Sex in Japan



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.







Ecchi (エッチetchi?, pronounced [et.tɕi]) is an often used slang term in the Japanese language for lewd or lascivious conduct.


“So, how many then?”

“Over 300.”

“Really?” I took a sip of my whiskey. “Over a span of…?”

“5 years.  I have it all recorded, on a spread sheet.  You have to record it all.”

“Jesus, that’s alot, man.”

“Japanese girls, man. Sex. They are fuckin’ obsessed with it.”

I have a theory and it is nothing more than a theory.  It’s based on personal experience and on things I have  seen and heard about. I am a fairly observant person and I pick up on the things behind what people are saying.  I think about these hints and clues and I often wonder what they mean.

Returning to my theory, it is as follows:  If we could some how sit down a random selection of foreign men in Japan and then subsequently pump them all full of a suitable amount of Sodium Amytal and then we asked them clearly “During the first 25% of your tenure in Japan, what was your primary motivation for sticking it out?”  The over arching theme, I am guessing, would be simply SEX.

It is everywhere all the time and the concept that nearly HALF the female population has “zero interest in it” is laughably absurd.

Sexless Japan?

Everyone has read the reports and heard the statistics: The Japanese are not having sex and the birthrate is plummeting.  The younger generations are celibate and they have lost interest in intercourse, relationships and sex in general.

Half the country just stopped getting-it-on.

Or did they?


Prostitution is rampant in Japan.  It is simply everywhere.  Street workers, clubs, “Compensated dating”, pro-escorts, “delivery health” (Domi-hoes, anyone?) and etc.  It is incredibly accessible and is a huge business.  The image is different from in other countries as well.  To many Japanese it is viewed almost as some sort of “Necessary Evil”.  Many Japanese women (many, by no means all and I have no stats on this) have said as long as her man keeps it hush-hush a trip to a love hotel with a hooker is preferable to him dating a woman on the side.  In fact, in some families, this money is allotted by the wives (who traditionally manage family expenses) and given out to the husbands monthly; “don’t ask don’t tell” what this extra 25,000 yen is for.

The numbers do not lie either.


As we can see above Japan moves 24 BILLION DOLLARS a year around in prostitution money.  That’s a lot. It’s even more when we take a moment and carefully look at these numbers in context.  The population of Japan, everyone (mommies, kids, grandaddies, angry salary men, your girlfriend etc) is about 127,650,000 people.  That means, based on these numbers, last year everyone one in Japan, everyone, could have spent about 188 dollars on hookers.

China however, although having spent 73 billion on the sex trade has a population of 1,393,783,836 meaning every single person in the country only had about 52 dollars to spend on some ass.

Now, some of you are jumping to conclusions. “But, in China it would be so much cheaper, just like everything else, including human life.”

But would it, really?


In Shanghai an hour with a woman of the night will cost you around 360 USD. Tokyo? 160 USD. What’s more, I know that four blocks from where I am writing this a man can wander into a shop and have inter-course with a woman for less than 100USD; not in an alley full of dirty needles but in a “clean” love hotel. And that is the point:

The population is smaller with an economy allegedly in a recession yet someone, some how is spending nearly DOUBLE what the entire United States does, with a population twice the size and prices twice as high, on sex.  That’s big business and that’s big sex.  That is really a lot of sex with prostitutes, Japan.


Enter the Porno

Shimiken is the Bruce Lee of Japanese pornography.  Details magazine did a piece on him worth reading if you like feeling soiled.

Although the motivations and life style of some guy who makes sex videos does not interest me much, the numbers in the industry matter if anyone is going to spout things such as “The Japanese have lost interest in sex.”

Because, have they, even?


As we see in this KAWAII!!!! infographic, the “average” Japanese consumer spent 157 USD per year on porn.  That is TRIPLE what the average American consumer spends.  Now, a high-class thought experiment:  Are these people buying porno to collect it and let it age aesthetically hoping to slowly appreciate it with snooty friends decades from now? Or, are they buying this material so they can take it home and furiously jack-off to it?

I’m no Noam Chomsky, but I am leaning more toward “furiously jack-off to it”.


