“I went with her half because I wanted to be able to tell people I had seen one of those places and half hoping that you would say ‘don’t go.’” I felt he was shrugging on the other end of the phone line, about to say more but not.

James had rung me as I sat panting in the gardens around Tokyo Midtown the sweat running down the small of my back as fast as a badly turned tap. No press conference today which meant short skirt, sandals, tank top and very little else. The typhoon had blown over –hovering off shore it had sent clouds, rain, high pressure induced sinus headaches and etc. for three days — finally leaving the city steaming in a truly literal sense vapor rising off the sidewalk and building casements.

I loved summer and hot weather, as long as I didn’t have to wear stockings. It wasn’t putting on the stockings or even wearing them, it was peeling them off that made you realize how unpleasant the whole process had really been.

A plump woman in a zebra stripe dress walked past me carrying a Hermes clutch and a bag from Noka Chocolates, her face shaded under a black lace parasol. She was very round. If I were shaped like such a woman and wore such a Zebra-patterned dress I would walk back and forth in front of the lions’ enclosure at Ueno Zoo teasing them in a tasty treat way.

One of the most delicious pastimes of summer was doing very little and enjoying it very much.

My ex-husband was incapable of doing nothing. Long spells of quiet people watching or staring into the horizon appeared only as cold sweat scenarios in his nightmares. Internet connections were his priority on summer destinations.

Here’s a typical summer day in Hawaii for me and my ex:

Wake up, sun shining, the water outside blue and gorgeous framed by artfully swaying palms. I go sit on the terrace while he pulls his computer on his lap – not me you notice – and complains about the slowness of the connection. I go down to the lobby to pick up a latte for him, ice coffee for me and a couple of rolls from the coffee bar. When I come up to the room he is shouting on the phone to some time zone somewhere waving at me to be quiet. I put down his food and read the local paper, finish my breakfast and go into the bathroom to change into my suit. Notice I don’t bother making a show of changing in front of him because honestly, what’s the point? He wouldn’t even look up from the screen to appreciate how round and peachy my tan lines make my bottom look. I take my book and magazines and go down to the pool and the ocean to swim.

If this is Maui we are at the Sheraton Kaanapali. The Hyatt there is nice but their beach is pointless. The Sheraton has Black Rock, tropical fish and sea turtles just off shore. If it’s Kauai Island then we are at the Hyatt at Poipu Beach.

Swimming is fine by me, I can spend an entire day in the water with very little effort, next to sex, playing in the water is my favorite activity. My husband had to have a purpose to his swimming, he swam laps. I needed no purpose to get wet.

Around 1 p.m. he would come sweating and find me, if he had gotten off the phone long enough for a run. He used to love to run in Maui from Kaanapali to Lahaina and back. It was one of the few times he did normal vacation stuff. We would have lunch, sitting at the table talking about how useless various employees or district offices were while I ate my chicken salad. If he had a couple of beers he would sometimes relax enough to stop talking about himself and let me entertain him with funny stories of people I knew. Then he would laugh, his black hair shiny under the tropical sun, handsome face creased in smiles for me instead of his clients, fit and tan urging me to tell him more gossip. Those moments were very ephemeral. Inevitably he would go back to the room, put on the afternoon ballgame and continue to work on the laptop and shout in the phone. I would find a shady spot and stay away or drive into one of the little shopping centers for an ice coffee and wander around envying the couples vacationing together.

We’d have dinner often discussing his – wait for it –work. Didn’t see that coming did you? When he could spare a moment he remembered he valued my intelligence and my opinion – there was never any question of that – and he looked to me for insight into Europeans and Americans. Back in the room Jay Leno would come on and after the monologue I curled round my pillows – because unlike him I needed to sleep at regular intervals – he would head down to the lobby.

My husband spent most nights in the lobby at the payphones or on his cell when roaming became easier with Japanese telecoms shouting at people until around 2 or 3 a.m. when he came back to bed. Don’t shake your head and say, that’s what you think, he was off to the strip club for hookers. No. I wish. Like I said before, monogamy is so not an issue for me. At least if he’d gone cruising he would be having fun. Human fun not corporate insect data-based fun. How do I know? Calls would come sometimes to the room and I had to go rubbing sleep out of my eyes to find him – his cell was always engaged – and there he would be, in one of the upholstered oversized lobby chairs, hunched over papers and the glowing laptop on a low table haranguing someone for something.

Sure I was being ignored but I was being ignored in Hawaii or Florida or Micronesia or Thailand or Europe when we got tired of the beach. That was my husband’s reasoning when I complained of his distance – emotional if not geographical.

He chose never to believe me when I said I would rather have just been cherished at home please.

My summers now, without him, were virtually the same, just minus the shouting on the phone and baseball.

“Sacha, are you there?”

“Yes darling, I am here.”

“Please don’t call me pet names unless you mean them.”
He said this in a surprisingly serious tone of voice I had not heard him use before.

“Do you want me to mean them?”

“God damn it Sacha of course I do. If you’d just lower that Romulan force field you have up around yourself and let me close enough to touch you.”

“It’s Klingon actually, purchased at a Star Trek convention.”

“You’ve never been to a Star Trek convention.”

“Oh yes I have Mister. I am a Star Trek the Next Generation whore, Picard is my secret love slave. Or he would be if he really existed and we actually met.”
“I bet he would, I have no doubt about that, not at all!” His laugh came over the speaker rich and deep.
“I went to a convention in Oakland once, at the Coliseum. With my high school pal Mary. She had a thing for Vulcans.”

“You didn’t”

“I did! Her dad, who is colorblind and almost always stoned insisted on driving us probably because his dealer was in Oakland. Riding with him was always terrifying because in addition to being colorblind and stoned, his eyes were not the best and we had to get really close to the traffic lights to see if it was red – on top you understand - or green – at the bottom - since they all looked gray to him. Sometimes while he was driving he would take out his pennywhistle, they were Irish American like my family, and play all these tunes while driving with his knees. Truly terrifying. ANYWAY, I purchased a Holodeck coffee mug. When you add hot water Picard and Data appear in their three musketeer costumes. I cherish that mug it has moved everywhere with me and if I actually made coffee at home I would use it exclusively.”

There was a slight pause, “You don’t drink coffee at home? But wait, I know you drink coffee, I’ve seen you drink it, when we went to Starbucks after the Snow and Ashes exhibit.”

“I go OUT for coffee, every morning, often in the afternoon and evening as well …. Or I go out and buy coffee and BRING it home. I only pretend to drink it at other people’s houses to be polite. Coffee just does not taste the same made in a conventional manner.”

