Black passenger yellow cabs pdf download

Accolades for Black Passenger Yellow Cabs.

This is an exploration of deviant cultures in an "exotic land" that teeters on the edge of academic reflexive ethnography, edgy sex research that would have made Kinsey proud. A Henry Miller-esque porn-memoir. This inquiry treads where most qualitative researchers fear to gaze." Michael Hemmingson, Author: Zona Norte: An Auto/ethnography of Desire and Addiction. Screenwriter: Watermelons As the litany of sex 'scandals' to befall political and religious leaders reminds us, there remains a major gulf between how sexual desire is socially regulated and how it animates individual fantasies and practices. Bryan is one of the few who is prepared to both act on his strongest sexual inclinations while having the courage to lay those impulses bare for others to interrogate. Whether titilated or revulsed, all readers must agree that such an exercise is a major contribution to a more honest and reflexive relationship to sexual desire in general. Jamie Paquin PhD Candidate, Global Studies Sophia University Tokyo Guns, sex and racial suicide. And thats just chapter one. Alon Ziv, Author: Breeding Between the Lines. This work is important, revealing and took a lot of courage to write. Lawrence J. Goss, Amazon Kindle reader.

This book is worth reading if one would like to understand the psyche of the third world. Maybe one has to have seen where the likes of Bryan grew up and understand the incredible, sheer luck it took to crawl out of such a hole and be able to write a memoir of his experiences. That this author could still access his feelings, write about them and eventually overcome his sex addiction is laudable. As an example of overcoming obstacles in a way that most people in the first world can't even begin to comprehend, it is a shining hope for others. The sexual experiences in the book are simply examples of his addiction, but if one read through that to the

sensitivity he shows in understanding the abuses the women went through to be so available to him and other western men, thats what makes it interesting. Much more of the world has these underlying abuses as part of their culture. The first world would be smart to pay more attention to what is being said in this book and others like it, which unwrap the brain and emotions of foreign cultures. Then maybe there would be a little understanding and less bumbling in their foreign relations. Don't read this book for the sexual content, read it for the sensitivity it exhibits to two cultures not your own, but cultures that are valid nonetheless and reflect a large part of the population of the globe. Carolyn Barrett, Amazon Kindle reader Revolutionary! Cabel: Myspace reader

BLACK PASSENGER YELLOW CABS: Of Exile and Excess in Japan Stefhen fd Bryan

KIMAMA PRESS

FIRST KIMAMA PRESS EDITION, JANUARY 2009 Copyright 2008 by Stefhen fd Bryan Copyright reference # 1-566 72 867

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, fair use in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts), without written permission from the publisher. Published in the United States by Kimama Press. Originally published on the Amazon Kindle in the United States, August 2008.

This is a work of NON-fiction. All persons names and those of some locations have been changed for obvious reasons. ISBN 978-0-615-26810-1

There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions, and who exhibits first rate intelligence in the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. F. Scott Fitzgerald

To Xyon Yasunami

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Making of a Rice King Simone Chang Prelude to Japan Japan: Year One Mother and I Mothers Arrival Megu Mayumi Womens Social Conditions Mayumi: The Party Continues Corean Christmas Retreat to Kansai Tomoko Chikako Island of Neglected Women Farewell Rice Paddies Kaori Kyoung Reiko Kaori continued Anita McKenzie Kyoung continued Henni Karin Kaori conclusion Karin continued Pressure Cooker Society Baby Making Machines Karin: Head Games Continue Natsuko Sexless In Japan 06 14 17 20 24 32 34 35 37 42 44 52 56 66 68 73 76 81 82 88 92 94 97 103 106 110 112 128 132 137 141

Fu No Country for Children Prelude to Hanshin Mikage Abortion in Japan Hanshin Mikage Meet the Parents Nao Karin: The Head Games End Hisako Anita Returns Irie Chika at Bigot Miho Kazumi Akiyo Olga Shoko Japanese Depression Mirroring My Own Traumatised Women Parricide in Japan Shoko continued Collective Arrested Development Shokos Dinner Azusa Rapunzel and Year Three in Japan Jamaica March Hooked on the Crucifix Intervention My Contribution to the Statistic My Jamaica Back on Japan Soil Kansai Reunited The Inevitable Comparison Henni Comes to Pass Lean Times in Japan Just As I Had Expected Sex in Historical Japan