The Orgasmic Conclusion

Despite the epidemic of “sexless” marriages and the plunging birthrate the data is clear.  The Japanese have not “lost interest in sex” and they have not become “celibate”.  They have, likely for a combination of nebulous culture reasons, gradually decided to engage in sexual escapades outside of the “conventional” borders of a “romantic relationship.”  This likely goes for men as well as women.

Sex is not broken here, but the traditional Japanese relationship dynamic might be.

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A love hotel is a type of short-stay hotel found around the world operated primarily for the purpose of allowing couples privacy for sexual activities.

Love hotels are everywhere in Japan.  A lot of people continue to live with family well into their thirties and people need a place to get their freak on.  Love Hotels provide such a place and this is not a new story.  However, in my travels on foot around Ikebukuro I have made some interesting discoveries and there are mysteries I am trying to figure out in order to write about them.  Some include the Yakuza, some the Triads, some the Cops, legions of homo-erotic loving female teenagers, some bizarre “ghost” properties and the connections these have with the aforementioned groups.  One thing I have found without a doubt, Ikebukuro is a strange and unique place.  The tour is starting here:


This is about half way down “Heiwai dori” or “Peace Street” just north of the north exit at Ikebukuro station. It’s peaceful in that the street is laid in red brick and I have never seen any of the prostitutes, who lurk in every corner, beating each other up. Peaceful. This might have something to do with the police presence in the Koban at the southern and northern ends of the street.   Aside from a tolerable little bakery, a curry shop and a couple of bars there isn’t much more on this  street except for  “working hotels” and by that I mean hotels the pros take johns to.

Let me explain, being snarky, I had planned to title this “7 great spots to take hookers to in Ikebukuro”.  But due to my uh, journalistic integrity, I could not in all good conscience do this.  Why?  Most pros don’t meet clients in the Love Hotels I will show you on here. You can see them going into and leaving the very bland and often shabby establishments that don’t even offer a “Stay” rate.  It’s always a uniquely Japanese sight to see some hooker bowing to the gentleman she has just finished with and them both exchanging the same language Salary men and Office workers use when finishing a meeting or the work day.

I am not here writing a step by step on finding hookers in Ikebukuro.  You can find info on that here or here.  But I take this route a couple of times a week to and from the gym located on the East side and it’s never a boring walk.  It also ties in well with some other things I will post about in the near future.  Consider this a warm up.

So if you are coming south up Heiwa Dori from Ikebukuro’s north exit take a right onto a smaller black asphalt street where the map indicates.  Walk to the second right and turn again.  This is what you will see.


We can start by taking a look at “Hotel Room.”



Reasonable rates for the young couple.  I doubt much “resting” transpires, however. Nice VIP room.


Little tacky Las Vegas creeping in here but one will not miss “Hotel Casablanca”. Of this I am sure.  Rates? Amenities?


But of course.  Not sure what that blender like object is there for.

Next we have “Xavier’s School for gifted Youngsters…”


“…and people who just want to have sex a lot.”


There are many smaller hotels on the strip but these are the exclamation points visually.  At the end of the strip there is a run down no frills type joint used by the professionals and to the left, the tunnel under the road, which looks like a secondary location for a scene out of IRREVERSIBLE.


I have tipped my hat and bid a good evening to several ladies of the night waiting for someone on my way home from the gym passing along this little street of dreams.

Now, why would someone purposefully take this filthy walk several times a week?  Other than this being the fastest way from door to door, home to gym, once we pass through this alley and turn left going up the steps, the view regularly has me standing and staring again, even after ten years, inspired.


Check back for the tour will continue. And it just gets weirder.

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There can be only one.-Highlander

American girls are like orhpans, clueless to the facts of life, its Cruel Intentions, and doomed to do it over and over again. All the while Japanese school girls have to deal with crazy mother fuckers with a Machine Gun and mechanical tentacle rape robots.  Is it fair? Surely not. But it is worth a little talking about.


U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

There really is no use trying to construct some nonsensical overly elaborate ruse at this point because hey, we all know the desperate biological, evolutionary FACT: School girls just really do it for us (men and Lesbos anyway). The small bones of a teenager with the (hopefully) full and firm breasts of a female capable of producing many, many babies for us, the skin tight and smooth, the physical form sculpted and perfect. All things Evolution has taught us to want biologically as men.  Culturally pardonable no it is not.  Something many want yet must say no to, a lot like assassinating one’s own boss, yes.