"What do you serve your guests?"

“Tea.”

I reached down to pet a friendly little French Bulldog that pulled it’s owner over to my bench to say hello.

“And do you drink tea?”

“No. Hate the stuff except at the Mandarin Oriental Lounge here in town or the Peninsula Hong Kong.”

I smiled at the dog’s owner, a smartly dressed woman who apologized in that true Japanese way for allowing her dog to bother me while I in turn assured her it was no bother.

James said something but I couldn’t hear as we were suddenly pounced on by a brace of apricot toy poodles and a short burst of enthusiastic barking ensued with much snuffing of noses and wagging of tails. The phone slipped out of my hands.

“Sorry,” I said after retrieving it from between the dancing paws. One of the poodles had her toenails painted pink I noticed far more professionally done than my own... “I dropped you,” I said into the phone.” Missed that last bit.”

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

“Saying hello to the puppies here in the park at Midtown. You know me and dogs.”

“Actually I don’t. I know about you and whales, and whale nightmares; I would like to know about you and dogs. I would like to know about you and a great many things. For gods sake Sacha see me again, please? We can go to the Roppongi Hills Club. Whatever restaurant you want, all of them if you want! Just the two of us.”

James and I settled on Thursday since Tuesday was the date set at last for Miriam’s going away party.

I didn’t really have to hesitate; even I got lonely sometimes though I denied it to all my friends and lovers. The automatic denial – internal and external -- was a defensive gesture, like the way guys cover their crotch. It was left over from my marriage. Emotionally I knew I had never left ground zero.

Tags: kauai, maui, summer holidays
Current Location: Tokyo Midtown, Roppongi
Current Mood: lazy
Current Music: Che'nelle

Good god it was hot.

Here in Tokyo the August humidity gave a cashmere feel to the heat wrapping you in a suffocating softness that made it hard to breathe. I was dragging my feet under the weight of it light headed and groggy at the same time from dehydration.

Today’s press conference at the Imperial Hotel had gone on for much too long. There are only so many specs, so many PowerPoint pages, so many 3-part questions droned in a monotone over the microphone by a man with a comb-over a journalist can take during a product presentation at some interchangeable corporate HQ or hotel banquet room in the middle of summer.

The product is pretty.

It is shiny.

It is new.

Give me my link for the jpegs, my glossies and let me go.

The guy next to me had nodded off as soon as the lights dimmed. This is not an unusual occurrence at press conferences in Japan no matter what the temperature is outside, at least four or five men will doze even with the lights on. Somehow I don’t see this happening at press conferences in the U.S. but perhaps I am naïve.


My cell buzzed. ‘Margot’ blinked caller I.D.
I picked up and sat down on one of the cushy chairs lining the walls of the 3rd floor banquet lobby as men in dark suits filed past.

“Hello Margot, are you melting in this heat?”

“Non, non, and non! Right now I am making up excuses to stay inside with my chair pulled just so under the cold air flow chatting very amiably and convincingly on the phone with clients. I will go out later when the sun is not quite so bright.” Margot had a nice office high up in the Mori Tower at Roppongi Hills looking out towards the Akasaka Detached Palace.

“I would have thought you would be scurrying around visiting doctors and hospitals what with the very public downfall of your rival.”

It had been all over the TV and Internet, the recall of one of the world’s top selling diabetes drugs, its maker facing a huge loss in revenue. Diabetes was a gazillion dollar business here in Japan.

Dividing my attention I listened to Margot’s description of how she and her two bosses had gone out for champagne after that news flash writing up lists of new prospective customers while I examined the sheet burns on my elbows. They had completely scabbed over. It took anywhere from ten days to two weeks to completely get rid of burns this deep.

They were, of course, so worth it.

A few days before I had been with the big man I found so masculine, so completely sexually intoxicating. It would probably be our last time together, as with so many ex-pat exec pairings he was being transferred. Off to London and that was that. I couldn’t say I was heartbroken because it was not my heart so much as my libido that was engaged, nevertheless, a sad libido is still traumatic. Nobody, and I mean nobody, gives me sheet burns like that man. Well, except for Andrew, the culinary director cum Master Chef but that, sadly, was over months ago. Good god that man was amazing. He had this trick of riding really high and his massages with his big hands pressing down on my back and his …Oh, crap, now I had lost track of what Margot was saying.

“Sorry, could you back up? I missed that last bit.”

“What do you mean, Sacha we are talking about James from Pasadena and why you hate me now because we went to the sex club.”

Right. My chest constricted, just a little.

“I don’t need to hear this, Margot. There is, very occasionally, even between close friends, a time for discretion.”

“Yes but we were sitting at the sex club…” She pressed on.

“I have my fingers in my ears Margot, LALALALALALALA.,” I chanted loudly.. ”I can’t hear you.”

Margot’s deep throated laugh echoed from my cell phone. “Oh Sacha, you are so ha ha funny, I love you to pieces!”

“I know you do. Not that it stopped you from walking out on me at A971 the other night.“

“Is that why you did not invite me to the smoothing party?”

“The epilator? No, maybe, I don’t know. Everyone wanted to come in the afternoon you were at work.”

We’d had a good time, after Tricia and Mutti came, Deidre arrived back from Hong Kong at last, full of fashion magazines and wearing a dress that looked like she’d cut it out of a cardboard box.

Most men should be that stiff!

She of course did not need the epilator; Deidre could afford regular trips to a waxing salon. She was professionally smooth. That is because fashion pays better than technology writing but try as I might I could not get a hard on for fashion journalism doomed as it is to an endless cycle of artificial repetition – square toes are in/square toes are out; military is in/military is out; short skirts are in/short skirts are out, ad infinitum.

Steffi ran home to get a bottle of chilled something, I had Champagne in the fridge and with very little encouragement they abandoned the ice tea. We gathered around my desktop computer after Deidre produced a flash drive with pictures from a number of fashion shoots over the past few weeks and we had a great time dissing couture while Mutti ran around in circles barking, the air conditioning pouring out full blast.

“Conveniently held in the afternoon.,” Margot said, but without rancor.

“Okay, okay, I was pissed at you I like James, I think, maybe, possibly, in my own twisted, d Sacha way.”

“But you had not claimed him!” She protested.

“You mean like pee on him and mark my territory?”

“I mean like have sex with him. It is the same thing, yes?”

Of course it was, at least in my demented universe. “You’re right. I couldn’t make up my mind.”