146 153 156 158 160 162 166 168 174 177 181 185 191 192 194 198 205 211 218 222 225 227 238 247 259 264 273 276 281 286 297 302 305 310 312 316 326

End of A Dilema Shoko: Conclusion Etsuko Sayo Yukari Etsuko continued Akari Surrogate Sex in Japan Masako Manami Sex Outsourcing Ultimately Inescapable Japans Dashed Opportunity Epilogue Bibligraphy Acknowledgements

331 335 336 339 340 345 352 360 362 364 369 370 373 375 380 385

PREFACE
The body of work now known as Black Passenger Yellow Cabs began simply as musings about Japan. Immediately upon my arrival here I was flabbergasted by the paradoxes of the society, and the discrepancy between the West's perception and the actual Japan was blatantly obvious to me. Just two months into my residency on the island my friend Bahar sent me a New York Times article about parasite singles in Japan: the social phenomenon of unmarried women who continue living with their parents, some well into their 40s. Whats up with this? she titled her email. And indeed such was my initial response upon observing that the overwhelming majority of unmarried women I had encountered in those initial 2 months, were still living with their parents. So after obtaining a used PC some 2 years later, I simply began documenting my observations. However, when I began writing about my own hedonistic experiences and those of my friends, I found it curious that I had not read about the sexual state of affairs which I was experiencing. That was the point at which my musings adopted an erotic tone. After sending the first 25 pages to a friend in Australia, she strongly advised that I could not possibly write about my sexual predacious behavior in Japan without informing the reader about my history and socialization. Hence the work took on memoir characteristics. Responding to the first 100 pages, another dear friend of mine, a Professor of English at the University of Denver, impressed by the work thus far informed me that I was writing an ethnography with sex. Prior to her ravings about the pages she had read, I was not familiar with the term 'ethnography.' And behold a new genre: the erotic ethnographic memoir was created. Before sending those pages to my friend at the University of Denver, I had made the first 50 pages available to my mentor, an internationally renowned Author, Japanologist, Futurist and Policy Consultant, just for his personal perusal. It was horrifying to learn that he had forwarded it to his Agent in New York. However to my pleasant surprise a Junior Agent responded positively but shared my mentors concern that erotica, ethnography and a memoir could not peacefully co-exist in the same body of literature, and suggested that I wrote 3 separate books. ADHD adult that I am, I accepted the compliments but resisted the suggestion to make the genres exclusive of each other, as I thought all three were perfectly harmonious in my work. Thats how I conceived it, that's how it flowed organically and that's how I documented it.

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Stefhen Fitzgerald DeCorcia Bryan, Kobe Japan 2008

MAKING OF A RICE KING Way back in 1989 my then girlfriend was reading Paul Therouxs My Secret History, a novel about a man who engaged in unbridled sex with teenaged natives for a few years during his time as a Peace Corps volunteer in various African villages. Oh my God! You should SO read this book, she screamed. Youre so much like this guy! What you are about to read is my own predacious history, a history which is by no means a secret, since I wear my secrets like I do my skeletons: on my sleeves. Kathy knew of my childhood fantasies and the daydreams of unending sexual rampage that consumed my boyhood, and as she told me of the characters exploits my envy of him swelled. That is exactly what I want to do, I fantasized. At the tender age of 8, my little teapot, as it was often referred to in my native Jamaica, would stand at full attention at the sight of those beautiful barebreasted African women, who periodically adorned the covers of National Geographic magazines. Most unfathomable to me even at that age was the calmness with which the men appeared to interact with them, the women and their breasts, as though the breasts were invisible. No one was even slightly aroused and the tribesmen all seemed so capable of restraint from attacking those perfectly shaped mammaries 24 hours a day. Its not normal for 8-yearolds to harbor such thoughts, and indeed a normal 8-year-old I was not, as my first sexual experience had been only a year earlier. Technically it was molestation, but not until initiating therapy at 23 was I made to interpret it as such. Such experiences were the norm in the East Kingston Dunkirk ghetto, and all my friends had been initiated from their eyes were at knee level. This was simply breaking in the boy child, an encouraged implicit rite of passage into manhood, which in uber-homophobic/machismo Jamaica, at least proved I wasnt gay. The perpetrators of what many today would consider child sexual abuse were