The institutions surrounding school girls in the USA and school girls in Japan are quite different and have been purposefully manipulated to be that way based on two very opposing cultural concepts. Sexy and cute.

It would almost be worth our time to call this a battle of CUTE vs SEXY. Perhaps we should elaborate while you hold off spanking to that admittedly enticing tentacle shot for just a moment.

In America the image of the High school _____________ (club or after school activity title), fill in the blank to suit whatever does it for you- Horny dumb Cheerleader, Pretentious Valedictorian, Pliable Rhythmic gymnast, Flute lead chair (band camp), drunk party girl, dirty goth chick and full sloppily large breasted dunce girl that should be in the special class that will do-anything-for-a-snickersbar all have one appealing quality and that quality is SEXY. Sexy reigns supreme in the West and it’s fueled by evil greedy corporations that staple sexy to anything they can get their filthy paws on:

CEO MAN: “Buy this new kind of soda-pop that tastes like racoon piss with tang and some old coffee.”
MEN: “Uh….no.”
CEO MAN: “But can you see this ad here with this hot slutty looking school girl and her equally slutty best friend, also a school girl, are wrapping their mouths around the full circumference of the can?”
MEN: “Right, pass the coon piss.”

SEXY sells us shit we dont want. It does this with ease.
The undenaiable Sexiness of School girls is continually kept alive and burning by the passing of the torch from predatory college frat guys, to bitter over the hill 30 something mommies, to horny fathers gourging their visual processes on dainty yet fully endowed and ovulating sweet 17 year olds. Sexy is the concept that drives all these actions and fantasies and complexes and obsessions.



Things work a bit differently in WTF JAPAN LAND….

Japan is dominated by one solid singular word and that word is CUTE. (FUN FACT! Cute or KAWAII in Japanese was first coined in THE TALE OF GENJI in which it referred to sad, weak and pitiable qualities. Today it is the most often observed adjective in the Japanese Language. Particularly amongst the stupid.) If one other thing could be proclaimed as the glue holding Japan together it would likely be ALCOHOL, but that is another article.

CUTE dominates japan and smashes all naysayers with a giant, glittering, shiny-stickers-of-smiling-koalas-and-big-blue-eyed-muffins BEDAZZLED pink Sledge hammer. Smash! Smash! KAWAII!

No mercy is shown. The epitome of CUTE in Japan and the singular driving force behind entire markets of clothing, music, books, websites and porno are all hanging on the every last word of the culturally cute powerhouse known as JOSHI KOSEI or SCHOOL GIRLS. Helpless and horny, the sheer CUTE factor of everything from their uniforms, to their hair, to their mannerisms and interests is mind boggling (also read: Mind NUMBING)

The pink sledge-hammer impacts the uninitiated with the force of an A-bomb being ridden to fruition by a 16-year-old so demure and petite that the boys at ground zero in Nagasaki looking up could very well be seen shrugging, helpless and rendered boner-tized, the second coming of their apocalypse a meer after thought. The plaid skirts, the sailor outfits, the tight blue socks or the loose white socks. The loafers mutated to half-hearted sandals on tiny feet oddly yet enticingly pointed at seemingly impossible inward angles. The peace signs and head tilts. The cries of incompetence and lack of critical thinking skills that bring males of all ages flocking to assist/seduce/grope/attack.

There is no competition.

The true Queen of Japan is a School girl. The Prime Minister may as well collect used school girls panties. For this elevated place on the pedestal, the JK (Joshi Kosei) are the object of every lunatics sex fantasy in which he rapes a girl into loving him. Over 60% of all pornography in Japan is involving school girls and 40 percent is attacking said school girls. They are the principal (yet hardly the only target) for the infamous train gropers and panty thieves and thousands of websites exist for the sole purpose of posting clandestine photos of these girls “accidentally” flashing some ass while walking upstairs. Highschool girls in Japan are the Holy Grail of fuckable objects. Cute and its unbreakable relationship with Japans school girls is brutal and total in its control.