“What I said was, he wouldn’t even put his hands up my dress. Imagine. He was very disinterested in random sex. I said sex doesn’t mean anything, he said, ‘sometimes it does, though’ and that he really, really likes THAT kind of sex. Really, a man with a sense of honor, how rare! .I may have decided to fall in love with him. Do you mind?”

“Is that a redundant question or are you expecting an answer?” .

“Honestly,” she gave a deep sigh. “I don’t think he was interested to fall in love with me. I think he found me likable because I am indeed very likeable to men.

“When you’re not throwing ceramics at them.”

She laughed. “Forget James and me, nothing happened Sacha, nothing. Besides I love you much, much more. Men, they are a lovely interlude but it is friends that last is it not?”

It was odd to think of other people having family that:
1. They were not ashamed of.
2. Actually got excited about waving ‘hello’ to instead of ‘goodbye’.

My mother had come to visit us in Tokyo once a couple of years after my marriage and the move. We weren’t living in the house I had now but a much smaller apartment.
Mom measured her life in furniture, thread count, silver, china, closets full of clothing she never wore and the immediate availability of five square meals a day all of which, preferably, included gravy. I measured mine by the quality of my writing.

She went home and told all our relatives, Karen the check out girl at the Safeway on Middlefield Road, the Post Man, Tran the housekeeper, Rob the gardener and his Uncle Tomas the leaf blower expert, Mrs. Koo down he street, Felix the man who carved the Turkey and Roasts behind the buffet at the Club House restaurant there at the municipal golf course (she told him in Spanish), and many others who shall be left nameless that I was living in poverty without a decent piece of solid Cherry, Teak or a china pattern of note to my name and she could never go back because a mother could not bear to see a daughter in such reduced circumstances.

“Your mother said you had thrown away a future close to the bosom of your family and for nothing,” Felix said with much sympathy on my next trip home as he sliced off turkey breast during one of the prolonged lunches a visit to the buffet with my mother meant. The same sentiments were expressed by Karen at Safeway ringing up the baby salad greens, tortellini, and zucchini and Tomas the leaf blower expert who suggested an annulment might still be possible, under Catholic dogma, “He didn’t even give you a wedding ring!” Which was true, i just didn't think the entire town needed to know.

Of course it didn’t help that the first night of an intended 3-day trip to Kyoto with my mom I ended up sleeping on the floor, in the closet, latticed doors closed, with both pillows over my head because my mother snored so loudly I thought I would go mad. Such is the way of the world she woke before me, refused to see the humor in the situation, packed her bags and within 36 hours was halfway across the Pacific en route to SFO ringing the stewardess’ button desperate for another package of peanuts. .

Margot’s family, though not quite so spectacularly dysfunctional were kept firmly at a distance somewhere in the suburbs of Lyon playing Petanque and arguing about the Socialists. Not necessarily in that order apparently. http://www.petanque.org/

To Ex-Pat orphans like me and Margot, friends, however long or short the time we had together, filled a gap left by the collapse of family ties. A husband was supposed to be the gravel that filled in those nasty emotional potholes, instead -- in my case-- it had only widened the chasm.

Tags: petanque
Current Location: In front of the Air Con
Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Sum 41

“You saw a what?” Lisa looked at me in disbelief.

“A cell phone activated personal vibrator.”

Steffi looked at me openmouthed, “You are kidding, Sacha, I can’t believe it.”

“Oh yea, the inventiveness of the human brain accepts no limits in its quest for erotic pleasure.”

We were spilling out of my upstairs bathroom into the master bedroom, Lisa, Steffi and me with more to come, playing with my new epilator. Being blonde and fair I have a ton of hair on my head but not very much elsewhere. Nevertheless I loved having my arms completely silk smooth. The smoother I am the sexier I feel. Waxing is a sticky pain so I had plonked down 7000 yen at Sony Plaza Store on a mechanized device that looked like a slightly bulky automatic razor. It worked as promised on silky short hair baby fine hair. Useless, however, on bikini lines. The thing was waterproof and finally puzzling out the directions I discovered it was supposed to be used with soap and water just like shaving in the shower with a regular razor.

I was the innovator of my gal pal group and when I told Lisa about it in my usual enthusiastic fashion, word spread and soon there were rallying cries of ‘Me too! Me too!”

An epilator party was swiftly scheduled. I made a fruit salad and pitcher of ice tea and now my friends were taking turns, somewhat impatiently, buzzing their way to smoothness. We were also supposed to be talking about Miriam’s party before she arrived. She had been summoned to summer school as her youngest had pushed another girl off the swing and broken her collar bone.

Poor Miriam. I couldn’t understand how a nice person could have such horrible children.

While the girls buzzed I told them about my discovery. Actually it wasn’t mine, two boys I met at the Expos introduced me to it.

Jake was pretty shaken up by his encounter with virtual sex. Thank god the world still had hands on men like him, even if they were wandering hands at least he wanted full frontal contact. Walking into the food area –you couldn’t call it a food court. Makuhari expo food offerings were one step above squatting on the street and cooking over a fire in a bucket. Unfailingly dismal. The Styrofoam bowls they dished up the slop in probably had more nutrition. There was, however, beer.

A sign board at the entrance stated boldly “One Hand Food”. Yes I did not misread it. ‘One Hand Food’. Given all the masturbation toys we had seen this seemed prophetic phrasing. Jake started to laugh and snapped several pictures.

“I have to ask you Jake, do guys like to eat and masturbate at the same time?”

“Bite your tongue Sacha!” He said in mock seriousness, “both are manly pursuits that take full concentration!”

With an ice coffee for me – I was driving -- and beer for him we sat and ran through some of the moving and still images he had shot.

My feet hurt and after agreeing to meet later he skipped off to shoot thin girls in compromising positions at the Sex Chair booth. I could not understand the value of the sex chair unless you were of course handicapped in some way. Basically two bodies sat plugged into each other, you know what I mean, and the chair (it’s a two-seater) did all the humping, jiggling, and up and down movement that the human body could, I would have thought, accomplish on its own. My erotic buttons were obviously biological rather than digital because I thought it had the sex appeal of a dentist chair. No drilling jokes, okay?

Watching all the different sorts of men at the Expo was fun. A few more members of the foreign press had drifted in, large burly men in black T-shirts and backpacks who were probably covering the Expo for glossy magazines like ‘Monster Trucks and Jugs’ or ‘Spank Me Weekly’.

Two fellows sitting at the table next to mine were different. To someone like me from Silicon Valley they had a clearly defined IT look. Starched, pressed and pleated Khakis the both of them. I hate pleated Khakis. Don’t you just hate them, too? Men become mashed potato analog shapes in them and then wonder why they have trouble getting girls.
The guys – one brown haired, the other pale and shiny with his head shaved -- were giggling and whispering to each other, glancing in my direction, obviously enjoying themselves.