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16 and 17-year-old girls whom I had been fondling as far back as I could recall. Putting my hands up theirs and other girls and womens skirts was my greeting, a constant embarrassment to both my mother and the unwitting victims. The two girls, the daughter and granddaughter of church sisters, grew tired of my constant sexual harassment since I was about five or six and eventually acquiesced. Upon seeing me bursting through my pants, they were shocked at my unusual size for a 7-year-old and wanted to further investigate what strange equipment this pickney (little child) was packing. After negotiating with them, we came to an agreement. Mi wi show oonu it if oonu show mi fi oonu own fus, (Ill show you if you both show me yours first.) I said in an aggressive whisper. But there was only one problem: the constant presence of adults. One afternoon we found ourselves in my mothers one room dwelling atop the church on the commune where we resided. There the younger of the two lifted her skirt, exposed her torn baby blue panties as the other watched out for the big people. My 7-year-old anatomy lost control and her 16-year-old eyes widened in disbelief. As I reached to touch her pubic area, she dropped her skirt, slapping my hand away. Weh your own deh? (Where is yours?) she insisted. So I dropped my pants, exposing my white y-fronts. Just then, the girl on lookout whispered Smaddy a come. Quickly pulling up my pants, I began to pretend they were helping me with schoolwork, as they sometimes did. It was a false alarm and when we resumed I renegotiated with her to not only lift her skirt, but to also drop her panties before I fulfilled my end of the deal. She started by pulling down her underwear, then lifted her skirt as I proceeded to pull down my shorts and fruit of the looms. Their jaws hit the floor as my early childhood teapot enlarged. Touching her transferred her pungent womans smell onto my little fingers. Jezas chrise! A weh a likkle pickney lacka yu get dat deh supm deh from? Mi wouldn wau meet you when you tun big man, a kill you aggu kill ooman wid dat deh weapon deh. (Jesus Christ! Where did a little child like you get that thing from? I wouldnt want to meet you when you become an adult, you will be killing women with that weapon.) But I was not oblivious to my apparent anomaly, for as far back as I could recall,

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around 3 or 4 years old, my mother often lamented on my size as she bathed me. I dont know how you are going to find a wife with this teapot, she often worried. Where did you get this? After that day, I stepped up my harassment of both girls and soon they began allowing me further exploration for extended periods, even directing my actions. As I explored their bodies with my little hands, from the looks on their faces, it put them in a whole new universe, as if they were having out of body experiences. It was then that I became utterly fascinated by the act of giving pleasure to women. For days I would refrain from washing my hands, as I savored that fragrador, finding it simultaneously pleasant and repulsive. To this day I still savor the scent of a woman on my fingers. Hence, if ever I am spotted on the train with my fingers in my nostrils, rest assured Im not digging for gold. After sustained pestering, I and Madge, the younger of the two, ventured under the house where we would do the thing, she had been promising me wed do. The houses in our East Kingston ghetto were raised and the space between the floor and the dirt was dark, usually harboring many treacherous insects and sharp debris. Normally, the cellar - home to scorpions and centipedes - was a most terrifying environment, but as the blood rushed from the young upper head to the lower, fear was no longer an issue. I was just too aroused to be scared. It was there in the dark cellar, upon my baptism in that sea of warm Jell-O, that an addict was born. It was a most unforgettable and infinitely euphoric experience, especially because prior to that moment my very short existence was consumed with severe daily depression and an overpowering desire to end my life from as early as four years old. Depression and suicidal urges persisted well into adulthood and so did my newfound addiction. Soon after my debut, I began to lust after my friends mothers and couldnt stop commenting to my friends, how sexy their mothers were and what Id like to do with them. But to my surprise, they were interested in my mother a sure sign that they too had been initiated - which I found utterly repulsive. Invasive

