense sexual appetite and general boredom meant I’d spend 4 or 5 hours a night reading blogs about BDSM, Japanese pick-up (nobody had ever heard of “The Game”, by Neil Strauss yet, but Japan had a structured and developed pick up community. It’s called “Nanpa”) and hanging out on AFF and TokyoGaijjin, respectively.  I was fascinated with SM, Sado-Masochism, and particularly with Japanese binding and rope work or “Shibari”.

In Japanese, “Shibari” simply means “to tie”. The contemporary meaning of Shibari describes an ancient Japanese artistic form of rope bondage.

I found “Shibari” explained well. Here you go:

The origin of Shibari comes from Hojo-jutsu, the martial art of restraining captives. In Japan from 1400 to 1700, while the local police and Samurai used Hojo-jutsu as a form of imprisonment and torture, the honor of these ancient Samurai warriors required them to treat their prisoners well. So, they used different techniques to tie their prisoners, showing the honor and status of their captured prisoner.

In the late 1800′s and early 1900′s a new form of erotic Hojo-justu evolved, called Kinbaku, the art of erotic bondage. Today, particularly in the west, the art of erotic bondage is typically called Shibari, which is an art of erotic spirituality, not a martial art.


Honor. Erotic spirituality. Samurai.


I just thought it was humiliating as hell for the person being tied up and this turned me on to no end.  Also, the feeling of domination and control one must have when the woman is utterly helpless in front of you, more than normal, seemed incredible.  I couldn’t get enough of this and devoured articles and videos and pictures.

Enter Chiho.

A find on TokyoGaijin, Chiho was 33 years old.  She looked like she was my age.  Her face was cute with a white, straight little smile and very Japanese features elsewhere; small Asian eyes, round smooth cheeks and chin and a somewhat flatter nose; baby-faced.  Her hair was straightened and colored brown and it parted down the middle.

Her body was slamming; Really  nice.  She was perhaps 5’2, naturally tanned; she had full perky breasts, a flat stomach, smooth firm thighs and a thick round ass.  Good God, that ass, I can still clearly remember it. Before we met she and I mailed for a couple of weeks and she dutifully sent me pictures of her, nearly daily, in different sexy panties, on all fours, flaring her lovely thick butt up in the air.  By the time we met the anticipation had risen to a ludicrous level.

In our mails, we had also discussed her ex-bf, some Italian and how huge his cock was.  I loved it.  I wasn’t sure why but whenever it was mentioned I imagined her being filled by it and that made me ravenous.  I was intent on devouring this little woman.

In addition to this it became clear that Chiho was submissive, Masochistic sexually, and was interested in going deeper with that.

Perfect fit? Correct.

Although I had plans to meet Ayako on Christmas Day, I decided to meet Chiho, for the first time, on Christmas eve.  I didn’t fully understand the gravity of this decision then.  In Japan, Christmas eve is the date night to end all other date nights.  It’s the night when the guy is supposed to take the girl on the most romantic date of the year.  The city is bedazzled in ridiculous and inappropriate Christmas “Illumination”. For example one display was “Merry Christmas Circus” complete with a Santa holding a ring of red lights as fire with a brilliant glowing green dragon flying through it, everyone would be out, holding hands and pretending they really liked each other.

On the other hand, Christmas day doesn’t really mean anything.  Most Japanese simply go to work as usual.  So, in my mind I had arranged to meet Ayako on the more important day, Christmas, and the new girl on the evening that didn’t really matter.

Well, it mattered to Chiho.

She showed up at my apartment with a shoulder bag and two big shopping bags from Isetan, an upscale department  store in Shinjuku.  It was about six PM. The plan was for me to cook and we would have dinner and relax, and after that, I would tie her up and do kinky things to her body all night.

Merry Christmas.