“Now Boys,” I said moving, turning my chair to face their’s, “Did you bring enough mirth to share with the whole class?”

Taken aback but just for a moment one of them said “We like your bag.”

I was carrying a white and pink Victoria’s Secret’s tote bag from their signature ‘Pink’ line intending to pile all the pamphlets, DVDs and, currently, vaginal creams and condom giveaways from the vendors. Very un-naughty, it said ‘Think Pink’ alongside a picture of the Pink line’s doggy symbol. I was wearing my sleeveless cotton pink and white Courreges dress on this very hot day with white strappy sandals and I thought it coordinated nicely.

“And?” I queried.

They looked at each other, they must be around 25 or 27, which meant, if they were IT guys, their emotional age would be like 15 at the most.

“Do you know what a ‘pink’ is in Ireland?”

“You’re Irish?”

The brown haired one nodded.

“It’s a Dick,” I said

Shiny one flushed.

“Think Pink” I continued pointing to the large letters across the bag, “Is therefore very appropriate because I like to think about Dicks. Dicks are nice things. Though that is in direct contrast to Dick Heads, you understand. Dick Heads are not nice things and I do not like to think about them. You two,” I pointed at them, “are perhaps in danger of slipping on your Khaki clad bottoms towards the latter.”

There was a pause then the Irish one said, “So perhaps you could clarify next where it is you stand on giving head to Dicks?”

Cocking my head to one side as if considering the question I asked, “Who are not Dick Heads?”

“Yea.”

I laughed picked up my ice coffee and scooting the chair closer demanded to know who they were and what they were doing at the Porn convention.

Of course they were in IT. The Khaki Twins were here not with the Porn Convention but the Convention Center. Their firm specialized in securing corporate networks, particularly wireless networks against infiltration and the Center had hired their employer to add extra security online.

“Cool,” I said. “Do you guys work in the War Room back at HQ?”

Big security agencies had war rooms with giant digital maps tracking incidents – hacking, attacks -- on the World Wide Web with whole phalanxes of sub screens in various sizes monitoring individual client sites. They looked like something out of the Pentagon. Back when WiFi began going mainstream I researched and wrote a number of articles about security issues.

“So why, besides the obvious, are you at the Porn Convention?”

“Looking for clients like,” said the Irish one. “We thought there might be more wireless stuff but it’s few and far between and besides the legitimate websites, if you pardon me for callin’ them that, have tied up with the major providers like NTT. Telecom’s have their own in-house network protection.”

“We did find one thing though,” the American looked for confirmation to his pal.

“Oh that!” said the Irish lad.

“Is it a telecom application that is not just a soft core porn photo site?”

“I think I could say that with absolutely no fear of contradiction it is something very different.”

Scooting back from the table I demanded, “Show me.”

And show me they did.

The MobibeQ, is a cell phone activated personal – very personal -- vibrator. http://www.xenkyo-han.co.jp/pc_index.html

A cord snakes out from the flat hand-sized unit connecting it via the cell phone sound jack—just like headphones. The body slides next to your body, external, not internal. Incoming calls trigger the vibrator to start buzzing. It has no self activation switch, the vibrator supposedly only switches on when the Cell phone is in use. The company is pushing it, pardon the pun, as something .your boyfriend can call and give you a surprise anytime.

“It’s not so much the wackiness of cell phone masturbation I mean, Japanese are obsessed with their mobile phones, but its bulkiness!” I told my friends.

“Speak louder,” Steffi boomed from the bathroom. “I couldn’t hear the last part over the buzzing.”

The rest of us were on my king sized bed, left over from when my husand and I tried to sleep as far apart from each other -- physically and emotionally -- as possible. I repeated what Lisa had missed. “The thing is the size of an old fashioned Tampax pad, you know the thick ones like our moms’ had? It’s a hard, unyielding plastic rectangle. The little raised um,” I searched for the right phrasing, enhancement tip? “The raised enhancement tip goes, presumably next to your clitoris still you would have to wear a girdle to keep it in place, you could not cross your legs. It would be like carrying a portable flashlight in your panties”

Imagine the scenario;
Gee Janie, why the long face?
Oｈ, Sara I can’t go on the picnic.
Gosh, is it your period?
No my boyfriend promised to call and I have this dang vibrator in my pants and can’t walk.

“Good God” said Lisa, stroking her now extraordinarily smooth arm, “they are trying to, I mean men, you know. Men are trying to get us to go back to waiting by the phone for them to call!.” She shook her head. “I mean really!”

“Bastards!” I shouted good naturedly, knowing she wouldn’t say it. Lisa never swore. She hardly even said a harsh word.

There was a cry from the bathroom

Jumping off the bed I rushed in, “What happened? Are you okay?”

Steffi was staring at herself in the mirror, one hand over her left eye, “My hand slipped, I was trying to do my eyebrows!”

“Oh god, are you okay, did you cut yourself?”

She pulled her hand down revealing half an eyebrow gone.

“Jeezus you’re not supposed to use it on eyebrows!”

We all started laughing Steffi loudest of all, “That is why God gave us eyebrow pencils!”

And we laughed harder.

“Sacha, Sacha!”

I heard someone shouting my name.

From my garden.

Whipping aside the sheer curtains I opened one of the wide windows to see: Tricia and Mutti, her baby in canine form standing down below.

“I’ve been ringing your doorbell!” She shouted up from the Hydrangeas drooping in the mid afternoon heat and humidity..

“Sorry, we were making too much noise.”

“No shit! What were you guys laughing about?”

“Cell phone-based self fulfillment.”

“What?”

“Wait, I’ll let you in.”

I padded down the stairs, through the living room contemplating tickle me telecom. I had to agree with Jake, a little masturbation is fine but innovations that pushed men and women farther apart rather than closer together was not something I could be sanguine about.

Current Location: Back home
Current Mood: cheerful
Current Music: Beck

Mecha-fists of fury/Pin me Baby

It had taken several trips winding in and around the booths to discover something to justify today’s take-home pay. Wiggling and jiggling however odd or attractive depending on your perspective were not think tank worthy news. Hand held or stand alone masturbation devices connected to the PC and synchronized to squeeze, pump and clench in time to pornographic DVDs via script editor software, now that’s news.

Sad news for Japanese women since it’s a commentary on the increasing isolation of modern domestic males and the falling birthrate but news.