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thoughts of sex with my own mother would bring me close to vomiting. Typical of our dire socio-economic conditions, we shared a bed til just past my tenth birthday, and when those deviant thoughts invaded my mind, I was repulsed. My mother had no other children, but I always wanted a sister, who I thought would have been my sex toy. And why my friends werent giving their sisters a regular rogering was a mystery to me. As a young child, I was of course unaware of the possible biological and or socio-cultural mechanisms which prevents one from being sexually attracted to immediate family members, thus could not understand why they didnt want to ravage their sisters, when I so desperately did. After my sexual inauguration my cravings knew no bounds nor end, which drove me at eight years old to make an attempt with a cat. However, tabby was having none of it and clawed her way out of my grasp. Margerie and I had infrequent meetings under the cellar, which started what would turn into a love for sex in risky places. Frightened in ecstasy, we were only too aware of the consequence if caught by the adults: a beating to within seconds of our lives. Among my most memorable sexual experiences was one many years later in a boardroom of an internationally renowned company, on the twenty-sixth floor of their San Francisco headquarters. She, a young AsianAmerican with her palms against the big glass window overlooking the San Francisco bay, her skirt hiked above her posterior, panty and nylons at her ankles as she pushed her round bottom outward in reception. I can still see my life making fluids dripping from her onto the carpet. Instant termination, a permanently charred reputation and perhaps even minor criminal charges would have been the consequences, had we been caught. My Jamaica was not the Jamaica that beckoned from travel brochures around the world, enticing you to frolic on horseback along heavenly white sand beaches. It was not a place to come back to, as one of the ad campaigns by the Jamaica Tourist Board inveigled. Instead for me, from my earliest memories at three years old, it was a wretched environment from which to flee, a place of incomprehensible barbarianism, senseless murders and grinding wretched poverty. The hundred and eighty degree opposite of its tropical nirvana image, my

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Jamaica was and still is anarchic, peaceless and hopelessly mired in ruthless violence, much of which make the international news only during election time when the violence takes on an added brutality. The bombarding, omnipresent signs of neglect and decay - burnt out buildings, splintered rooves - wreaked havoc on my delicate sensibilities since I was a toddler. In MY Jamaica it was normal for raw sewage to stagnate or flow through the streets, daily life was a perpetual struggle and just simply getting out of bed was a perilous act, accompanied by a high risk of a fatal encounter with a bullet. Death and symbols thereof decorated the neighborhood. From the frequent funeral excursions, which were among my few enjoyable events, the nightly hails of gunfire, the black heart men who preyed on children, to the daily maggot infested road kills from speeding cars, I had seen more death in the first ten years of my life than I would witness in the next thirty. In this dark, dilapidated, crime-plagued hood, brutal murders, wife beatings and police shootings were regular occurrences, generating in me at an early age, a strong fascination with death. In my neighborhood, the stench of dog carcasses and, tyres set alight to incinerate them were the neighborhood air fresheners. Yet even so, unlike the shanties of West Kingston, my eastern slum was the Beverly Hills of ghettos. Among my most vivid memories was one night at 9 years old being accosted at gunpoint with a request to Identify yuself! Woo a yu bloodclaut madda?!(Whos your fucking mother?) Yeow, Yeow Yeow, someone shouted from across the street. A sista Andisn yout. (Thats Sister Andersons kid.) Awoah! Bloodcleet, a sista Adisn yout dis? (Au fuck, this is Sister Andersons kid?) Turning to me he advised, likkle yout, yu fi identify yuself quick y nuh, cau it dread out ya. (You should identify yourself faster, because its dangerous out here.) Another indelible memory is that of my friends and I being accompanied to Franklin Town Primary School by Jamaica Defense Force amphibian tanks. By ten years old I had witnessed countless beatings, killings, acid attacks, wife beatings with machetes and two fatal torchings: one simply because he was a supporter of the wrong political party in the wrong neighbourhood, the other because he was alleged to be gay.

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Contributing to the already curious state of affairs, my formative years were spent on an all-women church commune, some 50 or 60 of them with whom I shared living quarters, undoing their bras for them and peeping through tiny holes to watch them in the nude. As a boy, one of only two males and the only male child socialized in this otherwise female environment, I grew to become a lesbian happily trapped in a mans body and from my first sexual experience until recently, sex was the first thing I thought of upon meeting every woman. In an attempt to protect me from the perils of my surroundings, venturing even to the gate for a glimpse of the outside world was strictly forbidden with severe penal consequences. Isolated from the community at large and left only to entertain myself with my obsessions in thought, I was far less assertive and street smart than the other boys. Resultantly, I was often the football for the neighborhood bullies, young murderers in the making, who were armed with mini ratchet knives, roaming the streets on their noisy home made wooden skates (scooters) with ball bearings for wheels. Their other pass times included rolling old tyres with sticks and guiding wheels made from garden hoses with hooked, wire clothes hangers. Especially on rainy days, their favorite by far was the game of buode aus (wooden horse), in which pieces of carved fudge sticks were placed in the sewage infested gutters, to simulate horse racing. In my childhood, news to my mother that I was even a spectator of these activities, would have her sending me to the tamarind tree to select the most suitable branches, which she would then promptly introduce to my bare naked bottom. The first school I attended, the First Holiness Basic School was also on the commune, just 30 seconds walk from the matchbox mother and I shared. However, my second school, Elletson All Age School, where I skipped the first and second grade, on account of being an advance reader, was located a fifteen minute walk away. Again, in the interest of protecting me from my surroundings, one of the quickest ways to ensure a meeting between the tamarind tree switches and my bare black bumbo, was to exceed the allotted 20 minutes for my return home from school. Also beginning quite early was my yellow preference. In that impoverished and homicide ravaged cesspool of a neighborhood, there were three Chinese shops which sowed the seeds of my yellow fever, earlier than my first sexual