Well, she came with everything in tow; all the holiday goodies.  She’d purchased a spectacular cake at Isetan.  We had marinated olives and stuffed peppers and gourmet meatloaf with candied sweet potatoes.  Roast duck with chestnut and ricotta stuffing.  Two bottles of Champagne, the real kind not that Mexican piss, and a decent bottle of red wine, a Shiraz if I remember correctly.

Then, I had Chiho and she was falling in love with me, literally, in front of my eyes and I could see it clearly.  Oh, what tender feelings of domination and control this caused to well up inside of me.  A couple of hours after dinner and most of the bubbly gone, we were kissing and I was slowly groping her breasts and backside, purposefully taking as much time as possible to slowly take her clothes off.  She had dressed well with a tight turtle neck sweater and a dark, tight-fitting, short skirt and dark tights.  Under it all she was wearing a dark red and white matching lace thong panty and bra.  Once I had removed everything else I took several minutes to admire my present and it’s immaculate wrapping job, slowly running my hand over the back of her thigh and ass as she laid on the futon next to me.  I was…amazingly hard, but for some reason, putting off getting to it.

This would become a trend and eventually a kind of addiction for me over the years.  It’s called “pleasure delay.” The premise is simple: draw out and extend the act for as long as possible without reaching the climax.  So, when the climax comes, it’s exponentially stronger.

Sure, this is true, but there is more to it once one enters into the world of SM and bondage.  Pleasure delay is something most submissives get accustomed too and crave.  Being bond or tied or whatever, they have little control over the stimulus they’re receiving and a skilled “Dom” or dominant, will draw this out, taking time to activate and arouse all the right zones, multiple times over if he/she is really good, before getting to it and inducing a mind bending orgasm so intense it can knock the sub unconscious.

I’ve seen it. I’ve done it.  It ain’t pretty either.  The girl starts shaking and gyrating, often begging me to stop insisting she is going to pee all over herself, then either high-pitched grinding squeals or low moaning croaks, or both, can occur and then usually some drool or spit with more gyrating and then the giant moan, exhalation of breath and yeah, sometimes there is some pee, sometimes a discharge of something else and maybe even the occasional queef or fart and it’s over.

You have gained access to the Tower of Coitus, and have read the level 13 ninja scroll of FUCK.

If the Dom is watching the sub’s face, occasionally, you can see her/his eyes roll back in their head and they go limp.  They’ve passed out due to cumming to hard and or flexing the muscles in their neck or holding their breath.

The kind of open little secret which people seem to know but not talk about though, is that while the Dom is domming, putting this sub through the steps and drawing things out to maximize the masochistic helpless of it all, the Dom is actually applying the same punishment to him/her self.  While I’m forcing Chiho or Ayako or Megumi or whoever to endure this long build up to the main meal, I’m also forcing myself to endure it and that’s just self-imposed Masochism.  So, do the math, most Dom’s are also extreme subs under the right conditions.

But those conditions weren’t tonight. And Chiho-chan already had a leather collar fastened around her neck.

I’d gone out and spent some of my fortune, meaning money to pay a mobile phone bill, on a leather collar, a fair amount of hemp rope, some duct tape (red) and a ball gag.  If you aren’t familiar with ball gags, go goggle or it or better yet, try reading a different book because I’m just getting warmed up.


Soon, following instructions I’d found on some video online, she was tied up and well.  The rope started around the upper body encircling her upper arms and going above and below her breasts.  Then a knot was tied in between her breasts pulling the ropes together causing her already full titts to bulge and swell up, her nipples became instantly hard and ultra sensitive.  I played with and teased them as I continued to secure the rope work behind her, binding her arms, behind her back and crossed above the small of her back.  Her forearms and wrists securely tied but not uncomfortably so.

I then turned her around, continually flicking her nipples and quickly, without conversation, pushed the ball gag into her petite little mouth.

“Bite down on it.” I told her.

She did and I pulled the strap tightly in the back of her head which elicited a small moan from her.  Turning her back around to face me, a wave of mind numbing desire flooded over me seeing her cute soft cheeks bulging against the tight leather band of the gag, her mouth slightly agape due to the red ball filling it up, with nothing she could say or do, and her eyes…looking up at me with complete and total embarrassment and surrender.