I had been standing mesmerized or perhaps stupefied is a better word in front of a large sex toy booth specializing in prickly gel-like dildoes of acid-induced 'Grateful Dead at their heyday' brightness. There must be at least fifty or more on display, each one vibrating and gyrating as fast as its little battery-filled heart permitted.

This booth was at least preferable to the automatic pulsing penis next door. It looked like someone had stuck a large rubber penis on one of those shoe polishing machines from an old mail order catalog.

“It pulses at different rhythms for maximum pleasure,” the booth manager enthused.

“You’re not allowed to talk to me,” I said in Japanese stalking away.

Jake who made no secret he was a Double D man at heart – ‘”You are in the wrong country boy!” I had said upon learning this -- had finally rallied a bit. There was very little live action but skinny girl porn was still porn and it was on screens everywhere.

“Notice that 99 percent of the sex toys are for women yet there are like, four women here?” said Jake lowering his camera. “Visitors, I mean.”

“I think they are perhaps supposed to be used on women by the men? I’m guessing.”

Snorting in what I assumed a derisive manner Jake said, “Dildoes are for pansies. Real men don’t need dildoes to get the job done.”

“Wait,” I said considering. “Maybe they are for Gay guys. All those toys work for them.”

Jake made an anguished face, “Oh, that is so wrong Sacha! Why did you have to say that, Oh god, my eyes!”

Wouldn’t you know the word ‘Gay’ had barely left my mouth when I noticed, just beyond the gyrating toy display which straddled a corner between two aisles, a large man dressed in a wig, fish net stockings and black bunny girl costume.

“Let’s go over there!” I pulled the photographer after me.

At first I couldn’t tell what the brightly lit booth was all about, there was a hentai anime sex DVD on a large screen TV and a plump guy with glasses and a combover sitting in front of it. The trannie guy was speaking in the Japanese version of girly-man speak saying something about pleasure but I was having trouble following the mannered phrasings. Moving around for a better look I saw what they were selling.

“Start shooting,” I told Jake.

Japanese company Somcom http://www.somjapan.com/
promises virtual hands free masturbation with a stand alone electronic device that gives ‘hand job’ a whole new meaning The fist shape head – yes it is shaped like a clenched fist with a soft (washable) inner lining -- is attached to a motor and fitted to a frame that slides between the legs. This is an improvement (?) over the previous model, also on display, that looked something like a juicer. Demonstrations favored a sitting position for personal orgasmic stimulation. The booth manager was excited, telling me about the wonders of synchronized mechanical masturbation because this furious fist action was only a small part of the whole story. An optional— but essential - attachment plugs into a USB port on the PC and that’s where the real fun starts.

Loaded with script editing software, the motor’s motion synchs up with Porn DVDs on the computer shooting little erotic electronic messages to the Somcon pulsing, clenching, etc., etc. in rhythm to the on-screen humping, pumping, or slurping action.

It’s virtual sex.

Since the guy’s hands are free he can cheer on his performance, play with hand puppets, or even make balloon animals, the possibilities are endless. The device will be available in Japan late August or early September the booth manager assured me. Retail price is set at 30,000 JPY (USD252) though the staff assured me I could get it wholesale for just 16,000 JPY (USD134).

Thanks boys.

Oh, the USB attachment costs an extra.10, 000 JPY (USD84).

“We’re on a roll here,” I told Jake as we left the booth. “There has to be something else incorporating script writing software and masturbation. There is no way Somcom is behind all this."

It took about 15 minutes but we found what I was looking for. I had walked right by this booth earlier writing it off as a ‘pocket pussy’ vendor. I had been way too hasty.

For all men who have dreamed of having sex with sports implements-- don’t lie, I know you’re out there -- the aptly yet embarrassingly named ‘Virtual Hole’ is right up their alley. Or they are up its alley to be more precise. It’s a virtual vagina disguised in a bowling pin. This has to be the only private sexual device men could display in their living room. Buy a few fake bowling trophies and pretend you’re an ace. Like the Somcom it links to PC or TV for synchronized interactive porn fun via script editing software.

Sigh. Lonely, lonely fun.

This is obviously the next wave of hardcore Japanese tech design. Who would have thought? More ambitious than the plastic fist of fury, manufacturer Daihaku Inc. says they are working with porn producers for a special line of bowling pin-linked DVDs and a pay-per-view style website.

But wait, there’s more.

The female version of Virtual Hole., Virtual Stick, comes with a vibrator and a ‘Candy Stick’. The plan is eventually to link the devices and via Live Chat, you and your girlfriend or paid companion or whoever is on the other link, I couldn’t believe I was hearing this from a guy in a business suit telling me with a straight face, that when she or he if you're Gay plays with the Candy Stick, the synchronicity between the two shoots from her/his device to the man and his, well, manhood and back again.

Daihaku is looking to eliminate body to body contact all together. The Japanese dream sex life at last. You only touch yourself.

Currently only available in Japan the Virtual Hole will soon roll into the European market. Americans though, must wait awhile longer.
http://www.daihaku.jp/products/index.html#takumi / For an animated demo check out: http://www.daihaku.jp/products/synchro.html#dvd

Jake’s face was ashen, “Jerking off has its place Sacha, I won’t lie, but this,” he waved at the computer simulation of Virtual Hole and Stick interaction, “This is sacrilegious. It’s wrong on so many levels. Men and women,” he paused, “It’s all about body –to-body. That’s what humans are supposed to strive for, contact.”

“I know Jake, I know. Come on,” I pulled him in the direction of the food/refreshment area. “Let’s get you something, a cold beer I think, to settle your nerves.”

Pin me baby. Pin me hard.

Tags: adult treasure expo, socom, synchronized sex
Current Location: Still in Chiba!
Current Mood: cranky
Current Music: Seether

Synchronized sex. Those two words pretty much sum up what was hot at Tokyo’s Adult Treasure Expo that’s treasure spelled P.O.R.N. Japan’s first – at least according to the expo’s PR machine. http://adultexpo.jp/

This had to be the weirdest assignment ever. A Japanese think tank I work for on a project basis had sent me out here to see if there were any ties between IT, wireless technology and the world of adult entertainment. They were throwing down five hundred dollars and expenses for one afternoon’s work so who was I to question their motives. I picked up my photographer Jake ‘On the Make’ Sullivan near Shiba Park and we headed out in my car on the expressway to the wilds of Chiba and the Makuhari Messe Convention Center the Klaxons (rock group not horn) screaming over the stereo speakers. Hot and humid the rainy season had finally blown through several weeks later than usual and it was great to see the sun again, at least filtered through my Michael Kors sunglasses.

