Monday, August 24, 2009

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 4 - The Taxi

If you’ve been following my blog long enough, you’ll know that I have an insidious curse when it comes to flights. Booking wrong departure dates, missing my flight, having to run out to the tarmac to catch my flight, the list goes on.

That storied past was linked largely with LB. So, one year on, a little more matured and organized, and travelling with Poca whom I would have assumed to be exponentially more meticulous, I thought the days of screw ups have been dutifully discarded. But I was gravely mistaken.

When we decided to party the night before despite an 11am flight to catch the next morning, it seemed like a harmless initiative and treating ourselves to vodka was the best way I knew for saying farewell to Tokyo.

The plan was to have an early night – relative by our standards – and catch a quick wink before making our way to the terminal. The motion was set, our alarm clocks tuned and the route agreed on. We just didn’t anticipate for two things; snoozing – which really is a crime – and train timings.

7.30am : The first of many alarms ring. I question the need for waking up so early when our flight is over 3 hours away. Poca offers no objection. I press the snooze button. We are both delighted at the decision. This is the best decision since democracy was introduced.

7.45am : The second alarm goes off. I nudge her again to wake up. She turns away and mumbles, “5 minutes”.

7.50am : I propose we get out of bed to the count of 20. She bargains and we agree to 40.

7.51am : I begin counting labouriously, slower at each progressing number.
7.52am : I reach 20. She tells me to slow down the count.
7.53am : I reach 35, doze off to sleep and do not remember anything else that follows.

8.15am : I wake up abruptly. We had overslept. Panic spreads the bed covers. There is no debate, no need to coax her out of her slumber and no time to waste. She springs to life.

8.45am : We make an enquiry at the reception with regards to airport transfers. The next transfer is at 9.30am. Poca declares,

We don’t have time, we will take the train instead.”

I am in a foreign land, with people who speak like they are singing half the time, and signs that provide limited assistance to foreigners. I do not question her decision. I follow her like herpes to genitals. We grab a cab to Tokyo station.

8.58am : We reach the station. We tell the guy at the entrance that we need to get tickets for the Narita Express. He hands us an entrance ticket and points us to the ticketing counter.

9.01am : We request for 2 tickets to Narita airport via the express train. The guy tells us that the next train is at 9.03am and that we might not be able to catch it. We are both blessed with fast twitching muscles with relatively decent sprint timings. We are confident on making it, so we wave him off.

9.02am : We reach the platform with time to spare. The only problem is, everything is written in Japanese and we have no idea which train we are supposed to catch.

9.03am : We seek help from the other Japanese commuters. The ticket must have been written in Korean, because NO ONE knew which platform our ticket was meant for.

9.06am : Convinced we have missed the train, we make our way back up to change for the next departing train.

The next train, which isn’t an express one, is at 9.20 with an arrival time at the airport at 10.50am. The next express train is at 10am and arrives at the airport at 10.30am. We are screwed both ways. We had to get a refund.

Poca: “No, we can’t take the trains. We need to be at the airport at 10am.”
Guy: “Oh 10. Yes yes.”

He prints us the ticket for the 10am train.

Poca: “No. We. Need. To. Be. At. The. Airport. At. 10.”

He shoved the ticket to us again. This was going nowhere, so I decided that I had to step in at some point and arrest this misdirected conversation.

Me: “Refund.”

He understood that perfectly and I solved everything with my first muttered intervention. I might actually have a sound future as a Japanese interpreter.

Now, with that solved, all we needed was to leave the station and take a cab to the airport. The only problem was that now, the guy at the entrance to the station refused to let us leave without an exit ticket. This was despite us trying to tell him that he allowed us in to begin with and all we wanted now was to leave.

We obviously didn’t have one because we didn’t even purchase a ticket to get in to begin with and he was the person who allowed us entry. And now he wants an exit ticket?

To make matters worse, the only way we could get an exit ticket, was to first buy an entry ticket. And do you know where you can purchase an entry ticket? Hands up if you said, “Outside” because you are one muthafucking smart taveller. So how were we going to purchase one, when we aren't even allowed to leave?

When we finally managed to leave – we were so close to making a dash for it -, we were left with taking a cab to the airport as our only available option. It was 9.18am and we got into what I assumed to be a cab.

9.22am : We doze off, drained from all the early morning drama. We are finally smooth sailing and will make our flight in time. If there was a bar and time available, we would have celebrated with a bottle of champagne.