I was so horny I nearly left the room.  I’d never been that turned on before.

Seeing this incredibly cute woman, so helpless, horny, and submissive was like what I imagine that first shot of heroin is like for junkies; just completely fucking amazing.

I felt like a lion circling a wounder gazelle.  It was my first hit on a crack pipe and I was already hooked.

I spent nearly forty five minutes working her clit, which began to swell a bit, tonguing her and fingering her.  She orgasmed, clearly with an awkward moan, while being fingered hard; three deep.  Later I took the gag off, and set her on her knees and thoroughly enjoyed face fucking her, repeatedly pushing my shaft all the way to let my balls rest on her chin and I would pet her head.  “Good girl. Good girl baby.  Does that taste amazing? Do you love that cock?”

She would just look up at me and blink and barely nod, moaning.

The gag went back on, tightly again and I proceeded to aggressively pound this little woman’s hole.  This was not a tender moment but an athletic event.  Position after position and time was flying by. I’d past the initial climax stage while I was in her mouth and now was in the marathon stage; I could go forever.  I was tall, big and fit and was unloading on this little diminutive creasture and she was absolutely all about it. Her moans were loud and eager and she made eye contact with me whenever the position allowed her to.  I was constantly talking to her “Is this what you like you horny bitch? This?” And she would moan and nod and I’d lightly slap her face.

As the hour mark approached of this combat assault on her vagina I realized I would never cum like this although she had already come again with me ontop.  So, I took a break, poured a glass of wine, and untied her slowly.  I moved to take off the gag, maybe just a slow blowjob I thought, but she stopped me.  She liked it. She liked the tight, constricting and humiliating stimulation of the gag.  After that she couldn’t even look me in the eye having revealed a new layer to her own sexual psychosis.  This really turned the heat up for me, knowing how humiliated she was but how eager too and I pounded her from behind, spanking and grabbing handfuls of her firm tanned ass cheeks, while pulling her long dark brown pony tail hard.  Grunting loudly “Fuck yes make me cum slut.” I went right to the edge and pulled out, violently jacking off and yanking her by her hair back around to face me. I stood up and pushed my dick against her face and squeezed the part just below the head and several streams of hot cum spewed up and down her face. Some of it into her nose and even her hair.  Exhausted I realized I was nearly lifting her off the ground with one hand to do this and I let her go, Chiho collapsing to the tatami floor and me immediately walking out of the room.

I walked, naked, across the apartment, the shit hole, to the front door and opened it. We were the last apartment on an open air cat walk. Freezing cold air rushed in and electrified the sweat on my chest and face and the juice covering my cock, balls and groin. With the breeze I could smell someone making nabe, or Japanese stew, and I could smell our sex.  I don’t recommend this combination, by the way.

After maybe a minute, I’m not sure, I was floating, I closed the door and walked back in grabbing a kitchen towel.

I the room Chiho was just laying there, ballgag still securely in her mouth with her eyes closed.  She didn’t move. I went over, sat down and cleaned her off.  I removed the gag.  For perhaps ten minutes we didn’t speak she just laid her head in my lap.  I then poured her a glass of wine as well, we started chatting and then I opened the present she had gotten for me, a lovely and fairly expensive cappuccino machine, I had gotten her nothing, and explained this away with an excuse about a late delivery and an undependable online vendor. She didn’t seem to care.

We drank the wine and listened to music. She stayed over.

Christmas Morning, Chiho and I had at it again, a more contemporary fashion this time though. She left after a couple of failed tries on the cappuccino machine, finally got one right and we shared it.  I gave her a kiss goodbye, said “Merry Christmas, baby” and spanked her lovely butt as she turned and walked off. I watched her go, really feeling an affection for her. I knew I would be dating her. She was a keeper, I thought to myself.  How was this girl, this woman, not married yet? She lived with her parents and clearly was in search of a partner.  It boggled my mind.