Flee young school girl, flee!

“Run you fool! Run for your innocence! Which I know has already been stolen!”

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Japan’s Sexual Economics 101

Note: This is the first post in a series revolving around the monetization of sex in Japan and the mechanisms with which the society and people both in charge and in the rank and file deal with these phenomenon. This is not intended to be a piece dealing with moral implications or abstract concepts such as “Right” or “Wrong”, or other ambiguities.

Life…is rarely simple, in fact it’s usually like this dream I have where I walk behind a Kentucky Fried Chicken and see a fat Jewish guy wearing a filthy, ill-fitting clown suit, greedily sucking on a glass dildo full of Butter Scotch. Yeah. I wake up feeling fucking violated but also really craving a sundae.

24 hour….fitness?

After first arriving in Tokyo in 2004, within a mere 10 days I was deteriorating physically. The combination of high amounts of alcohol and a very stagnant existence devoted almost purely to scouring the internet for work opportunities and long, aimless walks down alley ways at midnight had taken a toll.  All that and the hours of compulsive masturbation.

On day ten I had wandered into a small barber shop in West Shinjuku to get a trim in order to stay sharp for my yet to be scheduled job interviews. The haircut was a travesty and the experience was ridiculous.

Travesty and Ridiculous; two words that describe the haircut I got, aptly shown above, and Corey Feldman's career.

As I stumbled out of the tiny little barber shop, directly across the narrow wet street, was a black tented door with the words “24 hour Health Club” printed on it in pink letters.

The idea of paying a little cash to get under some iron and work up a sweat seemed like a decent trade-off.   There hadn’t been quite as much ninja-battling as I had anticipated before arriving in Japan and I was losing condition but quick.  I was tense and on edge, my future plans unsure. The act of exercising seemed to be just what I needed at that moment. I wasted no time and strolled inside.

One might say that the pink lettering on the door should have set off more bells than it did, but having been bombarded with nothing but strobing neon images culminating in sensory overload for the last ten days I gave it literally no consideration.  I had been to Palm Springs.  I knew Pink didn’t mean “Men that do growth Hormone and love Cock sex ONLY”.

Inside I walked through a short black hallway into what seemed to be some sort of waiting room. I stood there dumbly looking around the tiny room at the little sofas, the Lava lamp. I summoned all my intellect to figure out “What the hell kind of Gym is this?”. At that moment an older Japanese woman came out from around another corner and literally gasped jumping back a solid foot when she saw me standing there.

Her tiny hands shot up to form the ever present “X” shape signaling “No foreigner, no no no.” Then holding this strong “X” shape in front of her body and vigorously shaking her head “no” she inched towards me. It was like I was a servant of satan sent to feast on her fleshy children.  I was that white demon.
I felt profoundly absurd.

My mind floundered for a Japanese word out of the ten or so I had in my head that might help.

Out of the two that came to mind (Rape/Goodbye)  “Sayonara” seemed appropriate.

Within 2 minutes I was back on the wet street facing the black door and the pink letters. A late, fat rain drop fell on my forehead and I reached up to brush some hair off the back of my neck. Turning around, I realized someone was behind me.  The 60 something year old Barber who had so successfully mangled my hair only moments earlier was in fact, that someone.

He was standing just outside the door way of his shop, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Ironically enough his hair was badly disheveled and disturbing, a white tuft sprang out at an odd angle from his upper left temple. His arms were in front of him, outstretched as if holding something but nothing was there and he was pumping his pelvis forward in a taunting, awkward motion; the international signal for “Doggy style.”  I did quick mental math.

Come on dude I paid you already!

OH! So THAT’S WHY you gave me this hair cut?!

Wait it wasn’t that….

My eyes looked into the window of his little Barber shop and I saw his wife holding a dust pail full of my hair, a broom in her other hand, a smile broad, broken and crooked on her round spectacled face…her hair a disconcerting shade of purple which filled me with a nameless dread.

I looked back at the Barber as he took the cig in between two fingers, exhaled smoke while continuing his convulsive movements and said with a smile “Japaneesa Fuck fuck…fuck fuck….good.” He then proceeded to cackle uncontrollably while giving me a dilapidated thumbs up.  At that point a small part of me died and I managed a categorically grotesque smile.

