Thursday, June 10, 2010

What Japanese Men Are Like, Part 2: Come On, Toshi

Toshi had excellent netiquette. He was born in Tokyo but grew up in Europe, his father in the foreign service. In contrast to the rough style of speaking in Osaka, and in contrast to the funhouse variety of English I sometimes receive in messages like this one:


I regret that it does not attach to your hope. Thank you for having you associate, although it was short time.
I am wishing your happiness.

… Toshi’s rather formal and old-fashioned emails appealed to me:

Good evening to you, I am sorry that I am writing to you just before going to bed.

I was utterly surprised that you have to work the whole afternoon and into the evening on Saturday, it is as if Japan in the 60's. I remember my father staying home Saturdays in the mid 70's. Before that, Saturdays off twice a month.

Anyway, I can patiently wait for your schedule to be finalized. Please write me when the decision is definitive.

Wishing you fine Wednesday and good night.

I thought perhaps Toshi'd be more adept at negotiating the cultural chasm that separates American women and Japanese men. And because of his time in Europe, he might even have less traditional ideas about gender roles than the average Japanese guy in his 40s. On our first date we spent a pleasant five hours over dinner and drinks. He seemed nervous in the beginning but that was endearing in its own way.

On our second date I asked him to make a reservation at this izakaya because I’m trying to expand the boundaries of my known universe in Osaka. So much of the start-up of a new life overseas, or anywhere, is building out your web street by street and strand by strand. Also, even after five years here I'm still crazy about Asian décor.

We arrived and were led up stairs, through a section of charming, private spaces into a cramped, shabby tatami room at the back with its own shoji door. Each time a waiter brought food they would knock and wait for us to call “Hai!” before sliding it open. Izakaya are eating and drinking establishments, and can range from tiny bars with three seats to chain shops with giant picture menus. To the best of my knowledge, they are also one iteration of the tea houses that were once the reservoirs of Japan's "water trade," a poetic euphemism for the sex industry. So as the door slid closed the first time, I wondered how long this place had been an izakaya, and how many women had sat with how many men in that little room.

If you spend any time in Japanese cities, it's impossible to ignore the all the ways the male sex drive is serviced. I pass dozens of hostess bars, maid cafes that cater to the endemic "lolikon," or Lolita complexes, and massage shops just walking from the train station to my Japanese class in central Osaka. Then there are the cheerful girls who stand on the sidewalk handing out pocket tissue with advertisements for phone sex or my new favorite, "delivery health," call girls you can order up like a pizza. All of this was simmering in the back of my mind as we sipped our drinks and waited for the various dishes to arrive.

But back to Toshi. Dinner was unremarkable for either food or conversation. The only thing I remember of it was that, over homemade rice balls at the end of the meal, Toshi made a point of saying, “Japanese rice is the best in the world because it’s the only rice that tastes good cold,” which he’d said verbatim on our previous date. But don’t get me started on rice.

As we were having our second drink, I felt tired so I uncurled my legs from under the low table and leaned back against the wall (we were sitting on the floor). I asked Toshi if he’d like to move to the side so he could lean against a wall, too, and he agreed. But instead he came and sat down next to me. He took my hand, kissed it, and said I was beautiful. I thought, "Oh, dear."

He asked if he could kiss me on the cheek, and I said OK, because any other answer would have essentially ended things right there. I had been emailing with him for a month and I wasn’t ready to write him off. Besides, we were on a date and he was a reasonably attractive man.

He leaned in for what I thought would be one little peck and suddenly I was being pressed against the wall by a middle-aged octopus. His stiff, robotically swirling tongue and two twitching index fingers comprised a triple-pronged obliteration of any hopes I'd had of dating the guy. At this point, the little person in my head decided that since this date was officially over, it would be a good cultural observation opportunity. I tried to stop the ridiculous flicking attack on my nipples. I even attempted to do every woman who might ever meet Toshi a favor by teaching him how to kiss, but soon he fell back into the stiff robot kisses, and all the while treating my breasts like lightswitches. I gave up.

I thought I'd try one more tack. I explained that I'd recently had my heart broken and wasn't interested in being with anyone casually. He said, "You're so lovely," and leaned over again for more ineffective swirling and flicking. I stopped him again and said, "You know that for women sex happens in the brain, right?"

"Yes, well, to be honest, I don't think I ever satisfied my wife" [of 15 years]. On the way home it occurred to me that he may not have even been divorced.

"Did you ever talk to her about it?"

"Oh, no. It would be too embarrassing for a Showa [post World War II] man. Or for a Showa woman."

So he just spent 15 years flicking her poor nipples.

After about the third time I carefully explained how my delicate emotional state was affecting my libido, he said, "I know you'll probably say no but do you want to go to a hotel?"

For a brief nanosecond I considered how much I would be helping any woman who had the misfortune of being with him, but even my charity doesn't extend that far. And that was the end of Toshi.

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