I showered, went for a run, showered again and then made a couple calls to family and changed the sheets on my futon, opened the windows and let some air in.

Ayako came over around four PM and she was carrying all kinds of goodies as well.  Before we did anything, we had sex.  And it was good. Very good. I was took the aggression up a few notches and she seemed to love it.  Pulled her hair a bit more and slapped her ass a bit harder.  She responded by bucking back into me ever harder.

I told her after that how much I cared about her, and I meant it. Ayako was a good girl, also a keeper, and I was happy she was there with me.

After all the eating  and drinking and more sex, about midnight we laid down to sleep.  In the dark, just before I slipped into the dream world, I spontaneously started giggling to myself. I couldn’t control it and it lasted for nearly a minute.  Ayako woke up and asked me if I was okay.

Yeah.  “I’m okay.” I said.

I’m incredible.





Men with swords never go hungry…

…But they do Die.

In July of 2005 I won my first kickboxing match at Differ, Ariake, for Shin-Nihon kick-boxing.  I dominated my opponent, unable to find the knock-out but easily out maneuvering him and punishing him with front kicks and body shots.  It was a relatively easy fight.

Around this time, Marcus Luttrell was doing Recon with a small group of Naval special operators, SEALS, in the mountains running along the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan.  They had a fight, not an easy one, and everyone died save Luttrell, who was badly wounded, and captured.  Eventually he was rescued and he wrote a book about it.

The book was a big hit and in 2013 the movie Lone Survivor was released and it did really well.

Since the book was written, this genre, Combat Veteran Literature or more specifically Special Operations Literature has exploded and since the release of the movie Hollywood and the media have had an orgy with Special Operations, Operators and particularly the SEAL community which seems to have embraced the publicity wholeheartedly. It’s been truly bacchanalian; Lone Survivor, American Sniper, Captain Phillips, SEAL TEAM 8 and 13 hours.  It’s been fox news interviews of SEALS and contractors and former contractors.  It’s been a parade of people talking about “Yeah, I shot a kid. I felt bad.  But praise Jesus and fuck those Muj bastards.” And then applause and praise from everyone.

The Quiet professional?  Not as of late.

I started to look at this, the hero worship of veterans, about six years ago and it began to make me nervous.  It was increasing at a feverish pitch.  Nothing goes on forever and the good times are followed by rain.  America has idolized and labeled veterans, in ways that seem unrealistic and often self serving.  If they’re pouring accolades all over you for being there to “protect our freedoms” then they don’t have to speculate as to why they were never really involved; safe at home, going to the mall, eating BBQ.  They did their part, by saying you did really well. Thank you for your service.

It all seemed pretty genuine though, if self serving, until American Sniper.  I read the book and it seemed clear to me that Chris Kyle, obviously a skilled killer and sniper, was a complete maniac and not a  man I would want to be in the same room with.  This isn’t because he kills, I have friends who have killed a lot of people and I would let them move in with me in a moment if they needed it.  But Kyle just seemed like a complete psychotic.  The movie, based on his book, was hugely successful.  Particularly with middle America.

Kyle died, by the way, murdered by another veteran.

So, as time has passed and I’ve watched the rise of the manufactured super hero veteran in the media, and I’ve talked to my friends, some of whom have scores and scores of combat patrols and kills and memories of brains splattered all over the place, my discomfort with the media produced, and seemingly government approved, “combat veteran” image has made me worry.

How long is everyone going to follow this trend? And when they stop loving veterans, what will be next? Well, what usually follows a love affair is the flip side of the coin, that’s hate.  That’s turning the back or what’s worse, seeing that former love as an enemy now.

Recently, Lone Survivor, and Marcus Luttrell have passed a phase of what was largely quite scrutiny and have come under attack.  Many of the aspects of his story have come under attack, including the numbers he claims to have been ambushed by, how they were compromised and even whether or not Luttrell fired his rifle at all.