Makuhari Messe car park is a long, long walk from the actual convention center especially if you are a woman in heels, and I was always in heels. The Adult Treasure Expo to my surprise was not in the vast main group of auditoriums but one of the far side halls reserved for less important events thus adding another kilometer’s worth of walking to the journey. From the expo’s build up I had expected something on the scale of the Japanese Game Show which takes over the entire central Convention Center for three days in October. Obviously I was going to have to scale back my expectations.

Jake wore his jeans low on his hips and carried his morality next to the condoms in his back pocket. Six feet tall, lean and muscular from years of Aikido, with strategically groomed stubble on his chin, bushy blonde Jew Boy ‘Fro and a nearly permanent erection. The man had earned the reputation of one of those annoying Labrador retrievers that would hump anything moving or stationary. Despite or maybe because of that, he was a lot of fun to work with, an engaging combination of art smart and street smarts with a great eye for his work – photographical or otherwise…

As Jake and I walked (and walked and walked) we encountered groups of soberly clad adults who looked nothing like the sort of people I expected to attend this sort of thing.
As yet one more large group of plumpish women all in dresses midway down their calves chattered by us on sensible low heeled shoes, Jake looked at me bewildered saying, “Where are the strippers?”

Shrugging I said, “Maybe they bused them in.”

Jake was of course overjoyed with this assignment. What straight guy wouldn’t be? I had given him a legitimate reason to photograph porn. Talk about a dream come true. Actually I would have preferred to go with a girl photographer who could distance herself a little from the subject but Sara, one of my regulars, was off on assignment in Okinawa.

“Yea, buses,” he sighed. It was impossible to miss the gleam in his eye. “Bused them in. Lots of them.”

Oh Christ, I thought.

We exited the main walkway en route to the side halls and that was when we learned where all the plainly dressed people were going. There was a huge hallelujah Christian Worship Convention here today. A Christian Worship Convention across the road from Japan’s first Adult Entertainment Expo open to the public. What were the odds on that?

If this was America I would have said someone arranged it on purpose but being Japan the idea that the pursuits of prayer and porn might not be entirely compatible probably never occurred to anyone.

Jake and I stared at the banner for a few moments before walking on in silence, almost in silence. Every once in awhile Jake breathed “bused” as he envisioned an army of strippers and pole dancers. .

Trade shows are great fun in this country, all the company’s domestic and international engage in visual shoving matches with each other to construct the most exciting testosterone-powered pavilion ever seen by human eyes overflowing with costumed girls, staff, shows, presentations and giveaways. I went to them a lot. It was part of my job: Tokyo Game Show; CEATEC; Wireless Japan; Amusement Machine Show; etc., etc.

Signing in at the press booth I reflected this was the first trade related venue in my career however that required ID to prove you were of legal age to enter.

At Makuhari Messe everyone enters from a floor above, descending stairs or escalator to the actual show floor below thus getting a quick overview of the layout. I walked in expecting a vast darkened hall illuminated by electronic marquees and large eye popping booths of structural complexity bursting with video screens, flashing lights, sexy pole dancers with their custom-made breasts, and international porn stars signing autographs and naughty body parts. Instead I was blinded by overhead halogens turned up unbearably bright shining down on plain box-like structures most if which were smaller than my living room.

Jake and I rode the escalator past posters warning of the dangers of AIDS and death by sex. Honestly. ‘Be careful of dieing during sex’ the latter said in Japanese. Little chance of that, dieing from lack of sex was a more likely option with Japanese men I reflected.

The booths were full of all things wiggly and jiggly though not, to Jake’s regret, the Campaign Girls who were painfully thin and looked about 16. I’m a 34B and I swear to god I had the biggest breasts there that afternoon.

“Where are the porn stars? “ Jake whined.

Not here, seemed to be the answer though there was plenty of Japanese porn. Much of it – both for sale and as product demonstrations -- involving bondage sex and or masturbation often performed by other girls many of whom were filmed in pink nurses’ uniforms. What is that fantasy about? Why nurses? Guys and nurses I understand, but these girls looked more like estheticians than medical attendants. ‘I’ll have the pedicure, facial and full body bondage and masturbation program please…’ No. Not sexy.

For a woman porn is pretty prosaic at the best of times but under industrial strength lighting it’s positively lethal.

Wandering by the booths we also saw far too many truly, deeply creepy items including child-like dolls catering to that very, very dark side of the human psyche.

Jake’s camera lens was drooping. “Sacha, this is not fun, you promised me fun,” he declared.

“Actually I promised you 300 dollars and lunch if you would come to the Porn Convention and shoot for me. You supplied the ‘fun’ part all by yourself.”

Advanced promotion for the Adult Treasure Expo had touted a number of concerts to be held on the huge stage dominating one side of the painfully empty hall. Boys II Men were scheduled to give an anti-AIDS concert sometime during the three-day event. (You know times are tough when you have to perform at the porn convention….) Right now though the stage held one small Japanese man in black face and an oversized afro wig singing Michael Jackson songs to an audience of around ten people.

Next door one of the paid models – looking very much like a pork chop in a piranha pool -- was surrounded by sweating men taking pictures under her miniskirt with their cell phones.

It was going to be a very long day.

To be continued

Tags: chiba, conventions, makuhari messe, porn convention, trade shows
Current Location: Chiba god help me
Current Mood: depressed
Current Music: Klaxons, Golden Skans

I returned with the cigarette to hear James roaring with laughter, Margot saying, “So the Spaniard is now on the floor after sliding off the banquette on his sweaty behind pants around his ankles and the very large black woman on top of him and he starts singing. Singing!”

I handed her the cigarette from behind my ear. “What Spaniard was singing where?” I asked.

“At the Sex Club.”

I had warned James about a political and social grilling; apparently it was to be more of a saucy basting rather than a BBQ. Margot happily detailing an apparently less than blessed visit to her and Taki’s favorite sex club.

“Where was I?” asked Margot.

“Spaniard -- floor -- large black woman,” James said helpfully.

“Oh, yes. The Spaniard, he starts singing canzone. You know what canzone is James, yes?”

James nodded.

“So the canzone. The Spaniard sounds like Il Divo you know, he is very, very good, but filling the club with so much noise no one can hear themselves talking dirty. The large woman begins to shout something in a language I do not know. Taki and I have paused in our lovemaking because we can see the staff at the bar and they are looking on with horror, paralyzed not knowing what to do because these are foreigners and foreigners do not always understand rules even when you explain them, most carefully plus the black lady is very large and intimidating in that way very large black ladies can be especially when much of her is falling out of a yellow mini dress.”