I smiled the smile you use when your 90-year-old grandmother lets all the food shes eating, the turkey and cranberry sauce, slowly slide out of her mouth into her lap at Thanksgiving dinner, right in front of everyone. Your mouth moves up, your eyes search wildly for an escape route, a rocket pack, an Uzi.

To say that I made my journey into the sexual underbelly of Japan unattended would be an understatement.

The Reality vs. The Illusion

Japan functions delicately by ignoring reality and insisting on maintaining a very calm and acceptable surface facade. This is called “Tatemae” and “Honne” These are recognized social mechanisms in Japan. Tatemae is the preferable illusion. Honne is the undesirable reality.

These are not novel concepts and have been covered extensively in the literature. However a basic understanding of the two is needed if one hopes to understand the sexual culture and its corresponding business’s in Japan.

In Japan, as in many other countries the family is given an exulted status as an institution worth maintaining.
The bond between parents and children is respected as is that between Husband and Wife.

At the same time though, everyone generally understands that men like to get their joints worked by someone other than their wives fairly regularly if possible. Hence the silent agreement in many a marriage here that the man can go see hookers as long as he doesn’t have a Girlfriend. Girlfriend could mean an intrusion into the mans heart where as the wives know that hookers are just that: numb humping service robots.

Or so the theory goes.

The fact is, most girls get into the murky abyss of the sex industry for one primary motivating factor….


The annual unreported and non-taxable income of the prostitution industry in Japan is upwards of 945 billion yen. That’s about 8.5 billion U.S. dollars….every year.

The biggest name brand retails in the world make the lions share of their profits in Japan. Hermes, Versace, Gucci. They all clean house here. With the average monthly income being about 2,200 USD per month, one is left wondering where those high-end vendors are unloading their goods year after year. It might be instructive to notice that in every red light district several shops stick out like that tranny who came to the church pool party; these places are there to sell those expensive goods to the only large demographic that has disposable cash i.e. проститутка (hooker in Russian. I love Russian!)
As far as the Porno bizz or as my friend from Arkansas calls it “the family farm” are concerned, legitimate statistics are hard to come by.  That having been said it is an absolutely massive industry.  But for example. Soft on Demand, ONE of the more prominent yet more vanilla companies record profits, THAT’S PROFITS of 8 million USD.  This is only one company in an ocean of competitors.

The money is there to be had, nobody can argue against that point.

I referenced this article whilst composing this masterpiece

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How to pay for sex in Tokyo-1

Guest post by:  “Bateman”

Friday night on the piss and no relief in sight for that itch for ass you’ve been nursing all week. What’s a guy to do? The steaming flesh pots of Tokyo offer relief.

Known as Esthe salon or simply “massage”, Tokyo is home to a huge range of “happy ending” outlets. The trick is, dividing those offering full service from those that do not.

There are lots of ways to sort these online, but almost all require Japanese. Your best bet when you want a quick and easy solution is to hit a neighborhood where these joints are concentrated – the alleys of Kabukicho, Ikebukuro, Gotanda, etc.

Gotanda is particularly good – relatively foreigner friendly, it is close to the city center and just a ten to fifteen minute taxi ride from Roppongi.

When you arrive at the station, you will see across from the busy side some back streets with sketchy looking signs and people wandering about trying to attract customers.

Among these will be some girls asking if you want a massage. And generally, they speak enough English that you can confirm it is the type of massage you are looking for.

Once you find what you want, they take you inside and ask you what level of service you want – all the way from fist of glory to full service.

There is room to negotiate here – ask for more for less. If they are not busy and you are nice about it, they will likely go for it. They will also often ask as part of this process whether it is your first visit – the answer to which is no. If they know you have been before, they know they need to up their game to keep your interest. And, as a regular customer, you can talk them down in price.

Once confirmed and paid, you will be taken to a room with a massage table and asked to change. Your girl then comes to take you to shower. These places generally only have three or four girls so there is not a lot of room to trade up if you don’t like what you see.

The service level also varies depending on the shop, the girl and the time of day – but the results are all the same. Enjoy!

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