Is his story bullshit? How much is real? People have asked similar questions about Chris Kyle and his tales.  Is it because these men lied? Or is because on the bell curve, the public and more importantly the media who control/inflame the public, have passed the top of the curve and now we are beginning to drop into the dark?  Having our own super heroes was good fun, but how many normal civilians want to sit next to a guy on the subway who can kill everyone in his immediate proximity with a fucking pencil?  I’d love to see a cop try to restrain a 250 pound operator with three combat tours because he’s refusing to be searched.

Recently, when I was in Hawaii, some people were sitting around a table outside drinking beers, twenty feet from the beach, having a great time.  Somehow, in conversation, it came up that I was a former Marine.  The owner of the house looked at me and said, smiling, clearly sarcastic but none the less pressured to say something and let out with “Uh, thank you for your service?

“Well, I never went to war or anything.  I was in before that.”

She shook her head, drunk, a little and laughed “Oh…whatever.” Laugh Laugh. Ha. Ha.

I never had anyone give more than an “Okay” ten years ago if military service came up.  Now, the hero-worship has passed a certain point and is becoming a punchline.  Soon, it’ll become an uncomfortable fact and after that will be considered a dangerous reality.

In 1876, the Samurai were banned from carrying swords.  When will it become more difficult for a veteran to get a gun than the average Joe?  Probably sooner than you think.





This is a chapter out of my horrific memoir I’m writing about my time and misadventures in Tokyo.  The title is called “J-girls.” Reader beware: I’m a horrible person and if you’re just figuring that out you haven’t been paying attention.



Kaitlin was my roommate for one year and I hated her.

I’m fairly certain she hated me too and that’s fine.  Kaitlin was from, I think, Maine.  She was older than me at the time, maybe 30, and was around 5’7”, thicker but not fat in the hips, and had oddly cut blond hair.  like someone had given her a haircut with a butter knife.  I honestly don’t know much else about her because since we loathed one another we rarely talked.

All I knew for sure about her was that she, like me but with girls, had a revolving door of Japanese and Korean men coming over.  Once, while walking back from a home party Michiko had at her huge flat in Nakano, utterly shit-faced, Kaitlin blessed me with the number of men and abortions she’d had, thus far, and it was…dull.

37 men; 2 abortions.

Living the dream.

Once, I can’t remember when exactly, I stole her bottle of Champagne because there was nothing else to drink and I was incredibly broke.  She got really upset and told me that was a special bottle of Champagne.

“Really? Because it was sparkling white wine, from Mexico, you dumb whore.” I managed, pretty buzzed.

“You’re such an asshole. I want that replaced. REPLACED.” She nearly screamed at me from across the dilapidated apartment.

“Go to hell.” And then realizing I had nothing else to drink.”Oh, hey Kait, can I borrow 500 yen?”

“Fucking die!”

She spent a fair amount of time with Yoshinori, a Japanese guy she had met, some place, who had been a boxer at one point.  I always knew when Yoshinori was over because in one of her various sloppy drunken stupors, Kaitlin had gone on and on about the impressive size, girth and length, of his dick.  So, whenever I heard Kaitlin screaming and moaning and Oh-fuck-me-God-Oh-fuck-me-Yes-ing, I knew Yoshinori was in town.

Although she spent a fair amount of time with Yoshinori, that isn’t to say the two of them were exclusive, the complete opposite actually. She stumbled home with various guys, always Asian, on the regular. And this is why nothing sexual ever happened between us: We had both caught some wicked yellow fever and the white bread simply wasn’t going to work.

Thank God.

