DAISHI DANCE is a Japanese DJ and musician. Beginning his activities
from Sapporo, he has become a big name in the house scene with his
trademark three turntable setup and hybrid style of music, and
regularly hosts his event MUSeUM at Club Yellow in Roppongi with fellow
artist Masanori Morita of Studio Apartment. Since 2008 he’s regularly
hosted his POOL HOUSE event at Shinkiba ageHA in Tokyo.  —> http://www.last.fm/music/DAISHI+DANCE

This is me Daishi Dance  after his performance at Planet Cafe in Hamamatsu Japan as a part of his “SPECTACLE” album promotional tour.

Daishi Dance’s Official Website
——-
http://www.daishidance.jp/indexs.html

I’m standing on a street in Shibuya, and a small Chinese prostitute is grabbing my arm.

“Do you want massage?” she asked.

“No thanks.” I said.

“Only two thousand yen. Come now, we go to second floor.”

“Seriously I’m good.” I replied.

Beside me, the same thing was happening to Rob. The two ladies were tiny, with intense eyes and relatively cute features. They were very aggressive, but finally we got away.

This is how the night started to wind down in Rippongi.

THREE HOURS EARLIER:..

I’m sitting in a pasta shop somewhere in Shibuya, chatting to a dancer that looks like a perfect ten model. Her name is Jeri,  and she’s in town dancing somewhere in Rippongi. She is easily the hottest woman I’ve met since I’ve been to Tokyo.  She’s very friendly, and chatting to her is a pleasure. She reminds me of a dancer I saw when I went to club Womb a few months prior, but this is her first time in Japan.

“I’m from L.A, but the scene is really good here. I might come back.” She says.

She’s wearing a summer straw hat, a white skirt, and a tank top that reveals her voluptuous figure. She’s tanned and unblemished. Later Rob would tell me she’s mixed with a few things, but he couldn’t remember what exactly.

“I did this show,” she said. “With a  Japanese group called the MANEATERS.”

“Sounds bizarre.” I said with a laugh.

Jeri, Rob and I chat about traveling and our adventures, for a few minutes. “What are you guys doing tonight?” she says. “Maybe Rippongi or here in Shibuya.” Rob says to her. “I’m performing tonight at the Gallery in Rippongi.” She says. “You guys should check it out.”

Jeri was a professional Go-Go dancer.  Initially, Rob was confused.  “Is Go-Go dancing stripping?” he asked.

“No, its not.” She said.

I have to admit, I didn’t really know the difference either. But I was guessing Go-Go dancers were the hot girls who danced on elevated platforms in large clubs all over the world.

I got her number and she left. As she stood up, I was surprised to see how petite she was. She disappeared soon after, as Rob and I talked about what to eat. “Wow, what are the odds of meeting a girl like her randomly like that?” I said.
“I guess that’s  Tokyo for you.” Rob replied with a laugh.

Rob had come to Tokyo on a mission. To see the sights, go to a few museums and eat at a revolving sushi restaurant in Shibuya. We had no idea where it was. To describe Shibuya is to try and describe and endless concert with thousands of fans roaming the streets all the time, every day. Each time I travel to Shibuya, for a few minutes I feel a buzzing in my head. So many people, so many lives and so many things happening at once really aren’t a part of my basic biological makeup I believe. When I’m there, I want to be a hunter-gatherer again, farming in the mountain with a gang of scruffy kids behind me gathering wood.

Rob asks someone where the restaurant is. He is African, and like almost all the West Africans I’ve seen in Tokyo, he works in the area, promoting clubs or bars. He tells us where the restaurant is, a place where all the Sushi costs one hundred and twenty yen. We step in, and Rob squeals with excitement. “We doing it son! Tokyo!”

A man in a chef’s hat points to a sign at the reception area. “You must eat at least seven dishes.” It read. “That’s cool with me.” I said.

We were ushered to a few seats around the back, and as we walked past the crowd a face stood out:  A small guy with a thick head of black hair and a very scruffy beard. I immediately recognized him as Jason Schwartzman, the actor (Rushmore, The Darjeeeling Limited). As we walked to our seat I rested my hand on his shoulder. “Hey man, are you a professional actor?” I said. “Why yes I am.” He replied. “Awesome, I love your work man!” I said while walking away. “Thank you.” He said with a smile.

The sushi at the bar was wicked delicious and I ended eating eight plates. Rob had nine. Beside me, a few feet away, Schwartzman was still hanging out in the restaurant. I went over. I chit-chatted with them for a while about Tokyo. He was in town to check out the opening of “Opening Ceremony”, a large store that has branches in New York and Los Angeles. “It’s opening Sunday. You should check it out, the store is going to be pretty amazing.”

Rob, who was behind me. “Opening Sunday? Is that the name of the store?”

“No.” Jason said with a laughing. “The store is Opening Ceremony and it’s opening on Sunday.”

“Wow, the opening ceremony for Opening Ceremony is on Sunday when it opens.” I said.

We all laughed. Schwartzman was cool, and I snapped some pictures and got a video shout out for my webseries Marcus Bird: Jamaican in Japan . He was there with this wife, designer Brenda Cunningham founder of eco-friendly clothing line, Souvenir. We said our goodbyes and he told me he’d checkout my website. This is one of the moments when I realized I needed a business card. I said peace, and he left the restaurant.

ONE HOUR LATER

Rob and I are in Gas panic. Blood red lights flood the room and people dance in the shadows. I explained to Rob that I’m a night owl, and that I feed on the night energy of Tokyo. He told me that since there are language barriers and it being a new country, he thought he’d rather see more terrain and sights that necessarily try to chat to women. This opinion changed rapidly when we started clubbing.

Inside GAS PANIC, cute girls were dancing, but it was the music that really set things off. Contemporary hip-hop blasted through speakers I couldn’t see, and the place was jumping. Cute Japanese girls with hair processed to look curly did Atlanta dances like they were born in America. Rob watched with amazement. One girl in particular, in pink overalls really understood the rhythm. I had seen Japanese girls dance before, to reggae and hip-hop, but I could understand Rob’s feelings. This was his first time EVER seeing Japanese people dance like black people.
“It’s sad man.” He said to me.” That these people try so hard to look like us, and so many black people don’t even love themselves.”

I looked at the girls as he said this. One wore an Atlanta cap with hip-hop jeans on. They all had curly hair and sang along to every T.I song that came over the airwaves. But they barely spoke English, if any. It was amazing. We hung out for a little while longer, getting the vibe started. Then we headed to Rippongi.

TWENTY FIVE MINUTES LATER

Tokyo has an endless stream of beautiful women walking the streets. Every minute or two, Rob and I would see women that made us stop, or at least take a peek. He was starting to see what people were talking about in regards to Tokyo.  It’s one thing to see a cute girl every now and then, but in hours we had seen thousands.

