A Chikan of Many Colors

Chikan: A guy that feels on girls on the train (according to Websters)

If you live in Japan or if you simply have a an interest in this countries diverse selection of Erotic “how-to-do-it-yourself” Adult films, then you have heard of Chikan.

It’s even more likely that instead of just hearing about it, you in fact have experienced it.  A crowded early morning, or late night (pick your poison), train.  No place to move. You think “Bodies haven’t been packed into train cars this tight since Auschwitz!” Yes you do, you think that.

Anyway, you begin to “go monk” and allow the zen to over take you and just as your inner eye begins to open, “grope-grope”, someone is rubbing your ____________ (body part) with their ______________ (body part) that you hope is their _______________ (case, satchel or other baggage item) that you then sadly realize is their _______________________ (body part the bathing suit covers).

It isn’t the worst thing in the world, especially if you’ve ever been to prison or have watched an episode of “The Mentalist“, but it’s no party with free beer and bikini girls either.

"I thought you said BIKINI GIRLS not HELPLESS RAPE TRAIN!"

Now, I am a guy- A big guy at that, so my experience is sure to be limited, on the receiving end anywaywink wink (Ha! come on, that was funny), although it does exist.  So, if someone as non-approachable as me has had trouble, then all you women out there are sure to have been well worked over.  Especially when you keep dressing all slutty like that…come on, you know you do it on purpose.

Today I had the misfortune/fortune(?) of witnessing some fairly dedicated (skilled?) Chikan shenanigans  on the Chuo line as it rushed out to the Hachioji area and I think these  deserve a talking about.

Before I explain what transpired, and before I try to detail the whole fairly ridiculous mess of it, a much-needed word on….

Uniformity

So far, I have heard many  stories of the Chikan variety and every time such a story is told it initially begins with something like…

“Holy shit you won’t believe what just happened to me!”                                                      “Hmmm….some guy just grabbed your tits?” This is when I sip my drink and look bored.  “Oh my god totally!”

Then, what comes next are the intricate details as party X tries to explain to party Y what level of Chikanery (I invented this word, now) has transpired.

Today I propose to circumvent all that shit.  If I wanted lots of details about anything other than hot women and their preferred tastes in lingerie, complete with sizes and preferably photos, than I would start dating a vegan named Andrew and I’d subscribe to International male or just buy an i-pad (Burn! You know who you are, FAG).

Let’s save everyone some time.

From this day forward I propose that we simply use a simple color coding system to quickly and efficiently explain what level of Chikan we were/are dealing with.

See table Chikan-65.

Now we all have a universal system with which to impart our shock and disgust.

An example of the new paradigm in action:

“Oh my god yeah, total Chikan code Yellow but then, when more people got on, it became a “Shallow” yellow-orange. Fucking gross!”

This is going to save a load of time and cut down on a lot of nonsensical talking and listening and empathizing.  But really, when it comes to it, this would help big time.  On the train, someone is Chikaning you something serious, a friend near by that also loves this blog and reads it obsessively is near at hand and you scream “Code Orange, Code Orange! He’s a fucking Code Orange!”  Your friend leaps into action and voila, you have a decent shot at getting some cash from this pervert.

Notes: Please do not abuse this system.  This is being put in place to help those who find themselves either tongued tied after these experiences (so much easier to come into the bar, head down and just mumble “Another Code Yellow…another…damn yellow…” than to give details) or too terrified to think rationally during the event.

Note #2: If you find yourself all the way in a “Deep code Red” either bite the bullet and give him your number, or realize that this won’t end until you sprint away or he tells you about his favorite game that  predictably rhymes with “grape”.

Rainbow me Chikan

The Chuo line whipped along and somewhere around Mitaka this guy got on with a stripped shoulder bag.  He wasn’t too tall, about 165, but he was built. Particularly in the traps and shoulders.  This is why I noticed him initially.

I know, that sort of sounded gay. It wasn’t.  You should see my collection of Hetero-sexual books.

Brownish and red dyed hair with a large flop of it hanging across his face in an attempt, I think, to hide his acne which betrayed his age as not being above 22 or 23.

For whatever reason, he stood just next to me.  I was as usual tucked into a corner by the bench and door reading a book (the non-gay kind) and checking out the morning talent.  I don’t know why but this guy caught my eye and it wasn’t just the jeans and the plaid shirt and the faggy bag or the traps and delts (indicators that he trains, is a possible physical threat so I have to CARVER the situation and decide how to kill him if necessary. Really, I do this routinely.) or the greasy hair.  It was his posture.  He was standing very still.  This caused me to look at him and although I couldn’t confirm it, just in front of me to my 11 o-clock was a junior high school girl, a KID, about 13 or 14 and grease ball was standing almost directly behind her. Danger Close.

The train was busy but there was some space. No need to be “butt to nut”. The lights then went on in my head and I started paying attention.  The girl gave away none of the tell-tale signs: posture going erect, flinching, moving to the side or looking down at the floor.  So I thought that although his hand was out of sight, I might be jumping the gun.