Kaitlin also had no problem munching the carpet, and by that I mean licking vagina.  This seems to be, aside from yellow fever and similar passports, the only thing was had in common. So, I suppose that makes her “bi-sexual”.  Not a big surprise, everyone seems to be at some point and to some degree, and that’s fine with me, but for some reason whenever she brought her girlfriend around, she acted like a complete and utter bitch to me.  In retrospect, I get it: The petite Korean-American Kaitlin was playing with took Kaitlin a lot more seriously than Kaitlin took her.  Seeing that she lived with a loud, drunk, aspiring prize-fighter who regularly had women over, could not but have helped but stoke the flames of her suspicion and jealousy.  That was fine, I didn’t mind her being over, even in her bitchy moods, because seeing her cute little Korean ass moving around the flat I fantasized about the time when she’d have a bit too much to drink and Kaitlin would pass out, as she was prone to do, and then I’d let her come in my room and play with me. Me, meaning my dick; play, meaning get tea bagged. Alas, this never came to pass, however, the next best thing did.

Some Sunday, it was late in the afternoon and I was spending the day messaging people (girls) online, watching some movie while nursing some wound (injuries were omni-present as is the case when you spend your free time beating up and getting beaten up by some of the best fighters in the world) and trying to make it to four before I began drinking.  I could hear those two, Kaitlin and her Korean buddy, messing around in the kitchen, and being the out going type of person I am, I decided to have a chat.

I slid open the Japanese style door to my room, and stepped out.  I was wearing a black t-shirt with a dragon on it and the words HONG KONG across the bottom and some old jeans.  I casually leaned against the wall outside my door, now taking in the scene: Kaitlin at the small kitchen table chopping up various veggies and her friend, bent over slightly rummaging through the fridge opposite me, looking for something.  She was just wearing tight little training shorts and I was immediately erect and throbbing.   Maybe this could work somehow.

“Hey, ladies…” I said, smiling, now realizing I had to pull my boner up into the waistband of my boxer-briefs immediately or they’d be getting the show, way ahead of schedule. I managed to pivot, reach and adjust, then pivot back just as the Korean turned around.

She just stared at me for a moment, then kind of rolled her eyes and turned toward Kaitlin.

“Hey, baby, do we have any Olive oil?” Do WE have?

Kaitlin replied.

“Yeah, we should have some on the shelves.  I bought a big bottle a few weeks ago.”

Olive oil? Uh-oh.

“Hey, uh, haha…actually I think I might have finished that up.” I said, smiling, still looking at the hard body little Korean bitch.  Kaitlin then, dramatically, stopped chopping up unidentifiable vegetables, and turned toward me holding the knife.  Gesturing at me with the knife, like it was her index finger, she started to purge.

“All of it? You used all of it? Like, how? You don’t even cook. Eric, you don’t even cook.”

“Well, I cook pretty regularly.” I did.

“You make rice and then open two  cans of tuna fish and dump it in the rice and then stir it up with some salt and pepper. That’s what you cook.  I have never seen you cook anything else. Ever. So, how did you use all that olive oil? Jesus…” Knife blade pointing and gesturing. The damn sexy Korean stared right at me scowling, arms crossed across her titts.  I was beginning to get annoyed and my horniness was increasing.

“Yeah so, well, I use olive oil in the dish.” That was true.

“Dish? It’s not a fucking dish.  It’s rice and canned tuna. Jesus. You always use my stuff and don’t replace it. You always do this. What the fuck? You always use all my stuff and it’s really annoying, Eric.”

OK, this was becoming ridiculous.  All her stuff?

“Kaitlin, yes, I finished the olive oil. Soooo sooorrryyyy. I can go get you another one. Right now.  What else have I used of yours? What?”

Her voice got quite.  Then nearly a whisper…

“The Champagne my friend gave me for my birthd…”

“It was sparkling white wine…”

“…day and you never replaced it even though I asked you to and I told you how impor…”

“It was from fucking MEXICO.” Now, I was motioning back at her with knife hand gestures and was standing up straight.

She was now yelling.

“It was MY Champagne and YOU stole it and YOU never replaced it ERIC!”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I moaned.  Then I turned, went back into my room, grabbed my wallet and turned again and walked throw the flat toward the door passing between the lesbo Twinkie and Kaitlin.