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experience. One at the corner of Windward Road and Brays Street, another next door to my tenement and the Hos shop on Telephone St and Elletson Road. Ho is not a pseudonym, it was their actual name. They drove a brown 1973 Buick Skylark, one of four American cars in my neighborhood. The others, one a 1973 Chevrolet Chevelle which belonged to the bishop who presided over my mothers church and the other two were 69 Pontiac Bonnevilles, both belonging to the near white pastor of an adjacent Pentecostal church. The Chinese, not even those who lived atop their shops, never ever associated with anyone in the neighborhood. For sure they had good reasons not to. With their straight jet-black hair and upward slanted, hardly opened eyes, they were enigmatic and I frequently anticipated being sent on errands in order to admire and lust after the women. Absent was that round, big bottom and big shapely legs which I was socialized to find sexy. However, developing a love for their long waists and short legs, I began to entertain a strong desire to introduce them to my boyhood. But that wouldve been impossible. Never had I even seen one walking in our decrepit neighborhood, let alone talking to a person of African decent, other than their employees during work hours. How did they many of whom who had only marginal command of English get here, to this neighborhood from China? I often pondered. Those who did not live atop their shops, perhaps resided in some faraway gated, uptown community, to which they fled at the end of the work day. They did not hang around. To this day, while making the beast with two backs with yellow women, I sometimes imagine myself with one of the shopkeepers daughters. Apart from wanting to give their daughters a proper introduction at that tender age, the Chinese shop owners quickly became my economic role models. My enigmatic personality as a child manifested itself in ways other than sexually, and so the pronounced disparity between the races were quite clear to me from as early as five years old. But no one, not the least my mother, who didnt even make it beyond the fourth grade, could provide me with an explanation as to why these outsiders were so economically well endowed. Most people of African decent in Jamaica, including my own family, subsisted then and now in abject poverty, daily praising the Lord, for what I was never sure. It was simply beyond my comprehension, why it was necessary to

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incessantly praise the Lord for sparing us another day in that living hell. Meanwhile the yellows were shop owners, driving big American cars and all without ever setting foot in a church. With no one to answer my early questions on race and those curious socioeconomic arrangements, I was left on my own to develop massive inferiority complexes, believing that African people indeed were cursed, exactly as indoctrination from bible stories about the so called descendants of Cain had taught. That along with my yellow obsession resulted in total and absolute resolve to abandon any idea of perpetuating my race, while at the same time making me resolute and definite about procreating only with yellows. This decision, made by a young child, was later given its proper label of racial suicide by Michael Pariser, my best therapist ever. Parallel to the aforementioned decision was my observation that children of black/yellow or any mixed race combination seemed to show a higher frequency of attractiveness than their pure race counterparts and in my childish view during the early days of my self-hatred, they were especially more attractive than their Negro parents. Later in my adulthood I discovered that scientist had labeled my early childhood observation as the hybrid vigor phenomenon. And though years of therapy, education and travel have evicted my self-hate, the drive to act on the hybrid vigor phenomenon still persists.