9.45am : I wake up to see the meter at 18,000yen. I do a quick calculation; if 1,000yen is $15 then 18,000 yen would equate to, a kidney if we are in Cambodia. I wake Poca, who calmly tells me that they accept credit cards, before nodding back to sleep.

I on the other hand, can no longer sleep and my eyes are fixated on the meter that is jumping so fast, I wondered if the cabbie was going to be able to buy Tioman with our fare by the time we get to the airport.

9.47am: We pass a sign that says, “Airport 13km”. This is the happiest sign I’ve seen in Tokyo all weekend long.

Remember this TV program called ‘$100 taxi ride’? I now know why they never made Tokyo a filming destination, because if they ever did it, there was only enough material to air it for 10mins and $100 was probably only enough to get them out of a parking lot.

This was fucking ridiculous. I thought we took a cab, but apparently from what it seemed, we actually took a plane, just without the in-flight entertainment, meals and aging flight stewardesses.

By the time we arrived at the airport, the final fare had amounted to S$430! In perspective, not only would people have sold their kidneys, but in Bangkok, that would have taken you all the way to Mongolia in a cab, with a complimentary blowjob at the gas station.

Welcome to my world.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 3 - The Ageha Pole Dance

Ageha, is what you would call a mega club. Not only is it the largest club in Japan, it is the furthest club in proximity to civilization. We had to walk so far from the train station, I thought that we were suppose to rent a camel to get there.

We got there only to realize that the club only starts operations at 11pm. It was 10.50pm and there were a grand total of 5 other people waiting outside to get it. Do you know what this actually means? If we band together, we won’t even qualify as a soccer team, but at least we can make a full squad for basketball, with reserves.

And this was supposed to be the top club in Tokyo. I made a silent prayer to God, hoping that the Japanese like to hide in bushes and trees until it is time to enter the clubs, only then will they spring out in the hundreds.

The club was impressive to say the least. Huge, nicely furnished and a lounge section that was serviced by tobacco promoters that had legs that ran on forever. There was also a pool, but it was so small, if it had a tap, it would have passed off as a basin. We knocked back 3 rounds of drinks and waited for the place to fill up.

There really wasn’t much else that I appreciated about the club. The music was tame, the crowd was hardly attractive and we had a hard time finding women that were hot enough for us to want to labour through a conversational barrier with.

The only highlight was a pole dance showcase that kept us from leaving the place early. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of pole dancing, more so than most regular men, so believe me when I say, I was blown.

I was expecting a corporeal performance of sorts. One that was to include the staple uniform principle of less is more. A lingerie catwalk, a risqué dance routine that would centre around a lot of grinding with the pole and butt shaking, lots of it.

I was right about the outfits for one; lingerie with killer heels, but when the lights dimmed and the music cued, I knew I was witnessing something magical, something even Chris Angel would be proud of. Something that was going to deconstruct the eroticism behind pole dancing and catapult it into the stratosphere of performing arts, like ballet, ballroom dancing and striptease lap dances.

These girls were working the pole with such grace, poise and technical maneuverability, that I might have dislocated a jaw from gawking. I don’t even know how to begin describing what they were doing because even when they twirled around on it, they actually reminded me of Chang Er flying to the moon - just with alot less clothes on.

And these girls were generally slim, save for one which looked like her childhood ambition growing up was to be a thug, and yet they were pulling off moves that you would wish you had when doing chin ups for IPPT. I don’t know how they did it, but they were practically rolling up and down the poles without hands and balancing their bodies perpendicular off the pole.

Did you say ‘What the Fuck?!”

That was exactly what I was saying at every 6 second interval. And if I understood Japanese better, I believe that was what the other people were saying as well, because there were a lot of whistling going on, so if you are trained to communicate with dolphins or dogs, you would know that those people were also saying,

What the fuck!”

Now that truly is pole dancing. The next time you go to a Thai club and there is a chick on the podium, dancing with a pole, you can throw your shoe at her and tell her that isn’t pole dancing because Butterfly says real pole dancers don’t need hands to climb poles. If your dance is all about holding on to a pole while grinding against it, then that’s not pole dancing. That’s called ‘trying to balance’ – or maybe you have yeast infection and it’s itchy down there.

Do you even know how much abdominal strength it takes to balance themselves on the poles like they do? Their abs are so toned, not only can you wash clothes and crack chestnuts with it, they could have crash tested a Volvo against it and still come out smiling.