“Plus they are having sex”, adds James.

“Oh yes, they are humping and bumping and the large woman succeeds in knocking over all the glasses on the table next to her.”
“Not the table?”


“No they are bolted to the floor,” said Margot taking a large drink of her wine adding, “for good reason.”

“I can imagine,” said James.

“God I have no matches, Sacha,” she looked at me, “I have no matches.”
I usually carry a book not tonight though, I shook my head. Holding the cigarette she leaned back from her stool – we were at the tables by the windows the long ones with the high stools, you know -- asking in Japanese for a light. Since the entire table was puffing away this was not hard to procure in fact one of the men gave her his little plastic lighter along with his business card.

“So,” she blew smoke up into the air, “the glasses, bottle, tray and a large dish of mixed nuts are scattered as she begins to climax. Miraculously she switches to English shouting ‘Your cock, I feel your cock all the way inside me, filling me to heaven, oh, I am going to die, I am going to die,’ or words like that. He is singing and she is yelling so now they have the attention of all of us.
At the bar the waiters push one of the young men towards the couple Before he can get more than a few words out of his mouth she grabs the poor man and wrestles him down screaming once again in another language. Over he goes, knocking into the couple on the opposite side spilling their drinks all over. Now they begin with the shouting. Running over one of the staff pleads in Japanese to get up off the floor and be a little more quiet. She grabs him around the waist, squeezing till his eyes bulge, the Spaniard pops up grinding her hips into his and they both start to convulse in ecstasy the waiter trapped between them. The other patrons have had enough Now the entire staff is trying to get them off the floor helped by a number of patrons and they are dragging them still humping towards the cloak room and they hope I am certain out into the street. Unfortunately the staff is quite thin and the Spaniard and black woman are very large so not much progress is being made. By now all activity in the club has stopped except for one girl in a black eye mask at the bar masturbating with a very large dildoe who seems completely not to notice what is going on.”

She took another drink, tapping ash off her cigarette.

“At last the Spaniard hits a high note in his song and reaches climax only to collapse silently on the floor. Taki and I cheer and clap. We are all fascinated to see what will happen next. The staff stops trying to drag them because the man, he is no longer moving. Even the large woman is concerned. Shaking off the little Japanese like bugs she tries to wake the Spaniard. He is not waking up.
She begins to pound on his chest and Taki and I think he has had a heart attack and the large lady is trying to revive him. But no she is shouting in what I think are several languages finally ending in English ‘don’t you die you bastard you haven’t paid me.’ She is not trying to resuscitate him, she is beating him! The manager is practically crying.
Everyone in the club is watching what will happen even the girl in the mask.
The staff is piling on top of the large woman trying to pull her off the man and she is shouting. Soon we hear the siren.”

James is fascinated, “They called for the ambulance? Did they call the police as well?”

“Oh no, the last thing a sex club wants is trouble with the police. And the last thing the police want is trouble with a very large, very angry woman. The ambulance comes and brings in the, they bring the, what do you call it?”

“Gurney?,” I supplied because I am like an ESL psychic after so many years abroad.

“Yes that into the club and are trying to load the man into it while the large mostly naked woman has hysterics screaming about money. Out they went into the night the large woman in nothing but her bright yellow slip dress being chased by the manager in tears holding her bag and shoes and the bill.”

“And that,” said James laughing, “is why you like going to sex clubs.”

She nodded vigorously, “Yes. Liberating and entertaining. So difficult to find those two pleasures in one place. Do you want to go? Of course you do. Don’t lie. I am French and know these things. All men want to.” She drained her glass. “Come on, it is early but I will take you, many people want sex early in the evening, I know I do. Don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer she climbed off the stool saying, “I have my card still.”

James looked at me, his eyes wide.

Seeing the look Margot made a ‘tch’ sound saying, “Oh Sacha does not want to visit this particular kind of place, she told me so. She does not like to be bohemian, not like me,” she ended the sentence on a flourish. “What about you James, are you bohemian?”

“Actually I thought we’d spend some more time here with drinks, I haven’t seen Sacha for awhile.”

“Sacha doesn’t mind. You don’t mind do you Sacha dear? I feel much better already. You were so right to suggest we go out. Isn’t that what you wanted for me to feel better? Because I do. And I like James very much he is simpatico as the Spanish say. I have been convincing Japanese doctors all day to buy medicines they do not really want and I need some fun. Let us go have fun James from Pasadena. ”

I wasn’t sure I wanted Margot to like James – simpatico or not. He was, in a manner of speaking, mine. It didn’t matter we hadn’t actually done much of anything but hang out
He was certainly more mine than Margot’s and I had not expected the night to turn out with him skipping gaily off on the sex club circuit with one of my best friends especially since I had turned down the opportunity of dining at the Roppongi Hills Club -- certainly one of my very favorite destinations -- so she could cry on my shoulder.

I had no right to be jealous. In fact he seemed to be one of those annoying sorts who might actually be looking for a relationship. I had given up on relationships with men years ago not relations you understand, just relationships. So what did I care besides a missed dinner if the two of them hooked up?

Composing my face I said in my most noncommittal voice, “Go then, I’m a big girl I can amuse myself.”

Margot grabbed James hand and looking over his shoulder all the way out, they disappeared into the gathering dark. Of course at that moment the waiter brought our meager tapas. Bastards, though whether I meant the timing or my departed friends or the food even I wasn’t sure.

Looking around the bar I couldn’t help feeling rather disappointed in A971, large number of foreign men notwithstanding the service was mediocre, the selection of tapas unexciting. . I should not have been beguiled by the lure of easy sex and stuck to Orange practically next store, a place I had come to love for a before or after dinner glass of Champagne and which had an amazingly friendly bilingual staff that always welcomed me by name. Maybe I would go over there now and chat with the head waiter, a surfer who must be ecstatic that the bad weather shadowing Japan seemed to have finally lifted. I abandoned the table, the tapas and the text messages from my heart saying ‘smiley face -- James might have been different if you let him – heart, heart’ and headed for Orange cell phone in hand speed dialing a fellow I knew in the biblical sense. Midway through the dial I cancelled the call ringing Miriam instead.

“Hey Kiddo,” I said as she picked up.

“Sacha, hello beautiful. What are you up to?”

“No good, as usual. Listen I know its dinner time but any chance of you hopping a cab and meeting me at Tokyo Midtown for a glass of Champagne?”

“Oh very tempting but I can’t, in the middle of making dinner for the girls. You know how it is and then I need to help Elizabeth with a school project on the rain forest.”

I was disappointed.