We are on the train, and two girls in front of me are looking at my feet and saying something about my shoes. “Big eh? “I say in Japanese. One giggles but pretends not to hear me. She’s been eyeing me since we got on the train in Shibuya. Our stop isn’t far away and it seems the girls aren’t going to our stop. I exit the train terminal and see a face I recognize. It’s a tall, gorgeous woman I met two weeks before. Miki.

I walk over to her and she greets me with a squeal of excitement. Her long, gorgeous arms wrap around me for a moment. I feel her strength. She immediately decides to come with us wherever we are going. We dump our stuff in a locker and head out. Club 911 is the next stop.

In minutes, Rob takes over a little corner near the top bar. Ladies are dancing and smiling, and I’m watching Miki do samba  to a Justin Timberlake song. She is really, really sexy. She sips on a drink and flashes a quiet smile at me every now and then. She’s the kind of woman that I like. Tall and strong, beautiful and fearless on the dance floor. The club is packed, but after a while I start to get antsy. 911 is really small, and in an hour, it starts to turn into a sausage fest. I want Miki to head to a spot called Bar 57 with us, but she says she has to surf in the morning. A little guy hanging beside her and the size of her drink says otherwise to me, but I decide to leave. An older Japanese woman was feeling Rob.

“One more drink, and that’d probably be it.” He said with a laugh.

“Well I’m glad you didn’t have that drink.” I replied with a  smile.

Bar 57 was closing when we reached. It seemed like a hot spot, with expensive drinks, a nice interior and high ceilings. The stragglers were all in designer dresses and high heels. I liked the feel of the place. Maybe next time. We went back to the strip.

FIVE MINUTES LATER

We headed back down the strip. Every few feet a young African man would come up to us, offering us exclusive admission to a club or a strip bar. We went to Club 99 near Odeon and went upstairs. Drunk Japanese girls were dancing on the bar top, but like most places in Tokyo, you get ushered towards the bar first. They say free entry, but if you don’t buy a drink you get kicked out. The spot was a bit lame and we headed out.

The prostitutes found us again somehow and kept pleading with us to get a massage. “Jesus Christ.” These women are persistent.” I said. One of them was actually pretty cute, but knowing what her day job was…

TEN MINUTES LATER

We are hanging in front of a bar near the McDonald’s. I’m on my phone, trying to find out where The Rippongi Gallery is to see if I can catch a bit of Jeri’s performance, but none of the Africans on the strip seem to know where it is. It feels like a put on. “Do you see that?” Rob says.

I glance up and the two girls, now about twenty feet away, are looking back at us.

“Should  we talk to them? ” I said.

“You better take one for the team because I’m not.” Robert said.

I saw what he was talking about. Of the two girls, one was blimp-sized. I took at deep sigh and waved for them to come back. They giggled and kept walking, but as they got further away looked back more. Eventually, they returned. They wore matching black and white outfits and wore gray backpacks. A little odd. The bigger one started asking us a range of questions. “You guys kept looking back at us, so we were wondering what was going on.” I said to the larger one. “I’m sorry, my sister here was interested in you, but she doesn’t speak English.”

“Oh?” I replied. “What language does she speak?”

“Greek.” The girl replied.

“Do you need Windex?” Rob said immediately.

The girl gave him a strange look.
“I’m joking, I’m joking. I know that statement was mad ignorant.” Rob said with a laugh. I started laughing too, but it would be an entire day before I remembered that Windex reference came from the hit movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

The girl introduced herself as Athena and her sister as Mina. What was weird about Mina was that she progressively got better at English within minutes of meeting us. Rob made a joke about Atlanta and she laughed. I made a joke that required certain knowledge of American pop humor and bad English grammar and she laughed. Then she started speaking.

“I’m thirty-five.” She said.

We balked.

“Impossible!” I said.

I paused as three tall, leathery Japanese drag queens stormed past. The sisters asked us If we wanted to hang out. I said okay, but I really wasn’t feeling like taking one for the team. We walked towards a bar called Vi-bar, a bar I went to the day before. The girls became quiet, and it felt a little weird. After we stepped inside, a man came to me and asked me what I’m drinking. “One minute.” I said to him. I turned to Rob.

“Dude, you think these girls are hustling us?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. Their accent changes, the weird backpacks, the greek names and everything felt wrong. “Let’s bounce.” Rob said. “Cool.” We headed back out to the madness of Rippongi at four thirty a.m

At the top of the strip, a smooth talking guy named Joe came up to us. He spun a fabulous tale about a strip club where we could drink all we want for thirty bucks and be dazzled and dazed by exotic dancers. I’m not a strip club guy, but the night was going so many places I said, “what the hell.” Rob was in a agreement but we entered under a simple condition. If we didn’t like the spot, we’d leave, if we did we’d have to pay.

We walked back down the strip and stopped at a bar. I laughed. It was the same place the two “greek” girls had taken us to before. This time we went upstairs. A shady looking poster of a naked woman was at the door. We walked in, and it was empty, save a line of strippers standing at attention in a line. It was a weird feeling, coming into the small, empty strip club with all the dancers watching us. One of the strippers was really hot. She had some sort of brazilian look about her. The rest weren’t so appealing. We thanked the staff and left.

Back outside, we walked back to the top of the strip and sat on a road barrier. The streets were still packed, but we knew the night was over. As we waited for the light to change, a pair of small hands grabbed me. It was the prostitute! Rob and I started laughing again. “Sorry, we go now. Back to hotel.” Rob said. We started crossing the street and one of them said, “I come to hotel with you!”

We laughed and turned around.

The night was over.

Update there is a video for this blog post available: Read the article, then view it here.  – Marcus 

Two Japanese girls are lying on either side of me. One, a cute girl named Wakana has a sleeping mask on her face, the other is in a bundle by my left arm. My head is spinning from drinking an entire bottle of Vodka but I’m smiling. I’m in a tent, in the mountains two hours from Hamamatsu, in Japan.

A week before, I was invited to the party by a tall bartender named Hachi. “It will be good man.” He said to me. I wasn’t sure what to think. At first Hachi asked me if I wanted to DJ for the event, then seemed to forget about me after I enquired if the DJs would be paid. Another guy, a young Japanese man I see at a bar I frequent, told me his friend was going.

“She is very cute, you will like her.” He said. I wasn’t sure. I still don’t have much faith in the Japanese girls I’ve been meeting, but I said okay. He told me this the day before the party, on Friday
night. She came to the bar later than night to see me (at the guy’s request) and she was wearing some kind of Kimono.

“I just came from work.” She said with a smile.