Well I wasn’t.

Next station the kid got off and a late 20 something woman got on. Sort of cute wearing a light black cardigan and beige knee-length shorts she got on the train then turned around to face the door.  That’s when he, grease ball, clearly went CODE YELLOW, and I could see it all.

He slid up to cover the few inches separating them but left enough space so to me, and only me, his hand was visible.  Back of the hand, gently brushing up against the middle of the girls butt.  At first again, the motion was so subtle I doubted what I was seeing, but like the chart says, he began to move his hand more assertively.  Then after the third or fourth rub the girl sort of stiffened up and it was time to do something.  The younger girl I figured out had been too short. He would have been rubbing her lower back.  It wouldn’t have set off the same alarm bells.  Now, he was right in the area where the cleavage of the butt rolls down into the “valley of abundant pleasures” as my ole cell mate liked to say.

Now, for various reasons, I avoid cops at all costs.  This meant slugging this guy was out of the question.  In addition to that, frankly, Code Yellow is not something that I think warrants a fist, or even a word to be passed between the Chikan and whoever else is around.

In a code Yellow situation, I honestly feel that the victim can move. On this train in particular, this girl had a wide variety of options yet she didn’t move away.  I have heard the tails of mothers telling daughters, that if they stop a Chikan he will follow her home and rape her till her eyes fall out.  But in all likelihood, this paralysis,  it has more to do with power and institution having so much legitimacy in Japan.  Chikan, for better or worse is a sort of institution here and at its lower levels, Yellow and even Orange, most women tolerate it.

They endure, they “GANBARU!”.

Maybe they do this out of fear, but more likely it’s simple embarrassment or perhaps they don’t want to “make a scene” and involve other passengers on the train.  Whatever the reason, frankly I don’t care, or respect it.  If someone is rubbing on you in a way you dislike and you do not move, you get little sympathy from me.

Conversely, if you move and he follows, I have to do something.  So when she finally  began inching away, in the most meek way physically possible, and he adjusted his position to compensate, it wasn’t really about protecting her, but more about me being offended that this guy didn’t even have the tact to TRY and hide this and that annoyed me.  I felt like he was involving me in his perv show without my consent and that well, groped, me in the wrong way.

So I leaned forward and stepped on his foot,  really hard.

“Oh…Su-mi-ma-sen.” I said and put on my best shit eating grin.

That is when things got really interesting.

At that moment as he turned to look up and over at me, the train stopped, the doors opened, the girl jumped out and took off and then our eyes met.  He looked right at me with a stare that had no anger in it.  He was not trying to convey wrath or dislike or displeasure in any way.  What his hollow, bored expression said to me so clearly he might as well have written me a note and held it in front of my face was:

“Really? You give a fuck?”

I have to admit, I was rather taken a back by this.  Because at that moment I realized I actually didn’t.  I think it’s crummy that he rubs on girls, but unless I saw him do something more grievous, I doubt I could get upset enough to smack him in the teeth.  My mind also expanded a bit and I understood that no matter what, short of breaking his legs or stabbing him with a broken bottle or strangling him with an old, rusty bicycle chain, he was going to do the same thing whenever the hell he felt like it.  That is, until some woman puts a stop to it.

As all this was processing the train was rolling and we held the stare for what felt like an hour but was likely ten seconds.  Then he glanced over his shoulder, then looked forward, and almost as if he had it timed to the second, the train switched to another track, giving his balance a reason to falter and he “fell” back a bit, his left hand going back and firmly touching the rump of the women behind him. Palms down.

Fucking CODE ORANGE.

Right there in front of me.  The balls on this guy.

My mouth actually opened a bit in shock and surprise.  This guy is good.  He’s horrible, but he is really good at what he does. Him doing a backward 180 degree ass grope looked as natural as two gay guys fighting over whose mustache chafes more.  Amazingly, the woman he had grabbed, a late twenty something in a long light blue skirt, didn’t seem to respond at all despite the grab being a clear and healthy palm, full of her ass.

I guess my conclusion is simple.  It’s the only one I could take from this incident.  If women are not willing to make their physical space very well-known and define boundaries clearly in these situations then frankly they can shut up about it.

I am not a knight in shining armor who can spend his mornings patrolling the trains looking for damsels in distress who refuse to do something as easy as clear their throat loudly and flick their shoulders hard to ward off a Code Yellow in progress.

Ladies, you have to help yourselves.  If I see a gang of guys trying to pull you into an alley, it’ll be all fists and front kicks but on the train, you need to step it up.  Fuck the institutions, and “Gaman” can go to hell. Stick up for yourselves.

"Remember, Japan invented arm breaking, so never forget that everytime a wrist snaps, a Zionist gets hit in the eye with a Palestinian dirt glod. It's called Karma, I invented it."

Read more about Chikan culture in Groper Train: Search for the black pearl or read about the time this crazy girl tried to rape me in Crazy Woman gropes me on Train

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