Magnum Cock Size

The bar is filled with people. They are swathed in dull amber lights, and the din of conversation floats out onto the street. I’m sitting beside a blonde Russian with a propensity for saying “Fuck you” as a response to almost any statement I make. In front of me, a tall broad-chested Japanese  man is standing up and pointing a meaty finger at me.

“Show me your magnum.” He says.
“What?”
“Show me your magnum cock size.” He says.

His eyes are furrowed into a make-believe expression of intensity, and he almost looked like a Who Wants To Be a Millionaire TV host, except one that’s really, really drunk. I’m getting used to the Japanese men’s ambiguously gay behaviour, but some nights it’s a little annoying. I’m having a beer, and the Russian is being a bit icy. “You are cool, ” I said to her. “You came here and you are taking care of business.” I said after a sip of beer. “Fuck you.” She replies. I say a few more things, and she keeps repeating those words.
I sigh. Tonight feels like one of those nights when I’m crawling slowly uphill in hot sun with a life preserver on. I leave the table. I go up stairs and chat with two girls, who I’ve labeled M and M. They are chatting to Texas, a cool guy I know who is from… Texas. M number two has an English accent. She has a small, very round face. The first thing I think of when I see her is a porcelain doll.
Today is a going away party for Eric, a guy who’s been in Hamamatsu for a year and a half. He’s  a small guy with dark hair and calm features. They call him Pepsi Boy. There’s a good turnout. Everyone is glowing with positive energy. Twice tonight, people would spill beer on me.
I head to another bar, Liquid Kitchen with M number one. We chat about nothing interesting in particular. I like M number one, but I explained to her my theory about women who are twenty-five years old. “Women who are twenty-five that I’ve met are a little crazy.” I said. “Either they want to sleep with everyone under the sun, or get married in a hurry… there doesn’t seem to be an in between.”
This obviously, means nothing. Liquid Kitchen, I say hello to everyone. A good crowd is in the house, including some of my fellow co-workers. I see a few English girls who were in my training program when I first came to Japan, and I make small talk.
“Marcus, I never see you!” one of them chimes in a heavy accent.
I smile and nod. The other English girl, always dressed in a cute outfit that connotes a somewhat ‘indie’ fashion sense, gives me a sly eye.  She has long dark hair with a set of razor sharp bangs above her eyes. When I met her, she said she loved Reggae music.
“I can dance like the black girls.” She had said to me those months ago.

At the time I’m not sure what I said. I think I probably chuckled, or said nothing, since I was still recovering from horrible Jet Lag at the time. One thing was certain though, the people in those initial groups kept in touch pretty well. I always ran into them, hearing stories about wild parties in Kyoto and Tokyo, trips to small Japanese Inns and people running out on Sushi bills. They were living the kind of Japanese lifestyle that seemed fun and natural for a foreigner. Stuff you laugh about over a cup of coffee or a few beers. They are going to planet Café tonight.
I decide to go.

I go a few minutes ahead of the group and walk in quickly, not paying. Inside, there is a small but decent crowd. Someone says my name, and I see a Japanese lady in a Kimono with a beer in her hand. I met her yesterday. “Marcus!” she says. “You are here… did you get my e-mail?”
“E-mail? I don’t think so.” I replied.
I fished out my phone and checked my messages. I frowned. There were two messages from her. One asking where I was, and then another about her being at Planet Café. She was a masseuse, with short brown hair and a nice smile. I asked her if she wanted to dance a little but she said no, she was too drunk.  She was in the company of two young Japanese guys, one of whom seemed a tad uncomfortable I was talking to her.

Seeing this lady wasn’t particularly thrilling. What eventually happened is that she proclaimed: “I never kiss someone I don’t know until a month. Maybe more.” She said this with a sly deceptive smile. I didn’t laugh. I had met a few of these Japanese women, who kept pushing a vague shield of super innocence, whether they were twenty, twenty-five or thirty. I didn’t ask to kiss her, and I wasn’t about to try and spend four to eight weeks trying to get one either. I told her goodnight.

On the dance floor, a sparse group of Japanese kids were standing up, watching the DJ. The music was okay, but I sighed at the observation of the social dynamics inside. See, Japanese people always face the DJ, seem to rarely interact with each other, and then leave in the group they came in. Occasionally I might break the mold and speak to someone on the dance floor, but it was so awkward (especially when everyone was facing forward and you weren’t ) that it required an extremely good mood and a desire to meet someone, both of which I didn’t have.
Back into the main area with the tables, I notice a few of the foreigners enter the bar. The English girl is sitting in a corner. I take a quick glance at her, wearing her black head wrap and boy shorts. She is chatting to a very effeminate looking Japanese guy in a red shirt. “She likes Japanese girly boys.” A friend tells me. I groan. This night is getting more lame.
I joke with another girl I know, a girl with an English accent who isn’t from England, and she seems bothered. I was teasing her about liking Japanese guys. She is standing with a very short, average looking Japanese guy (incidentally wearing a red-shirt too). “He’s my boyfriend.” She says looking offended.

Now something feels wrong. Living here in Japan is living between the extremes of social interactions with different people. This is the land where short effeminate men dominate the bars and clubs. In America I feel sometimes tall and skinny, but here I feel like a looming beast, intimidating and overbearing. I take one last look at the crowd, and leave.

I go back to KK house, and sing Karaoke with Eric and a few of his close friends. I sing two Linkin Park songs, screaming into the microphone to drown my sorrows. After the last song, I stand up and the crowd applauds. Then I realize, everyone sitting down is a couple. I sigh, and leave. Downstairs, men are reaping the fruits of their labour. Guys are getting numbers and things seem to be progressing. I walk outside into the night air, and hop on my bike. I try to get into a club for free nearby, and three bouncers almost jump me. I am a head taller than each of them, but they exhibit that telltale bouncer behaviour; the arm around the waist, and one kept saying “Let’s talk outside.”

I left the club and went home, flopping onto my bed. On my computer screen, is a frozen image of the movie Back To The Future. Seeing it makes me smile. I let out a heavy breath, and hope tomorrow is a better day.