All that spectacle and awe and we didn’t even have it down on film or pictures because these Japanese have a very strict law about photography in clubs. I don’t know why, maybe they are afraid people might secretly tape them preparing a Jagerbomb and the world would know the secret to it. And it’s times like this, you wish you didn’t have an iPhone.

We left shortly after because we had an early flight to catch. Now the problem was getting back to the hotel. Of course, being so isolated on the fringes of the city area meant that the club had to counter this by offering free shuttle services to Shibuya station and from there it was a lot easier for us to get back.

When we got out, the shuttle bus was nowhere in sight and Poca suggested that we save the trouble and just grab a cab instead. This was her 5th time to Tokyo and I was just clocking in my 40th hour there, so it was wise to just heed her words.

When we got back to our place, which was about 10 mins away or the distance equivalent of 13km, the fare choked me. Our fare back had cost us 5000yen - $75 for those slow at counting. Yes, I heard you loud and clear, because that is exactly how I reacted.

What the FUCK?!”

And if we thought this was bad, we had no idea what was going to happen in 5 hours time...

Monday, August 17, 2009

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 2 - Womb


There is quite an intrinsic quirkiness to the Japanese language. It’s something exaggerated yet so addictive because the people there – the young women especially – speak as if they are singing. Every sentence sounds just as harmonious as the one before and the only thing more distracting than the accent is the eyeliner, or maybe the mini-skirts.

It means ‘pleased to meet you’, it’s a cordial greeting boundaried by social order and formalities, but they can put such a melodic ring to it that sometimes I wonder if they are offering a handjob.

I can’t really say I’ve been thoroughly impressed by the girls there. I mean I had such great expectations, constructed by fed images through race queens, porn starlets and models. I had the impression that there was something breathtaking at every corner.

If it wasn’t a hot lady strolling pass in Gucci boots, then maybe it could be some odd couple fucking in the public train. Maybe I have adult videos to blame for it because I was under the impression that girls walked round in public wear a trench coat and nothing else, or there was a black van on every busy street with people fucking inside.

But no. Tokyo girls have hardly impressed me the way Taiwanese girl have. Ganguro girls are plenty, so much so that I sometimes forget that this is Tokyo and not Bali. I don’t know what’s up with the whole tan skin craze because some of them take it so far with their deep tans, bleached blonde hair and white eyeliner and lipstick, they remind me of the Gingerbread Man.

I also heard stories about how women get approached on streets to act in porn productions or get dogged by indecent proposals by Poca and from what I’ve seen, this could actually be true. So theoretically, this could explain why there weren’t many really hot women around, because they’ve been pulled off the streets for the greater good of entertaining the vicarious deviancies of men sitting at home in front of their computers.

We were in Tokyo on a Friday night, so there was a natural gravitating towards the mandatory visits to the local nightlife. The problem was, there was just too many clubs we wanted to visit and time was a luxury we just didn’t have. Poca had her work cut out for her.

Poca: “Listen to this. Gas Panic is a Roppongi institution, where young people go to grope other young people. The music there is so loud that your mating ritual needs to be physical rather than verbal.”

If I wasn’t so engrossed in trying to find the Japanese game show channels, I would have stood up and shouted “Bingo!”. I don’t think any club could offer a better description than this unless they were peddling lap dances and tequila shots at $3 a pop.

Picking a club to go to was easy, the challenge was to find our way there. It’s not that the cabs were of much help either because every time we told them our destination, they always repeated the place with such bafflement and exclamation, it was like as if we were telling them to head to some street in India.

Gas Panic didn't turn out to be what I would expect of a meat factory, complete with obscure dark corners for furtive make-out sessions. It was a bar decked with round tables and sporadic crowds stippled around the place. I don’t know if it was the time, the lack of females or alcohol, but it featured a rather placid crowd that looked more contented in conversation than bar top dancing.

We had a drink each then decided our time in Tokyo was far too precious to be sitting around waiting for an euphoric showcase of grinding or a carnal skin fest to erupt. We were going to move on to greener, more decadent clubs to fill our appetite for debauchery.

The next stop was Womb, a reputed Trance club with quite a reputation for being ranked in “The World’s Top 10 Killer Clubs” - whatever that means, because it could just mean that more people die here than any other club. But they host a lot of the Avex Trax artiste, so we reckoned it would be decent enough, or otherwise we were going to be just another fatality statistic.

The thing with these underground clubs is that they are almost impossible to find because there are just so little branding and a lack of a proper entrance. The entrance was at the back lane, through this little door that not even Indiana Jones would have found. But once we got in, the place was huge with thumping bass reverberating off the walls. I would have had an erection, if not for the insane 3500yen cover charge.