I smiled back and made light conversation with her. She was very cute, but generally Japanese women dressed in traditional clothing don’t do anything for me. I would need to see her later in A regular outfit. We decided to check out the party.

My routine in Hamamatsu had been cyclical. The stream of the same bars and clubs　wasn’t fun, or thrilling. Half the places I knew I already knew the people who　worked there and a couple of the regulars. Going out often felt saturated and required too much energy to socialize. A trip to the mountains with a fresh face seemed like a good idea.

I　rode my bike to Zaza city and parked. Their car, like most I’ve seen, was a compact cube-shaped vehicle. They looked small but were generally spacious. My mood was good, and when I came into the car, I heard dancehall reggae playing through the radio.

“It’sDJ Kenny.” Wakana said with a smile. I　chuckled. A DJ Kenny mixtape in a Japanese car in Japan always seemed weird. In　fact, anytime I’m at a reggae party and I’m the only Jamaican there, and I see　the Japanese girls scream “Bap! Bap! Bap!” when they like a song gives me chills.
Something about it doesn’t seem real. Thegirls are both very cute and genki,　and I fall into my routine of stories, jokes and fun conversation. We stop at　a  convenience store to grab some snacks for the trip. It’s an estimated　two hours from Hamamatsu to the party. On the way there, we stop at another　convenience store and I received a free coffee for a reason I still can’t　explain. We drive and talk about life, mostly about Jamaica and I constantly tease Wakana’s friend.

After　an hour or so, it becomes apparent that we are lost. We are on a road so narrow　it feels like being in a tunnel. We are surrounded by trees so big they block the sky and my phone has spotty service. Every few minutes, the girls stop the car and consult the GPS on their phones, but to no avail. I toss in my iphone for good measure and it doesn’t help.

There　were a few dangerous moments as well. Once we had to turn the car on a narrow　road, with the back of the car near a fifty foot precipice. Each time I felt the half a second period between the touch and release of the car brakes, I saw us in the car, falling through the darkness until we hit something solid with a sickening crunch. After a few more wrongs turns and wasted time, we end up near where we started. The girls are determined to find the party.Being on a main road after traveling through the claustrophobic mountain roads was a relief. A street light was like a bottle of water after a long run. We drive for a few more minutes, and the consensus if we are “probably” going in the right direction. We left Hamamatsu at eight-thirty. It was now past eleven o’ clock. A huge dam comes into view and I marvel at it. I probably marveled more because out of boredom I opened my bottle of Vodka I purchased for the party and started chasing it with soda. In the nighttime, the dam was a gigantic looming structure. A powerful monolith of man’s will and desire. It was between two mountains, way up here and very old. The section of the dam that connects
to the road forms a bridge between the two mountains. On our side, near the entryway of the bridge is a parked car. Near it, are a man and two boys. The boys have what look like small fish nets in their hands. They are a few feet in front of their father, walking around in the darkness. Wakana asks him directions and he gives us a good idea of where to go. When I ask her what the
boys were doing, she said they were collecting bugs.

 A　larger, more modern road comes into view and we cheer because we’ve found whereto go. After several hours, a few near misses on the mountain roads and one DJ　Kenny CD on repeat the whole time, we were on the way to the party. It was still at least forty-five minutes away, and I spent some of the time watching the vegetation go by the car in a dark green blur, or asking the ladies questions about their lives. Eventually we saw a few horribly made signs that indicated where the party was.

The　roads became somewhat narrow again, but nowhere as frightening at the roads we　were on earlier. After going up a stretch of hill that revealed the night sky　and moon to us, we saw several parked cars in the darkness, and bodies moving　in the distance on a large field. We had found the mountain party.

The party was on a large open field, where a lodge was built. From what I could see, there wasn’t any gate, any guard or anyone collecting money for that matter. It was about twelve thirty by now, and the party was in full swing. We walked in, our bags of drinks in tow. A bonfire blazed about thirty feet from where I was standing, with Japanese guys with shaggy hair and baggy jeans dancing around it. I turned a corner to see a sea of familiar faces, all residents of
Hamamatsu.

“Hey!”the voices chanted in chorus.

 Everyonewas drunk, high or both already. Several tents were setup and I proceeded to　erect the tent that Wakana, I and her friend would sleep in later. After　setting it up, (with the help of two or three drunk people) the drinking started.Thisis where things get a little fuzzy. I certainly remember chatting to an English girl I know, who seemed to reprimand me for being nicely dressed and coming to　the party with two Japanese girls. There was some conversation with a friend or　two from Hamamatsu, but it most likely involved nothing worth remembering. Then　I danced with two rave cones beside the bonfire, fueled by liquid confidence.　Then as the night progressed, everyone started playing the drums and drinking　beer at the same time. Somewhere, I could smell marijuana smoke, but I wasn’t　sure where it was coming from. After the drum fest, there was more drinking,　spotty conversation and obvious sexual innuendo. I tried to make a move with　one of my girls, who told me she had a boyfriend.

Day　broke and the sun started to rise and some genius decided we should all play early morning soccer. Drunk, shirtless and filming at the same time, I fall on my first pass, slashing my elbow but not feeling much pain because of the alcohol in my system. I hail up a few DJs and some people who are still dancing by the bonfire and eat some rice from a huge bowl near the drum area. People
are settling down and things are getting quiet.

This　is when I retreat to the tent, and make myself cozy with the two girls. Once I zipped up the tent, the pounding of the music outside became a dull throb.Later,driving down the mountain, I c could really see where I was. Ancient trees swaying in a morning breeze numbering in the tens of thousands were all around me. I could see far away, the lines of other mountains in the distance.

I saw small hill towns and old railway cars, little groves with brooks and gushing rivers
and tons of vegetation. I was still tired and a bit hung over, but it was a good time. I stepped groggily out of the car when I got back to Hamamatsu, giving both ladies a weak but smiley faced goodbye. I found my bike, and started riding home, laughing at the fact that I was raving dancing only hours
before, in my purple shirt, with a bonfire blazing behind me.

I’m in the shadows, and I’m kissing a girl with braces.