“I’ll go get some more olive oil. Jesus. Kaitlin, do you hear me? I’m going to get it and if I see a bottle of fucking spick sparkle juice I’ll replace that as well. Comprehende?”

I was pulling on my shoes at the front door and just as I walked out I heard the Korean say “You should totally kick him out.”

When I came back the kimchi was no place to be seen, maybe in Kaitlin’s room, and I took my shoes off, walked in and dropped the shopping back with the olive oil in it on the chopping board over Kaitlin’s shoulder with a crash.  I then walked into my room and slid the door closed.

I sat in my room, kind of half-heartily masturbating, alternating between Japanese internet porn and imagining the things I would love to do to the Korean hard body as I began to smell the cooking.

It smelled good.

Obviously Thai, the curry smells mingled with the aroma of the onions and other vegetables, no meat because Kaitlin was a vegetarian.  It smelled good.  I was hungry.

I got up, put my gear away and then slid my door open and walked into the kitchen.

“Smells good. What are you cooking?”

I got no answer.

“Did you use the olive oil? Did it help?”

No answer.


Nothing. Silence. A pot softly boiling away.

“Well, anyway it smells good.” I looked at her back, she was standing by the stove stirring her curry.  I reached in the fridge and grabbed a tall Asahi beer.  I rolled my eyes, then walked back into my room.

Over the next hour I drank two more tall boys, the 500 milliliter cans, and I heard Kaitlin and the Twinkie chatting about the intricacies, Jesus, of making vegetarian Thai curry and corn cakes.  They were also drinking wine, giggling and whispering.  I caught a lot of “He is such a…” and “How does he ever get laid?” and “I would never….”

My agitation began to mount.  Then, a plan hatched in my mind. A good plan.

I slowly slid my door open a fraction and peaked out, they were gone.  I stood up and carefully opened the door and tip-toed across the narrow apartment till I could see Kaitlin’s bedroom door closed and could hear them watching TV inside.  I went to the stove and carefully lifted the lid on the curry; it smelled absolutely amazing.  Very slowly and carefully I got a bowl from the shelf and I ladled a good amount into the bowl. I then opened the small oven and removed two of the twenty or so corn cakes and put them in the bowl.  Then, I turned to tip-toe back to my room, but stopped suddenly, realizing two things.

First. I opened the little fridge carefully and got another 500ml/40 ounce tall boy out and put it in my back pocket.  Then, I squared up with the stove.

What happened next simply occurred. I hadn’t known I was gonna do this and even while I had grabbed the beer the idea had not yet manifested in my consciousness but it was there now and events played out in real time.

I unzipped my jeans and pulled my dick out.  I then began to urinate into the curry. 1500 milliliter’s of Asahi dry filled up a good amount of the space left in the pot. The relief from this evacuation coupled with the giddy excitement imagining one or both of them walking out and catching me was a unique juxtaposition. I then carefully stirred it up and replaced the lid.  I then turned around, picked up my bowl of curry and tip-toed back into my room, sliding the door closed.

I opened the beer and enjoyed it with the curry, which was slightly spicy and full of veggies and tofu.  It all contrasted well with the slight sweetness of the corn cakes. I was thoroughly satisfied if not slightly bummed out that getting seconds wasn’t an option. Then I heard her door open and they came into the kitchen, giggling, clearly a little drunk from the wine, and I heard the clinking and clanking of bowls and spoons, the pot lid coming off and the Korean saying “Oh god, Kaity, it smells so amazing!”

“Well, it’s taken me a long time to get the recipe just right. But it’s one of my best now.”

I bet it is, K-a-i-t-y. I bet it is. But you’ll never make a batch quite like that again.

Not only did they both finish the curry, I know this because they both had seconds, and the little tight ass Korean had thirds.  That was better than any punishment I could dish out with my monster, as far as I was concerned.



gaijinassbannerJacked and Tan.