Note: 1000yen is about $15

The great thing about drinks there, was that they are fucking potent. They practise the gentlemen’s pour which is about 45ml as opposed to the 30ml shots in Singapore. So we kicked back with another two rounds of Red Bull vodkas and enjoyed the view.

I don’t know if people are just naturally friendly or horny in Japan, but I only need to leave Poca alone for a split second before guys will swarm in for her. The only time I see this happening in Singapore is when you are a Caucasian male stepping into Orchard Towers.

Some girl took the seat next to Poca, who did a quick Manhattan once over on her, then turned to me.

Poca: “I think she’s hot. Give me your cigarettes.”

I watched as Poca played the oldest trick in the book. It was a textbook icebreaking conversation starter and she was rolling it out like a seasoned pro.

Poca: “Can I borrow a lighter?”

And this was how we met Miwa, who thankfully was fluent in English and nice enough to get me a pack of cigarettes. I was almost convinced at one point that Poca was really going to lasso her back with us, but we left before she did because the club and crowd was hardly worth walking out to sunrise for.

Me: “You didn’t close baby.”
Poca: “I have her number don’t I?”
Me: “Closing is only if you got her home with you.”
Poca: “Closing is when I have her number.”

Then 12 hours later, we got a call from Miwa.

Miwa: “I got you both on guestlist for Ageha.”

That was the best thing I any Japanese has said to me all weekend long. And so, we were heading to the biggest club in Japan on Saturday, complete with a guestlist. We are back to being privileged clubbers again.

Note: I will post fringe stories and pictures on Facebook.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 1

My impression of Tokyo has been a mosiac piece of induced perception from movies, drama serials and porn. It is the birth place of sushi, Honda, eyeliner and ninjas.

Tokyo, what's not to love? Raw fish, overpriced transportation and girls who will suck cock for Louis Vuittion - or at least that's what porn has been proliferating. It's the destination of every puberty initiated boy.

It's taken me 28 years, but I'm here. The porn capital of the far East. The mecca of bleach blonde hair and eyeliner. The maverick of technology, revolutionary father of vending machines and a society bounded by tradition. Call it what you may, but if you actually re-arrange the word 'Japan', it actually spells 'paradise'.

Coincidence? I think not.

If you've actually been here, you'll find that the people here don't actually speak, but they sing. I've been here for under 24hours and every other Japanese here speaks with such a melodic accent that if there was bass in the background, it would qualify as a karaoke.

I don't know if it's mandatory for them to sing their words, but everytime you enter a shop or restaurant, they greet you with what seems like a song it's like you're walking in on a Japan Idol audition.

And the girls?

I don't know if it's legal here, but some of them have on so much hairspray, they would by any law, be classified as inflammable and banned from petrol stations.

At the time of writing this, I just got back from a trance club and Poca just picked up a Japanese chick. It's too late for a full post - blame it on vodka, and lots of it - and too early for a judgement to be drawn.

It's summer here and humidity warrants a frown. Thankfully, it also means a lot more mini skirts and skin to be paraded.

I am being re-introduced to a decadent culture by Poca. This is going to be good..

Monday, August 10, 2009

The One With The Butterfly

I have a rival; a namesake that has been commercialized and capable of getting a girl into that convulsive utopian state of induced orgasm – something where even I fail at times.

Poca: “Stacy got me a Butterfly

Our conversation was clear, concise and beating on a mutual understanding that we weren’t talking about brooches or hairpins, insects or swim strokes. It was something right off the shelf of a sex novelty shop and something I knew that if proved adequately effective, was going to bench the penis for a full season and only going to be substituted back in when the batteries ran flat.

We had no idea what it was, only that it was ironically called ‘the butterfly’. And my mind went on another carnival of vivid imaginations on how it would look like and how it functioned. I made a small protest over drinks with them that went unchallenged.

Me: “I hope you didn’t get Poca a dildo, because that is going to retire the penis.”

Men in general do not grasp the looming threat these toys pose. They destroy relationships and cut your sex frequency exponentially. This is like Coke finding out about Pepsi, like Sampras making a comeback. And there the government is scratching their heads over declining birth rates when the problem is being commodified and made for easy purchase.

The only people that really need a dildo are Whales, because any self respecting – and sober – man will not and should not be fucking them. And the only things that will be in their general virginal region, are sanitary pads, toilet paper and bacteria.