She’s wearing the cute Japanese summer style I’m accustomed to now: A short-brimmed  hat, shorts that reveal most of her legs, and a cute top. Her name is Ayano, and we met a few minutes before.
Monday nights are generally quiet and chill, ending with a laptop screen filled with porn or a me sleeping.
But this Monday, there were women, video games, and drinking on the street.
I’m idly looking at an empty bottle of whiskey near my laptop. I sigh, thinking of the night before, when I sipped on whiskey and coke while watching the mind-trip of a movie, Knowing.
It’s a Monday evening, and I roll. I’m in my usual gear. Hipster jeans, new balances and a tank top. Tank tops here are a necessity. Living in a coastal city in Japan is like living in a wet blanket. I can’t imagine wearing a long sleeve shirt in the summertime here.
Monday nights sometimes finds me at Eigo Mora (English Village) where I engage in conversation with Japanese people who pay about ten dollars every Monday to practice their English with foreigners. I like the experience, and I try to speak to a few different people every week.
A lot of the patrons are older Japanese men with jobs that took them all over the world so they speak very good English. Others are shy men and women who sometimes speak very well, but are too shy to engage in loud conversation and the occasional anecdote with us the foreigners.
At this Eigo Mora, I recognize a face; Niaya.  She’s a small girl from New York with a British accent.
“I hear there is an event at Second tonight.” She tells me.
“Oh really?” I say.
Second is a club near Junk, the western style bar where Eigo Mora is held. Second is  small and dark with graffiti covering ever square inch of the walls.
“Cool, we can roll.” I say.
After I say my goodbyes and sip on the last of my beer, I head out into the night with Niaya. She’s American, and sometimes her having an English accent is a little odd to me, but she always has interesting stories about being drunk and being hit on by strange Japanese men.  It’s about ten o’ clock, early for going out anywhere, but after buying a drink at the 7-11 near Junk, we head to second. Inside, is dark and hip-hop roars through speakers near the DJ. Behind the bar counter, is the owner. He is always in a black t-shirt with his long hair kept in a pontytail. He nods at me as I walk in, and I shake his hand. Inside, the dance floor is relatively empty, with four people standing at various points, covered in shadows. 
“Hey you!” a voice says from the Shadows. I see a familiar silhouette emerge and recognize Ten, the dancer. He’s bristling with his usual energy. He talks to Niaya while I stand on the dance floor. I’m feeling the music, and I groove a bit. To my left, two cute girls are watching me as I dance. I Go over and say hello.
“Your hat is cute.” I say to one of them. This is Ayano.
“I love your tattoo.” I say to the other.
The other girl has a tattoo of a scorpion on her left shoulder blade. I find this interesting, because having tattoos in Japan is very taboo, especially for women.
I go back to the dance floor and keep grooving. The girls are with a guy, and I can’t tell which one is with him. However, both of them rest eyes on me occasionally, which makes me wonder. Ten started doing his dance thing on the floor, spinning and doing rapid combinations of popping and locking. The girl with the scorpion tattoo came up to me and touched my arm.
“Dekai…” she said.
I laughed and pinched her on the cheek. Soon afterwards, the guy with the girls pulled her into a corner. The girl with the cute hat, Ayano, came over. We spoke in Japanese.
“Where are you from?” she said.
“Jamaica.” I told her.
“Really, why are you in Japan?” she asked.
“You know, the usual. Working, trying to find myself.” I said.
She was very cute, and we agreed to meet later. Despite all the fun I was having, there were only five of us in the club. “Catch you later.” I told her.
Myself, Niaya and Ten left the club at the same time. Outside, surprisingly, we saw the two girls and the guy. He didn’t look too happy to see me. The girl with the scorpion tattoo came up to me and touched my arm again. She really seemed fascinated with me, which was a little unusual for the small-town-shy-girl vibe I’d been getting for a while.
I laughed and told her I’d see them later. They walked off into the distance. Ten was laughing.
“Did you see his face? Wow, he was worried man!”
Niaya wasn’t really saying much, but she suggested we head to Planet Café. Monday nights at Planet Café aren’t anything to really get crazy about, but sometimes there were enough people there to have a little fun. We headed to planet, chatting about nothing important on the way.
I came in and said hello to the bartender, a guy of average height with a calm demeanour and an attractive face. Good for his job. I introduce him to Niaya and she is immediately enamored. After a few minutes she tells him, “I want you to be my boyfriend.” He laughs, and tells her he has a girlfriend.
BehindCafe. They squeal when they see me and Ten. I start chuckling and Ten is stifling a huge laugh. Later he would keep telling me he wished I saw the expression on the guy’s face (the guy the girls came with ) when he saw us at Planet Cafe.
Scorpion girl  had shifted her attention to Ten now, and I started chatting with three women sitting at a table near the bar.  Ayano (girl with the hat) was chatting to the guy she came with somewhere near the main entrance. The ladies I chatted to were an interesting bunch. One lived in Nagoya and was subtly hinting to me her hotel was nearby, the other worked in some sort of music company and the last lady was mostly quiet. They were in their late thirties, looking a little bored. 
Soon, I heard Ten’s voice.
“Go to the dance floor. NOW.” He said.
I excused myself from the table with the ladies. Apparently, the guy who came with the girls had left, leaving the two cuties unattended in the bar. I walked to the dance floor, which was empty. In the shadows near four large speakers in the back, were three distinguishable figures, Ten, Scorpion girl, and Ayano. I chatted to Ayano over the loud music, occasionally dancing and pecking her on the neck.
Soon after, we made out and went back inside, sitting together on a couch and chatting. We talked about Dragon Ball Z, music and a lot of other things. I was working overtime doing translation for Ten, who doesn’t speak that much Japanese. It seemed the night was going well. After half an hour the girl said they had to leave. Niaya said she’d grab a cab and see us later.
We followed the girls to their car, a small white cube looking vehicle, and said good night.

 

Traveling can expose you to vistas you may never see anywhere else. For example, today I sat on a pier somewhere near Bentenijima, a town a few trains stops away from Hamamatsu, in the late evening. The water was dark and quiet, and the city lights far away, illuminated the blackness like a small box covered with fireflies. Every few minutes, a train would appear as a long snake, streaking across tracks in the distance, before disappearing into a tunnel. As I sat there, I spoke with a friend of mine, Emi.

 Emi was sitting in the darkness, her long hair like a veil. She was barefoot and wearing a floral dress, the patterns hard to distinguish. We were talking about life. As she sat there in the darkness, and me beside her, I felt an interesting sense of time and space. Earlier, I had come here for a Salsa barbeque. Through Emi, I had transportationto the event with a cool young Japanese man named Taka. He had been to Jamaica, on a cruise with his wife of two months, Marie. Meeting him was a notch in a long sequence  of introductions I had been flooded with since my arrival to Japan. The salsa crowd had been introduced to me by Emi, and I had marveled that first night the way everyone had looked at me, wide-eyed and curious, the question marks like invisible halos over their heads.

That night, many girls requested a dance from me, some so shy to touch my hands I could feel them trembling with every step we took. It had been a whirlwind and intriguing, a barrage of sensations doused with the indigo of the club’s black lights. But here, in the open, it wasn’t the same. My Japanese was hardly conversational, and I’m not a serious Salsa enthusiast anymore. I had danced for years in different clubs, but I lost my passion for it. As I approached the Barbeque area with Taka, we parked in a lot across the road. An old totem pole grabbed my attention, and I snapped a picture with it.