According to Websters dictionary the definition of the above is:

Every mans goal for the summer. This usually involves spending at least 2 and a half hours at the beach wearing tanning oil and spending a vast majority of the day at the gym.

How correct you are dear Webster.  The Jacked and Tan craze has taken over the world and that means yes, even Japan.  As we can clearly see in the definition above, unless you’re black and workout in a park, and if so that’s awesome and please have a nice day, a gym membership is required to be taken seriously.

Herein lies the problem: Japan plus gym memberships. Or rather, Japanese men and gym memberships, or ever more specifically Japanese men and their total lack of gym locker room etiquette.

There, I said it: Japanese guys spend a lot of time looking at dicks and walking around with theirs out in the locker room.

International Standards

I’ve been naked all over the world.

I mean, naked.

A fair amount of this nakedness has transpired in locker rooms. Locker rooms and Handicapped bathrooms, mostly.

Being unclothed is a natural part, in fact some might say an integral part of being human and it is particularly necessary at the gym.  The locker room is where this all occurs so unless you want to be like that effeminate dork who insisted on changing clothes in the coaches off in high school, embracing this aspect of life and mastering some of the rules of locker room etiquette are essential.


….mastering some of the rules of locker room etiquette are essential.



I’m talking to you, Japan.

1.Choice of Locker

This is a large room which is literally filled with lockers, ten people are in here and you have decided to use the locker directly next to mine?  Wrong.

It’s a lot like when you’re on the train at an off time; plenty of space everywhere, but this guy comes in and stands shoulder to shoulder with you. Now, occasionally, sure, this man is just doing that in order to grope your genitals.  However, other times it’s more benign: he just doesn’t understand he should move to the most remote location possible when other men are undressing.   Choose an area with some pace and move away from me for both our sake’s.

2. No prolonged eye contact


Maybe I’m walking one way and you another but there’s no reason for us to be staring at each other up to and just before collision.  Why am I staring into your eyes? Good question. But I’m certain that you shouldn’t be deeply staring into mine either so cut that shit out.  Conversely…

3. Don’t completely ignore me

I don’t need you to see the heavens in my eyes but I also don’t need to be passing by someone and have them pretend like I am not actually there.  We pass each other or are forced, due to crowded conditions, to have lockers near each other, well OK, lets at least nod to one another and then carry on.  We don’t need to hug or high-five but a nod or a glance is comforting and banishes any necessity for us to talk.

4. Don’t hang out naked



Yes, in fact it is bothering me.

You come into the locker room clothed and you leave it this way as well.  But for some reason far, and I mean far, too many Japanese men seem to think the locker room is a magical realm in which they may prance around completely naked for prolonged and uncomfortable amounts of time.  Sure, it’s all just human anatomy, I know, I grew up in Europe, but even then I don’t recall people hanging out texting and playing candy crush totally naked.  Come in, change and then get out.

5. No Phones out of the locker

prohibitedThis should be common sense, really it should, but alas it is not.

There is no reason for you to be wandering around the locker room, naked, with your phone.  Important text message or email? reply to it with your phone in the locker.  No reason for it to come out. While in the locker room we should all be focused on the necessary washing and changing to facilitate our rapid exit for this place.  Anything slowing that down is a no go.  I understand well the necessity of snapping a post workout selfie catching that all elusive pump, which never happens in my gyms because the Japanese don’t know anything about weightlifting; more on this later, but no, just put it away.  We aren’t going to catch any sweet royalties for those greasy pics you’re about to post of us on so cut it out and keep the phone stowed away.

6. No Junk Staring


This is the men’s locker room. By default this means all of us have male genitalia.  Sure, most of yours is oddly under-developed, like me coming out of a thirty minute ice bath, but the basic design specs are all the same. So, is it really necessary for you to stare at my dick like that?

No. No, it isn’t. So stop it, Japan.  I’m not even a shower, I’m a grower.

There’s really no excuse.