“Can we talk on the phone? Wait hold on a second.” Waving and bowing my way past the staff at Orange I pointed to the sidewalk terrace and one of the waiters walked me over to a table where I could watch everyone passing by. Taking the menu – I was nearly faint with hunger -- I got back to Miriam, “Sorry. So did you have the movers come for guesstimates?”

“I did, I did. I think we’ll go with Crossover Movers, they seemed very reasonable.”

My heart gave a little lurch, “That sounds awfully final, have you talked again with Thomas? You don’t really have to go, you guys can work it out so you can stay I know you can.”

I knew because it had been me that had given her that new option.

“You can’t, I don’t want you to.” I felt tears prickling my eyes. I had gone through some dark and depressing times during my marriage and right after my divorce – despite rediscovering the delicious naughtiness of men. Standing on the subway platform the whoosh of air streaming out of tunnel through my hair, the train following close behind I would wonder what it would be like to step into that blackness soft as vaginal skin letting it blot out everything else. No more running for the event horizon of love and success.

I thought I needed the power of Dr. Who and the Tardis to swoop in and drag me out of that suicidal gravity well, instead five years ago I met Miriam. Miriam was all about comfort and cozy chats over a cup of tea or glass of wine in the kitchen.

Never, never discount the power of cozy kitchen chats. For a woman they are a wonder drug for infections of the heart every bit as powerful as penicillin.

I generally did not talk abut myself much. As a journalist it is my job to listen and pose questions and my husband, well, he was always interested in my mind just never my heart. With work related friends pre-Miriam we talked issues, cultures, politics, destinations anything but each other. Miriam wanted to talk about me.

How could I say good bye?.

“Sacha, Sacha, are you there?”

“What? Oh yes, for sure. Listen if you are set on going you have to let us give you a big send off, okay?”

“Not a big send off.”

“Whatever you want. Choose who you want to invite, check your calendar for the day, and let me handle the rest, deal?”

“Deal.”

Miriam who was in awe of my work and intellect helped me rediscover the cool person I was and continue to be. Those talks sparked an internal dialogue; realigning my interpretation of success beyond the size of my byline. Taking a large stick --- metaphorically speaking – I beat my ambition into if not submission at least a corner and decided the truest measure of success was the depth of my friendships.

Miriam taught me that.

And Margot, I added silently to myself while ordering today’s special of roast chicken and potatoes, taught me never to mix sex-club frequenting Frenchwomen on the rebound with my men.

Tags: cozy chats, sex clubs
Current Location: On the ground
Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Maroon 5

While waiting for James I had kept an eye on the foreigners crowding round the bar standing in loud groups, bottles of beer in hand. It was comforting somehow to see them like this and to be a part of it. As much as I loved this city I did miss that American blending of ethnicity, ancestry bleeding together like watercolors.

Americans often referred to themselves as ‘mutts’ as if this was a bad thing. God knows such individual blending was the closest humanity was ever getting to harmony across regional borders.

Right now I was still puzzling out gender preferences at A971 and whether the place was gay or straight in the P.M. hours. When James entered I watched to see if any male heads did not just turn but lingered. Hmmnn, mostly just cursory glances I noted.

“What are you drinking?” I asked taking his arm and pulling him to one of the high tables I had reserved through strategic placement of my pink Ralph Lauren cable knit cardigan and beloved, though somewhat battered, vintage Gucci briefcase.

“Um,” he looked vaguely towards the bar for inspiration. “Uh, let’s see Corona? Do they have Corona?”

“Stay here,” I said, I’ll get you one. “Oh and do me a favor look and see if any of the guys watch me walk to the bar.”

He gave me his by now familiar puzzled stare, poor Pasadena, but being a stand up guy said only, “Sure.”

The heels on my little brown suede Vamps accentuated my walk there and back.

Handing James his beer I said, “Anyone? No one?”

He laughed, “Most of them.”

“Okay now you walk over and ask for extra napkins.”

Smiling again he did as I asked.

“Okay, the place is straight,” I declared upon his return.

“Sacha, what are you talking about?”

“Wait, wait, let’s toast.” Bumping glass and bottle I said, “Thanks for being such a great guy and coming with me the other day.”

“You’re welcome, now, what was that about? “ He nudged his chin towards the bar and back.

“Trying to figure out if this is a gay or straight bar in the evening, ‘cause there are so many guys.”

He looked around, eyebrows raised, “You’re right. And?”

“I think it’s straight “

“Because they watched you walk by?”

“No, because they didn’t watch you. See if they were gay they could have just been coveting my dress and shoes which are, I am sure you will admit, very desirable.”

“As is the rest of the package.” He raised his bottle to me and I nodded in acknowledgment.

“If they watched YOU, well they were coveting your body, which is also very desirable.” I gave him a teasing smile.

“Speaking of coveting, there is something I have been meaning to ask you Sacha...”

“Sacha! Sweetie!” Margot had arrived turning heads and spilling drinks as she shouldered her way over to our spot. Much kissing ensued before and after I introduced James.

“Of course I remember you!” She told James grabbing a napkin to rub at the red lipstick smeared every so slightly on his cheek. “Sorry. There, now you are perfect again. Sacha has spoken of you as a totally stand together man”

“Stand up,” I interjected.

“Whatever,” she waved her hand, the one with the huge amethyst ring, in a dismissive gesture. “So tell me about yourself, wait I must have a drink first.” With singular purpose she moved to the front of the queue at the bar returning with a large glass of red wine and devastation in her wake. “Now tell me James from America, what are you doing here in Tokyo. And for godsake does anyone have a cigarette?”

Feeling the crowd could hardly stand a third Margot onslaught I said I would go in search of a smoke for her plus I wanted to order some food from the bar’s Tapas menu since I cannot drink on an empty stomach.

Standing at the bar waiting my turn I smiled at the man next to me. He looked like a Japanese telecom ad for a foreign executive: High cheekbones, broad forehead, brown hair thick and side-parted, arched brows, dark eyes, bespoke jacket and trousers of superfine cloth. I smiled a little wider but only because I recognized him as the very successful, very satisfied husband of an acquaintance of mine. Pleased with his beautiful children, beautiful wife, beautiful job and anything else you can attach ‘beautiful’ to but not pleased enough to stop smiling at a small blonde waiting for Tapas. I knew men like him, I’d had sex with men like him. In fact if you are at a certain income level it is difficult to avoid men like him in the Tokyo Ex-pat dating scene.

Not that I cared, my attitude towards them was usually the same -- I had somewhat carnivorous tastes in the opposite sex. Meat or grass, it was up to them to decide on their