The park itself was a family center, with tables set up for groups to sit, and a rocky path lead to the beach nearby. I was quiet for most of the time, regretting that I hadn’t eaten before I got there. Everyone brought beef or pork to cook, neither of which I ate. I sipped Pepsi and slowly ate vegetables, grumbling at my ineptitude of foresight. Also, I didn’t know there was a fee for the barbeque. Someone brought a little chicken with them, so I was able to eat a few tiny morsels of food, but the barbeque had a price tag of 1000 yen, which I didn’t know. After paying for my meal and grumbling at the emptiness of my stomach, I heard there was a Salsa party afterward, at

a local venue. At some point during this Barbeque, Emi had arrived, looking regal in a black suit. She had taken some kind of exam for teachers, but seemed upset because she didn’t feel like she passed it. After the Barbeque ended, we took a group picture.

We walked over to the club, and I groaned. It was another 1000 yen to go into the club and all I could see beyond me were a sea of Japanese bodies. I started to feel a little choked; something that occasionally happens to me in a completely homogenous environment. Two things were working against me; prohibitive spending for things I did not want to do, and distance. Even if I wanted to leave, I had no way to get home. I sighed and made small talk with the Japanese Salsa crowd, who asked me repeatedly why I wasn’t dancing.

I didn’t feel like explaining to them I was hungry, and didn’t like Salsa dancing that much. I also couldn’t bother to say that I wasn’t in the best spirits to begin with. I sat in a chair, thinking about Japan. Even though this was a different country and a different set of rules of meeting people was essentially the same. You don’t need language to have fun. Cost doesn’t matter, the choice is whether or not you want to take what you can from what’s there. So far, I didn’t feel like taking anything. In the past I would have loved something like this, dancing the night away with a group of Japanese people, happily grabbing every girl that laid an eye on me. But in some way they all felt like obstacles; barriers in this new world. So I went outside.

I sat on the pier, watching mostly fathers and sons fishing in the nighttime. Everyone had a small flashlight on a string around their neck, and it was quiet, save the occasional laugh of a child. I felt a little sad and cold, so far away from friends and family, unable to have fun. It felt like a curse, this “wall” I saw in front of me. I tried to think of five years before, when I leapt at the chance to do anything involving fun, wherever I was. Had things become so dark? Was happiness so elusive?

I sat there for a long time, and soon a few of the Salsa group were on the pier beside me. They stood there like statues, chatting with each other while Emi spoke to me. They went back inside to dance, and I started chatting to Emi about life. She was searching for something meaningful in the world, looking at ways to feel better about herself and her life. I told her about choices and journeys, connections and ways of looking on reality. I told her an interesting yarn about meditation, personal psychology and the power of making decisions. It sounded good to me, and I started to feel a little better. In the midst of this conversation, with Emi and I sitting barefoot there together, I
wasn’t sure how to think of her. She was definitely become a friend, and I her confidant. I didn’t have the luxury of imagining anything else. After my brief time in Japan thus far, the idea of a young woman wanting anything from me even remotely sexual seems vague and unrealistic.

After our long conversation, we walked back inside. The party was in full swing, and I could feel the heat from the dance floor. Near the reception area, a tall Japanese man was giving massages to women, who had formed an eager line. I glanced inside. Bodies moved to and fro with amazing precision. Everyone was Japanese, and I looked at their long silky hair, twinkling eyes and smiling teeth. Then I sat back on the couch. Something in me wanted to dance, to reach out and lose myself in the crowd, but I couldn’t. A girl I met at the barbeque came over to me, telling me to come inside and dance. I told her I didn’t feel like it, and she didn’t seem to understand. My responses were protracted and awkward, and I sighed once more and walked outside.

Now it was completely dark, save the lights of a few vending machines. Emi asked me if I wanted to get an ice cream, and I said yes. She treated me to a cone, and I stood by a railing near the entrance for a while. Soon, a few people were leaving, and I got a ride back into the city. Two very genki women were in the car, and excitedly asked me questions about Salsa and Jamaica. They were fascinated to learn that their car was called an “S.U.V” in the states. In Japan, one of them
said, the car is called “4.W.D”. I laughed at this.

The girls in the car were cute, but I knew I would never know them much better. The gulf of language and culture was always there, too wide for me to cross. I came out of the car at the Hamamatsu station, where I had parked my bike. I thanked them and told them goodnight. I unlocked my bike and headed into the city, hoping to find something exciting to do on a slightly chilly Saturday night.

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.

All is dark, and people sit on the floor with legs crossed and eyes focused. Booming dancehall music erupts from a stack of speakers. An array of lights flash then we see her. She steps out regaled in a policeman outfit made of a dark, shiny material. Wearing dark glasses with a sneer on her face, she begins the routine. The Jacket flies off with a sweep of her hand, revealing a hard stomach and tanned skin. Then after a few seductive moves, she pulls the pants away, effortlessly tossing them to the side and continuing her routine. The music is pounding, and now the dancer, wearing a glittery top and boy shorts, starts moving her hips and body in ways that tease the imagination. A few feet away onstage, I’m watching this performance. The dancer is Junko, the first Japanese woman to win the Jamaican Dancehall queen competition.

I’m at a Reggae party called “Goodaz Fridays”, which is held monthly at the Hunters club in Hamamatsu. The crowd is thick, filled with cute Japanese reggae girls and gung ho guys who could rival many Jamaicans on the dance floor. A guy wearing a full white outfit moves with the cultural precision of a full-blooded Jamaican. Beside him a set of girls with platinum blonde hair and non-existent shorts go through routine after routine of practiced dancehall moves. I, the Jamaican stand there for a while, spellbound at the display. A few familiar faces are around; girls I’ve met through the Hamamatsu reggae scene. I see a girl in an off-white leopard print dress standing in the corner, she’s a local dancer. I see Ribbon girl as well, who greeted me with a weak smile. A few other dancers were there, all exhibiting a slightly different body language tonight, and they were all in close proximity to Junko.

Junko in person is reasonably tall. She’s thicker than the average Japanese girl, and thus has more presence. Years of doing headstands, dutty wining and complex routines has given her a very sexy musculature. She stands by the bar with a few local DJs, who are shamelessly soaking up the limelight with her. She laughs while downing drink after drink, casually exuding star power. I find her attractive but not beautiful, sexy but not skanky. In 2002, she came to Jamaica and stunned the audiences with her acrobatic display of dancehall finesse. From jumping splits to handstands and the occasional death-defying move, the other participants were powerless to innovate in her presence. I remember seeing her on TV, barely able to speak any English, happy to stand on her head upon request. “I love Jamaica.” She had said back then.

