Damn, I’m a little late. Now is the best time to be in Japan. The best Halloween party I’ve ever been to is going on tonight.
I arrived to live in Japan in September. That following October I went to four Halloween parties: one in Shinjuku, two in Shibuya, one in Roppongi. That first one was the best, a party like no other, and the one I want to tell you about.
It’s called Decadance. The French girl in my Japanese language class told me it’s hosted by a French guy and they throw several themed parties a year in France and Tokyo. Often S&M heavy.
Phillip and I went costume shopping. We bought cheap black wigs to match black clothes, black and white makeup and fake blood from Donki Quijote. Phillip bought black nail polish. I’m not sure what look we were aiming for, but it wasn’t death meatal homosexuals. We each drank a bottle of red wine each while painting our faces with makeup sponges and smearing the flake blood down the corners of our mouths. I finished in no time. Phillip took forever.
I bitched and complained, having long finished the bottle of wine. He was on all fours painting his nails in his underwear. I took a picture and threatened to send it to everyone. Then he stood for an hour in front of the mirror doing his wig hair, trying to part it just right down the middle.
In Shinjuku we found the Christian Cafe, the Decadance Halloween party venue. We stood at the back of a long line that didn’t move. Everyone in front of us looked like they were competing for the best costume; whereas Phillip and I had rolled around on a bed of coal for 5 minutes, threw on black wigs and swallowed a menstrual cycle.
I held or place in line while he went and bought us some Chuhais. We drank those. The line still hadn’t moved. Now it was dark.
“Here, let me do your makeup, you need some touch ups,” Phillip said, pulling out the black paint.
“Make, me look like a wild tanuki, brah.”
He snapped a picture with his phone, laughing, and showed me.
I was afraid they wouldn’t let me in. Everyone else had their makeup done by professionals—not by their friend the asshole. The guy in front us, the Joker, looked like he walked right off the set.
Finally, thanks to line-cutting Phillip, we made it in the elevator. We went up. We paid the Reaper doorman a steep cover charge. The price was based on your costume and they made us pay in full, after Phillip failed to convince him our costumes were great, or that his hair was great.
The inside was extravagant. Everything, even the staircase, looked like the Adam’s Family home. Women danced on tables and stripper poles, their eyes blood-red and tits covered by shoelace-thin leather, the kind of Japanese girls you hope to fuck in hell.
A dominatrix had a fat man on a leash, a choker around his neck. He was blindfolded and ball-gagged, practically naked. And she walked him around the club, kicking him with her heels, whipping him and spitting on him.
We went straight to the bathroom, our bladders about to burst from standing in line so long. The line to the women’s was as long as Disney’s Space Mountain’s.
The guy’s line moved fast. Inside, while I was pissing, Waldo tried to pick a fight with everyone. He cupped sink water in both hands and threw it over stalls and onto those taking a shit.
We exchanged our drink tickets for drinks, then spent the entire night dancing and trying to kiss girls. A couple of times, without saying a word, I’d jump in and try to steal a kiss. I got slapped a record number of times. I guess you can say I had a face that you just wanted to slap.
We didn’t give up. We worked our way in with two cop girls. And I remember thinking, while making out with mine, wow, this girls is incredibly hot and I can’t believe she’d French kiss – or deep kiss as the Japs would say – a face like mine. We tried to get them out of there to someplace to fuck but no one wanted to leave the cool party.
We stayed until the lights turned on, until sunrise. I made it home; crashed on my bed without washing my face and stained my pillow.
Weeks later, after several texts sent back and forth, I arranged a date with the hot copper. She met me at Shinjuku station. She recognized me first. And it was no wonder; she, who I was so proud of having made out with, who I’d dreamed was super hot and for a month had looked forward to banging, was super ugly and I was embarrassed to be seen with her.
Even though my mom made me take acting lesson as a kid, she could read my face. “Sorry, I just got off work and was too busy to do my makeup today,” she said. My friends said they would have taken their phone out, received a faked emergency call and excused themselves. But I made the best of the situation, took her to the cheapest izakaya I knew, drank 300 yen beers and used her for Japanese practice.
A couple of months later I went to another Decadance party, this time inviting a group of friends after hyping it up. It was in Shibuya, this time in a much smaller venue. One of the guys, Mr. Australian, left in the first hour, later saying it was too fucking weird.
Japanese men were in priest ropes; the women in nun outfits. Black crosses were painted on their foreheads and they read bible passages. You could, in exchange for drink tickets or money, confess your sins and be whipped by a dominatrix. Not able to convince any of my friends to join me, I paid a girl to sit on my face.
Three of us, Mr. French and Mr. Korean, the brave ones, entered the dominatrix room. Japanese men sat against the walls. We waited our turns to get burnt, tied up and whipped. She pulled my boxers down, exposing my dick. She tied a knot around it and grabbed me by the balls, whippping me with her free hand.
“You like that?”
“Yes, mam, may I have another!”
Mr. Korean snapped pictures. Mr. French and I made him promise not to share them with anyone. But later, when girls asked me what I was doing, I couldn’t help but send Mr. French’s photo. It got the best reactions. One of the girls I sent it to was the Korean who I went to the greatest lengths to sleep with. And she, after meeting Mr. French for the first time at a drinking party him and I arranged, said hey, I know you, and showed him the picture.
Next Halloween, a different friend, Ron, and I went to Decadence. Again, cheap wigs were bought at Donki Quijote, this time blond ones. Besides the fake blood, because we wanted kissable faces, the only thing we put on our faces were sunglasses, which we wore on our heads because you couldn’t see anything with them on in the party.
The party was the same as last time. Just as great. The same great costumes and performers. We spent a lot of time dancing with zombie nurses. Both looked good. We got there contact info. Ron went on a date with his later, but said she ended up being shockingly hideous, just like mine was last year.
This time I made a fine catch. She was cute and used to work as a maid in a maid cafe, but now she was 27 and too old for that job and lived alone with her cat, far out on the Chuo line. I took her drinking near my place, invited her back. The only place to sit was on my bed. She sat on the floor. I picked her up and sat her on my bed. We played Jenga. I won. Then I threw her back on the bed.
We fucked. It was hard for me to stay hard with a condom on. And she was on her period, the blood flowing heavy and staining my bed. I ripped off the condom and sat her up to take me inside her mouth. She was very bad at it, and when she wasn’t lying on her back but sitting up, you could see the smallest roll of fat that most Japanese girls don’t have. I had to jerk myself off on her belly button and then kick her out because she wanted to stay.
Tokyo Decadance — a party you should go to if you’re in Tokyo. Check their Facebook Page.