When I first came to Japan I enjoyed wandering around Tokyo’s red light district in Shinjuku called Kabukicho. One day, I stumbled in a place that looked like I could enjoy the company of a naked girl, judging by the flashing lights and the sexy pictures of girls that decorated the front. A little nervous because I had no idea what to expect, I entered and walked down a steep and narrow staircase that led underground.
It was dark inside. An older Japanese man greeted me and asked if I wanted a girl for sex. I was a bit ashamed and not drunk so I said no. Big regret.
Instead, I said female company would be fine, and I was sat at a small booth. The man disappeared behind a red curtain. There were a few other booths against one wall, but I was the only customer I could see. The room was more of a narrow corridor than a room, and it looked like a vampire hangout.
The man returned with a beautiful topless girl in a miniskirt. She sat across from me. I wish I could remember her face, but I can’t. I do remember thinking she was a pleasure to look at and I know her skin was really soft because I couldn’t stop touching her perky boobs, which wasn’t allowed but I couldn’t control myself after several drinks.
Communication was hard. She didn’t speak any English and I was just an inexperienced 19 year-old who didn’t have as many things to talk about as I do today. An elementary level of Japanese would have made the experience more comfortable and enjoyable for the both of us. If I’d only memorized those lines from Making Out in Japanese instead of sleeping on the plane.
I talked to her just like she was my Australian shepherd and she smiled back at me, not knowing what I was saying, but at ease because she could sense I was calm and not a threat, and I still had boyish good looks. Eventually I wanted to ravish her. I was bubbling feverish like a masturbating snow monkey in an onsen.
But what I wanted wasn’t in her job description so I frustratingly gave up, excused myself from the table, paid and walked out.
Years later, I would return to the same place. It’s still there today, but they told me foreigners are not allowed. I’m sorry.
Scammed by Nigerians
Another day, same trip, I found myself in Kabukicho again, looking for naked girls to drink with, and possibly more. This time, though, I was scammed by a Nigerian who pretended to be my best friend. He promised me cheap drinks and bare-naked ladies. I naively trusted him.
I followed him to his little shit-hole bar. There were no other customers, only one other massive Nigerian guy and two butt-looking Japanese girls in their 30’s. One a fat walrus.
I asked for a beer. I was already there, anyway. Maybe these girls would give me a four-hand massage under the table.
But instead they kept pestering me to buy them drinks. They were the exact opposite of your normal feminine Japanese girl. On second thought, they probably weren’t even Japanese.
I eventually caved, wanting the to shut up about it, and bought them each a cocktail. As time passed and I came to the conclusion that the girls were not going to dance for me or touch me, I got up to leave.
I asked for the check. The biggest Nigerian guy told me my bill was ridiculousy 250$.
“How could that be!” I protested. They insisted. And I knew they’d rape me if I refused. And I hadn’t been in a fight since junior high, so I could not rely on those skills. I opted for letting him rape my wallet instead. They took all my cash and swiped my visa card multiple times before letting me leave.
I called my girlfriend, played completely innocent, and told her what happened. She left home to meet me and we went together to tell the police what happened, but the only thing they did was tell me not to go back there again.
I checked my bank account online. The bastards had charged another 300+ dollars to my Wells Fargo card. I called my bank and told them what happened, leaving out the part about wanting female attention, and they where able to cancel the charges.
Shopping to Share a Prostitute
Another Japan trip later, I convinced my girlfriend to share a prostitute with me. Returning to Kabukicho, knowing we were surrounded by whorehouses, we set out to do some shopping.
If you walk together with a girl, the Nigerian and Japanese touts won’t approach you, so I stayed 30 steps ahead of my girlfriend. Upon me being approached she would join the convo, telling whoever it was that we wanted to enjoy a girl together. Everyone of them would burst into laughter and disbelief. They wanted to make a sale, but whoever runs these places, apparently, is not so accepting of sharing working girls with couples.
We did eventually find a place. Some elderly Japanese gentleman, long past the normal age of retirement, led us to a hidden building that showed no signs of being a place to pay for sex. It had no markings and looked like an apartment building. We went up a stairway on the outside that was like a fire escape, entered a door several floors up and were seated in a dimly lit lobby, both of us feeling odd but going along with it. The man talked to the receptionist behind a counter.
After what felt like forever, we were led behind a curtain and into a long hallway, with doors to rooms on either side like a hotel. In our private room we waited. Never were we given a menu of girls to choose from. Whatever girl who walked in was going to be the girl that we got.
The room had a bed like ones found in hospital examination rooms. Easy to cleanup body fluid polyester material.
Finally, our girl arrived. I can’t remember her face, only her dark brown, ghastly nipples. I had never seen protruding nipples that stretched out and curved downwards like the Wicked Witch’s shoes if you held them upside down.
Multiple scars ran across her stomach, much uglier than those of my mom’s own C-section. On top of her head sat frizzy, scraggly, shineless, black hair. Apprehensive like a beaten dog, she stood in her red bra and panties. We tried to talk to her but she was feral. She didn’t understand Japanese or English.
I didn’t want to put anything inside her and I didn’t want her to put anything inside my girlfriend. I determined she wouldn’t swap juices with us.
I pushed my girlfriend back on the hospital bed, spread her legs over my shoulders, and had her while I grabbed the Chinese prostitute’s hands and had her rub my girlfriend’s boobs.
When finished, we mini-bowed to her and left, walking back to Shinjuku station in silence. There was nothing we could say to each other that would make the situation less awkward except: “That was great, let’s do it again sometime.”