That was seven years ago, and seeing her in person is interesting. For the local reggae groupies in town, Junko must be the epitome of their world; that place which is a hybridization of Jamaica and Japan. She is their queen, the pinnacle of what they want to be. In their desires to learn dances, songs and Jamaican culture, maybe they all want to be little dancehall queens themselves, rising up into the limelight in shiny outfits with sweat-laced foreheads.

“Happy birthday.” I said to Junko in Japanese.

This was one of a few sprinkled moments of conversation I would have with her during the night. The first time I spoke to her, she replied in English.
“Why do you speak like a Japanese?” she said.
I laughed.
“I like Japan.” I replied in Japanese.

The party started to pick up at about three a.m. The music, fast and powerful was a blur of modern tunes interlaced with the screeching voices of amped-up selectors. River, a local reggae artiste was walking around with a camera, snapping the action. I was dancing too, and possibly making my Japanese media debut on a “Goodaz Friday” bashment DVD. Hilarious.

I ran into a friend at the party, and we mingled with the girls for little while in between dancing. One girl, tall and attractive with brown hair was enamored with my friend, who was a dancer. They disappeared to a dark section of the club for a few minutes while her friend ignored me.

I was on the prowl tonight, and as I would learn, things weren’t so easy. Every girl I’d met on the reggae circuit was in attendance, and they were all unusually frigid. Dancing robotically to the music and chatting amongst themselves, the party at times felt strange. Even when what we Jamaicans call “Gyal tunes” started playing, the crowd wasn’t intermingling that much.

See, in Jamaica, a party escalates gradually to levels that force people to dance. At the crescendo of a good party, many people dance together. So far, at the bigger events I’d been to in Japan, it seemed a lot of people were content to just dance by themselves all night. I saw Ribbon girl walking around alone. As usual she had a drink in her hand. She seemed lost; standing by a speaker at one moment, and in the middle of the dance floor the next. She wasn’t dancing with anyone, just drinking. Later I would see her on a couch, her legs oddly crossed as she stared forward blankly in a drunken daze. Maybe she had problems, I thought. Family, childhood, who knows. Like my life is any different.

At around seven I left the club, giving a chilly goodbye to a few girls I see all the time who decided to ignore me around Junko. I told (the now drunk) Junko all the best. She gave me a half-goodbye, half hand-squeeze and sipped more of her drink. Later, a friend would show me scandalous pictures of Junko dancing with some of the sound guys. I laughed when I saw these pictures, because one thing with a dancehall queen, is that she won’t just dance with anyone.

Morning sun hit me with a slap as I rode home, tired and stained with sweat. I vaguely remembered there was some number I had to call, or some e-mail to send. I forgot about it and fell asleep.

June 14th, 2009

A Daquiri, I say, Is a sweet drink. It usually has strawberries in it, or some kind of fruit. You blend it with vodka, ice and a little sugar. In front of me, nodding and somewhat understanding, is a bartender at Planet Café. I’ve been trying to explain for roughly twelve minutes what a Daquiri is.

I’m here on a Sunday, and I feel bored, even though my day has consisted of watching Terminator: Salvation at noon, passing through a barbeque with some friends and hitting up a video arcade. My city restlessness has a new face.

At the bar are a few people from the reggae parties I’ve seen around. A DJ from the T.P sound system crew, his girl and Gully. I order a gin and tonic after giving up on my Daquiri. As the bartender made my drink, he laughed and asked me to write down the ingredients for the Daquiri. I’m waiting on Ribbon girl, the one I met at the party last night. We chatted on the phone briefly after I went to my Barbeque. When I spoke to her, a twinge of excitement had trickled through me when her number popped up on my phone. At the time I was sitting on the sidewalk, chatting to a friend about nothing in particular.
I took a sip of my drink, when a flurry of activity beside me grabbed my attention. Two gorgeous girls with slim bodies and long brown hair came to the bar coasting on a sea of giggles. I thought one of them was a girl I met the night before, at the reggae party.

“Hug.” I said.

“Nani?” (what?)she replied.

I said it again, more Japanesey. “HUG-OO.” I said. She hugged me, and then I realized I’d never met her. I also realized in the same thought she was very drunk. Japanese girls never hug guys they don’t know. Unless of course, you are famous.
“Hi.” She said exasperatedly.
“Hey.” I replied.
She was pretty, with movie actress looks and flawless skin. She wore a stylish outfit that screamed high fashion. Her friend smiled as I talked to her, but chatted to one of the bartenders and left us alone.
“Where you from?” she said.
“Jamaica.” I replied.
“Really?” she said.
She said this with absolute surprise, in the way a child who swore he failed a test  realizes he actually received an A. I told her I was a designer. Incidentally, I was wearing one of my own shirts.
“I want to buy one.” She said, rubbing my chest. “I am a mother!” she exclaimed triumphantly.
“Very cool.” I said. “One child?”
“Yes, I have one. But I am twenty-one!”
She said this with a bright expression. I held her hand and without getting up, beckoned her to twirl. “Very nice.” I said.
She was. If she hadn’t told me she had a kid, it would be impossible to tell.
“You think I am nice?” she asked. Her eyes were filled with desire.
“Yes, you are.” I replied.
A part of me wanted to exploit this situation, but as a rule, I never like drunk women. The only way it works is if I’m equally drunk when I meet them, but at present I was stone cold sober. Having a sexy mother of one on my speed dial would be cool, but alas, Ribbon girl would arrive any minute.
I was right. In the periphery of my vision, I glimpsed her. She was looking very cute, with huge designer glasses. She wore a black and white dress over a pair of tight jeans. I could see the taper of her body through the layers. She had lip gloss on and a purse that resembled a ribbon. The theme continued.
I saw her pause as she said hello to some of the people from last night. Her eyes were on me, but I didn’t move. I’m not the type to play too many headgames, I was just observing.
The hot mom disappeared with a guy onto the the dance floor, and I turned to Ribbon girl. “Hey! You been here long?” I said. She walked over. She gave me a weak hug and stood by the bar. Close up, I could see the glow of the bar lights on her lips. She put her bag down. She seemed a little nervous. I chatted to her about my day and ask her some questions about herself.
“I don’t do much.” She replied. ” I just like to dance.”
Ah, I said in my mind. She’s a party girl.
I’ve messed with party girls before. One word always comes to mind when I think of a party girl.
Dangerous.
Party girls always seem to have nothing to do, are often sexy and probably slept with a few guys you’ve met before if you go out a lot. This generally means it’s a bad idea to think you’re special if she likes you. Sometimes this can change after a few sexual encounters, but not always.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small camera. The LCD flashed brightly as it came on. With her glasses and jeans, she looked like a shadow of herself the night before.  The image of her leaping on me, her face pressing against my neck and the smell of her shampoo flooded my senses quickly. It faded quickly, like a puff of cigarette smoke.
She showed me pictures of her in Jamaica. “Maji de??”(Really?) I said. Then I remembered somewhere between tequila shot eight or nine she had mentioned living in Jamaica for a month. Through her pictures I was catapulted back home. I saw the bright glowing faces of people with dark skin and short curly hair. She showed me the hot spots; Stone Love’s headquarters for Weddy Wednesdays, Lime Quay beach for Sunday afternoon, Devon house for tasty ice cream, and more. There were pictures with famous Jamaicans, and a few of her Japanese friends going wild at big parties, like Passa Passa.
I playfully joked with her, but she was shy, different. She ordered Chozou, a popular drink (sake mixed with water). I didn’t know why she was nervous. After she put the camera back into her bag, her entire focused drifted to the UNO game the people beside us were playing. I hinted a few times at going to dance, but she kept saying she was watching the game.
That’s an incredibly fascinating game of UNO, I thought to myself. Then I remembered. She was a party girl. I’m new to the scene. Disappearing with her on the dance floor might put her on the bad news bus. While we were looking at the pictures, she mentioned some party on Friday she was going to. She watched the UNO game, and I sat, bored on the stool. I got up and left.
As I exited the bar, before the door close I heard my name. In a movie-scene way, the door slammed in front of her as I glimpsed her looking at me.
“I see you Friday night?” she said.
“Yes.” I replied.
She went inside. I laughed a little, because she had practically chased me out of the bar. Party girls are different, I thought. I left the underground passage leading out of Planet and heading outside, back into the nighttime and towards the bowels of the city.