Stacy: “It’s not a dildo.”

I didn’t follow much after that, except that I distinctively remembered words like, ‘batteries’, ‘enjoy’ and a lot of girlish laughter.

When we got back, Poca was excited about unwrapping the present. It was something made of rubber and shaped like a butterfly. And all I thought was, “this is an odd shaped dildo”. How was anyone supposed to use this? Was I supposed to insert this? Maybe it’s to be strapped on? Do I throw it at her?

Then we figured out the wires and how it was connected to an external remote. Now the ‘batteries’ part were all beginning to make perfect sense and for that, I was going to sacrifice two sacred grails in my life, my TV and cable remote.

Usually under no circumstances would I remove the batteries from the remote, because that is like taking life away from me itself, and I cannot imagine the day without the luxury of channel surfing, but this was at 4am, I had my pants off and my erection had priority over HBO.

As soon as we had it operating, we realized how it worked. It was a butterfly with flickering feelers that was its primary point of stimulation. The only worry was that it was vibrating so strongly on its own, just holding it felt like I was having Parkinson’s.

Poca: “Is that the slowest?!”

It was, but it could also have passed off as a seismograph. This wasn’t a contraption that was premised on rocket science to work, so I knew what needed to be done. I was going to place the vibrating feelers between her legs so that it would stimulate the clit and hopefully we can a good enough orgasm. Simple.

So I worked this methodically. Clothes off? Checked. Legs spread? Checked. Vibrator functional? Checked. Put vibrator on clit? Checked. Get kneed in the head? Did not see that coming.

The vibrator was so ticklish and her reflex reaction to it was so strong that she threw her right knee that connected impeccably to my head, flinging it back. I dropped the vibrator and begun clutching my head in pain, while she continued giggling and shaking herself off from the tickle.

Poca: “HAHAHAHAHA! Damn ticklish lah! HAHAHAHA!!”
Me: [clutching head] “You kneed me in the head..”
Poca: “Damn ticklish!!”
Me: “Damn pain..”

I don’t suppose anyone thought that this would be the derived outcome, especially not Stacy who had been so sure she was that catalytic inductor to bringing our sex lives to a new high, one coupled with the merits of sex toys.

Stacy: “So how was it? How was it?”
Me: “I got fucking kneed in the head. What do you think?”

We need to run a petition to get these toys banned.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

And this is Enzo

Dogs are fascinating creatures. Or at least men have made them out to be, because they say dogs are loyal and that is despite the number of ass they sniff and do people actually realize how promiscuous dogs are?

That said, I’ve always been a huge dog lover. I hate Chihuahua’s because if they had shorter legs, they could pass of as a rat, but generally I love dogs. I don’t know why I do because I’ve actually never had a good experience with them.

When I was 7, my neighbour’s dog ran out of the house when we were playing by the road. I was always good at running but my sister shouted out to me.

“Don’t run! The dog will chase you!”

I was 7, my sister was 8 and I trusted in her worldly wisdom. I stopped, she continued running, along with all the other kids. I had to get 4 stitches on the arm 2 hours later. Till this day I still wondered why I actually believed her.

Just over the week, Poca got a new Golden Retriever puppy that she named him, Enzo and he is the coolest puppy ever. He loves licking, nibbling and resting on boobs. He hates to be put in a box – I relate to that metaphorically -, he eats, sleeps and pees consistently and he whines when he doesn’t get attention. He sounds exactly like me already.

I’ve always known that it takes a lot of time and commitment to raise a dog, or if you are living in my house, consent from my dad, because I don’t think I know anyone who detest animals more than my dad. When he first saw Enzo, he was staring at him with so much contempt; I thought my dad perhaps thought Enzo was a bear or a porcupine.

I don’t know much about puppies, but Enzo pees like he is trying to turn my front porch into a lake. Which was why we were worried to have him sleep in my room because pee on my parquet floor is hardly amusing. I also didn’t want him to be left at the porch because my neighbours are Chinese nationals and people eat dogs there like it is french fries.

The amazing thing was that for the entirety that we had him in the room, he never once peed. He chewed on my cable wires a lot but he didn’t pee. He also chewed on my pants and bed sheet, but he didn’t pee, which is a merit by itself.

Maybe he knew the consequences of it. Every time he chewed on our fingers, we would flick his mouth so I think at 3 months old, he knew that we were going to castrate him if he peed in my room. He is one amazing dog who cherishes his penis.

And so my chapter with him begins..