 

I’m getting used to drunk Japanese girls.

I’m at Captain Jerk, a Japanese-owned Jamaican restaurant and a cute girl named Ai is rubbing my hand. I’m chomping down on a particularly spicy Jerk chicken tortilla. She’s peppering me with questions. All in Japanese.
“Where are you from?”
“You are cool!”
“Why did you learn Japanese?”
“You are Jamaican. REALLY?”
“You are a designer? ”
“Do you drink tequila?”

 
She had a round, attractive face and long brown hair that fell below her shoulder blades. She went outside. Another girl came in. She had the same hairstyle as Ai, but had a slimmer face. She was Naoe. “Are you going to this event?” she said, pointing at a poster on the wall. It was filled with Japanese faces I didn’t recognize, but it was some kind of Reggae event.
“We are performing there next month.” She said.  I ooked on the date, it   said July 27th.
“Wow that’s far away, ” I told her.
“Come!” she squealed. “We are doing African dance!”

 
Her small body was bristling with energy. We chatted a little more then she and Ai disappeared. I started a conversation with a DJ who was also a graphic designer. “I made this,” he said,  pointing to a logo on his trucker hat. It looked like the MTV symbol, with different lettering. He told me about a reggae party nearby. I was ready to go because so far, my night was a bust.

 
Earlier, three friends and I had an idea. We would all wear white and call ourselves the white team. We went to a club and quickly my other three friends had girls. I tried chatting to some ladies without success, that’s when I felt like eating jerk chicken, and left.
I was starting to remember more about the party. Gyallis, (the chef at Captain Jerk) had told me about it.

 “You like dagga party?” he had asked me.

“Sure.” I replied with a smile.

Then he had handed me a flyer.

“Many sexy daggering girls will be there.” he had said with a smile.

I stood up to leave, but a group of Japanese men with orange hair tried to get me drunk first. I had only stepped out of the shop for a second.
“Press Obama!” one of them said. He was wearing a blue and red surfer outfit, complete with yellow shorts. I didn’t want to press Obama.
The jerk shop had a tradition. On the window sill, slightly above a display of different beers was a small Obama doll. A red button at the doll’s feet, if pressed, played snippets of his famous speeches. Whoever pressed the button has to buy a tequila shot.
Two of the guys up, the streetlights making their hair look like fire.
“Press, Press, Press.” They kept saying.
I didn’t press the button, but they did, several times. Within minutes I had four shots. Japanese guys can get a little touchy feely when they are drinking, and one of the guys was very forward. He kept trying to hug me, as he laughed and spoke rapidly in Japanese. I could barely understand him. He had a heavy tan, and a funky earring with crosses and little slender silver rods. One of his more sober friends chuckled and pulled him away. The guys were Keiske and Keiske, Shojo and Shinya.

 
I told them ciao and head off with the DJ to the reggae party, which was at a club called G-side. We walked a few blocks away from Captain Jerk to a quiet street. I saw the club. A large sign with a gray-chested gorrila identified it.
I went up three flights of stairs and saw a DJ I met last week Monday. Before I reached the door, a girl was touching my arms and saying “Kakkoi… Kakkoi…” (cool, cool) I  chatted to the people at the door briefly and went inside. I found out the DJ had gotten me in for free.
Inside was small and dark. A small bar connected to a kitchen was directly behind me, and a hallway eight feet wide lead to a set of shadowy stairs up to the dance floor. I said hello to some girls near me and they nearly leapt out of their skin when I told them I was Jamaican. They were both cute; one with sweeping long hair and a sharp set of bangs, the other wearing a stylish straw hat. I can’t remember their names because the girl with the hat bought me six shots of tequila.
Upstairs, a Japanese selector was screaming into a microphone. The music was fast and current dancehall erupted from a pair of huge speakers on a small, slightly elevated stage. There weren’t that many people in the place, but it was mostly girls. I went back downstairs and saw the biggest reggae scenester in Hamamatsu; a guy who called himself Gully. I told him hello. Nearby, I saw a girl by the bar that caught my eye. She had a nice body and a cute outfit. “Your ribbon is cute.” I told her in Japanese. She had a large, sparking silver ribbon in her hair. She smiled shyly and swallowed the rest of her drink. She was very pretty, with a button nose, sensuous lips and permed hair. A hot song started playing through the speakers.
“I love this song!” I exclaimed. “Let’s dance.” I said.
She nodded in that same shy way and went to the dance floor with me. Like most of the girls there she stood quietly, half-stepping to the music. Then the song changed and the girls evolved into full blown Jamaicans.
Her hips took on a life of their own. Everything moved in perfect sync to the reggae beats. I stepped towards her and she bent over. The DJ screamed something, and soon I had her in the air, grinding on a wall nearby.
She wasn’t the only one. Once the music picked up, more of the girls when wild. I danced with all of them. It was an amazing feeling at the party; sexy girls and Jamaican music… in Japan.
A support beam on the dance floor became a temporary seat for me in between the dances. At some point while I was sitting there, a sexually charged song played. It was Bragga’s Dagga Dat. I looked at the girl with the ribbon. She was a few feet away, standing near a wall. I looked at her and nodded. She took a running start and leapt unto me, coiling her legs around my back. I surged with  strength and walk/danced with her everywhere. Occasionally she was suspended only with my hand on the small of her back. This trend continued with other girls in the party.
I was surprised. The Japanese veil of shyness in these girls had disappeared. For a little while, cultural barriers were shattered. Here my culture was king, and my culture demanded that men and women dance together. I horribly exploited this, dancing and grinding until my back ached. I went up and down the dance floor, chit-chatting with people. This was when the girl with the straw hat bought me all those shots. I also realized, I was speaking completely in Japanese.
I came back to the dance floor once, and people were looking up at something. I was under a slightly covered part of the dance floor. I walked over to the support beam and looked up. The girl with the ribbon was on top of one of the large speakers. A DJ, General, was standing behind her in a thin undershirt. He looked at the crowd with lust in his eyes and smirked. Music roared from the black boxes, and he started pounding away, nearly sending her over to certain doom on the cold tiles of the dance floor. I smiled. This was fascinating.
When I left the dance floor this time, someone had opened a door in the hallway. Bright light leaked from outside, illuminating the hallway. Outside shining brightly, was the sun. I didn’t even realize the entire night had passed. I left soon afterwards wiwth a smiley face and girls to call. I strolled home in the quiet of the morning, occasionally getting flashes of the girl with the Ribbon, flying towards me, heels first.

 

Five guys are holding me.

I grit my teeth and struggle as a mild weightlessness hits me. Someone is holding my legs; I’m being escorted out of a club. Angry voices escape the premises and rocket into the night air. Brazilian guys are barking at me in a mosaic of words I can’t understand.

“Mi amiga y amigo.” I say in broken Spanish.
One man, with thick eyebrows furrowed into an angry gaze shouts: “He punched a girl!”
“Really?” I reply.
He was talking about Eric, one of three people I came to the club with. The night didn’t start like this.
Like most Fridays, this one started at 7-11. I grabbed a few beers for the walk to downtown Hamamatsu. By the time I reached Yuraku-gai, I had a nice buzz. I was wearing a light purple shirt and an age-old accessory; the man tie.
Yuraku-gai is crawling with people, and I entertain myself by saying hello to cute girls walking by. I make a pit stop at the video arcade and lose a few games playing with my current Street Fighter character, Guile. I bounce into 7-11 and grab another drink. I run into a friend, Ten. I chat to some cute girls with red hair. Behind them a few girls say, “Konbanwa.” And disappear into a building called Cote d’ Azur. I wince a little. Japanese girls rarely say unprovoked hellos. I should have chatted to them, but they were gone.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. It’s Will. He is beaming a bright smile, almost goofy. He’s drunk. That’s when the man-grabbing ensued. I tried to grab will and we tussled. Ten grabbed him from behind, and he was momentarily suspended in the air.
We go to 7-11. “Can you get me a drink?” he says. I say sure. He tells me that my favourite drink (Suntory Strong) is stronger than a regular beer. I look on the label. Sure enough, its 8% when all the beers are 5% alcohol. We buy a few and head to Liquid Kitchen. Somewhere along the way, we lose Ten.
At liquid, we go inside like a hailstorm. A few girls are inside. Two of them are cute foreigners. Will zeroes in on girl number one while I entertain her friend. Her face intrigues me, and I like her lips.
“You’re too hot for me.” She says. “Why do you like my fat?”
She’s a little chubby, but not obese. I poke her stomach and tell her she’s adorable.
Inside Will is doing shots. Marty (the owner of the bar) give me free shots. The ladies aren’t biting. (plus my chick has a boyfriend). After standing around in fuzzy, smily-faced daze, we head out. We both have passes for the Brazilian club, Hunters, and decide to go there.
Back on Yuraku-gai,  I see two familiar faces; redheads in a sea of Jet black Asian hair. “Grab?” I say to Will. He smiles and nods. Will lunges after Stephanie, and whirls her around like a ragdoll. We laugh and make jokes. Everyone is going to hunters.
Will has been wilder than normal. He’s usually the king of cool. For some reason he seemed distracted. In a few weeks he’d be leaving Japan after living there for several years. It must have been messing with his head.
With Stephanie, Me, Will and Eric, we went to Hunters. It was some sort of traditional Brazilian folk music night. As always, I saw the same faces. I danced a little with Stephanie, stepping horribly to the Brazilian music. She was all smiles and rhythm, getting so close I could smell her shampoo. She occasionally gave Will a furtive gaze, and I wondered what it meant. Somewhere in this stream of thought, I see Eric being dragged away by a beefy guy. The guy had him in a headlock. Oddly, he was smiling. Stephanie stretched out a pale hand towards him.
Nooooo… he’s my friend.” She said in a strange voice.
I reached forward, getting a good hold on Eric and that’s when I felt arms behind my neck and bodies around me. I surged with strength to no avail. As the guys clamored around me, I wonder what happened. This is when I heard that Eric punched a girl.
This seemed strange (Eric is gay). No one could figure out why he would do that. I was near the entryway. Behind me, a short bouncer with thick sideburns had my left arm twisted upwards behind me. I didn’t struggle. As I learned more about what happened I just nodded. He let me go.
Later Will told he that he was the person that grabbed me initially, protecting me from a beatdown by guys behind me that I didn’t even see.
With a smile, Will said. “I told them “nooo!” that’s my friend! Then I grabbed you. I got two punches in the face.”
This was interesting.
“They said, “Get the black guy! Get the black guy!” Will said excitedly.
I laughed this. “Really?” I asked.
“Yes. Because you are bigger and taller and you have muscles they thought you would fight. They were ready to beat you up.”
He told me this as we were walking Eric home, somewhere nearby. He was being a diva, not wanting to go home. Eventually, through a lot of cajoling he went inside his apartment, which wasn’t too far from the club. As the three of us walked away, chatting about nothing in particular, we hear a voice behind us. It was Eric.
Will walked up to him and spoke in a calm voice. “Go home. Seriously, if you go back there they will kill you. Go home.”
This seemed to register in his mind, even through his inebriation. He nodded and still smiling, walked back home. We walked some more and Stephanie commented on our bodies. She called us “threesome material”. I wasn’t sure how to take this, and I didn’t say anything. We went back to the club. One bouncer told me that’s the third time Eric has been kicked out of hunters. He was officially banned for life.
I went back inside and danced a little. Stephanie went home alone. “Call me later eh?” she said. I followed Will to KK house where he met up with a friend. It was around five a.m. I hopped on my bike, and went home.