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SIMONE CHANG Eleven-year-old Simone Chang was my closest encounter with my yennings at nine. An anomaly in my neighborhood, she suddenly began to appear on my street, walking past my tenement once in the morning, on her way to school and again in the evening. Petite with a wide long braid down the middle of her back to her buttocks, she wore a white skirt, white blouse and a red and white plaid tie, the uniform of the downtown school Holy Trinity. But what would this Chinese girl be doing in my cesspit of a neighborhood, attending a public junior secondary school? Did her Beverly Hills or Cherry Gardens parents go bankrupt and if so, why would she end up here in Dunkirk, in the ghetto? Everyday at around three o clock, countenance of trauma, fear and wretched despondence, eyes fixated on the pothole infested road beneath her, braving an onslaught of harassment from the local ragamuffins from number 4 Wild Street, she meandered past my yard. And everyday, whenever I could, I ran to my wall to watch the girl of my fantasies go by. Ugly, was among the many renowned neighborhood terrorists from the aforementioned thug house diagonally across from me. A troglodyte with tribal mark-like telephone slashes adorning his face, his was a character crass and uncouth enough to curdle stone. Scarcely was there a day when Simone could walk by on her way home without the assault of his rough, coarse drawl. Pssssssttt, aaay Chinie girl, Ms Chin, come ear nuh. To which Ms Icy, pot black, loud, lewd and quarrelsome would intervene on Simones behalf. Weh yu nu lef di likkle girl alone? Yu nuh si se shi a likkle pickney a guh a school? Yu tink shi cyan tek big man hood? (Why dont you leave the little girl be? Cant you see shes a child going to school?) To which Ugly would respond expressing intentions, not quite suitable for print.

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MI SE FI LEF HAR! (I SAID TO LEAVE HER BE.) Subsisting among the rats and cockroaches, my and my mothers hand me down shoes - which we were lucky to have - were in constant need of repairs. On one occasion my mother instructed me to go to the cobbler up the street, as opposed to our usual cobbler around Bryden street, as there had been some fatal shootings in the aqueduct near there. Upon entering the new cobblers yard, lo and behold, there was my fantasy girl hanging her laundry on the line. Is in ere suh yu live, (So this is where you live.) I said to her, as though solving the puzzle of a lifetime. Why? she asked, with the same melancholic face, focused on the bed spread she was hanging on the line. Jus choo mi always si yu a walk dung a Wild Street, (Just because I always saw you walking down at Wild Street.) I responded with the confidence of an amoeba. On my return home, floating several feet off the ground, I lighted up on a scheme to run errands to the cobbler for all the church sisters on the commune. As it turned out, Simone was only half-Chinese, which answered my question about why she had ended up amongst us in the war zone. Whichever way I tried to imagine it, in my conclusion her ending up on Wild Street could have been attributed only to her cursed half. No full-blooded Chinese would be living in this hell hole without some connection to business. In the ensuing months we got to know each other and discovered our shared commonalities. Like me, she was ruled by a punitive, Christian zealot for a guardian, difference being mine was my mother whereas hers, her aunt wasnt even related to her. After being abandoned by her Taiwanese father, her mother sent her and her younger sister from the countryside to live with Aunt, an over bearing Seventh-day Adventist. We were both miserable and depressed about our plight in that wretched environment, but as if that werent enough, she later revealed to me during our adult years that among her routine chores, were unspeakable manual labor to her fathers brother since she was about nine years old. Once while talking to her on her verandah, on a rare occasion with no adults around, the chance to play doctor arose. Reminiscing about that day some fifteen years later, she tried to describe the euphoria of that utterly novel experience when she was 12 and I 10 years old.

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I had never ever felt anything like that, she said. I just cant explain how good it felt, it was like heaven. I remembered that more than my first sexual experience. That rare chance to make mischief never again availed itself, as we were constantly surrounded by adults and she was always under house arrest. But nine years later, four years after I had emigrated from the island, I returned for a visit and accidentally ran into her as she turned from Wild Street to Little Telephone Street, wearing oversized curlers in her hair and a gleaming ear to ear smile. Two days later, like wild animals on Wild Street, we shredded the fitted sheet on what was my bed in my mothers two room dwelling. With ten years of pent up desire, I unleashed in her miles and litres in an orgasma-fest, hoping to leave her pregnant, so that I could have gained respect among my peers upon returning to the States, by claiming to have sired a child. Only four years removed from Jamaica, I had not been rid of the socialization which taught me that real men made children and abandoned them, while weak men took care of the children that real men made. But as probability would have it, no sperm met her egg, at least not until she later emigrated to America, after I embarked upon a business arrangement to get her there. Unfortunately in the end she was only half Chinese, not enough to satisfy my preference and our relationship became mired in ensuing baby mama drama.

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PRELUDE TO JAPAN After a heart wrenching separation from Korean-American Anne Moo Young, I arrived in Japan in April of 2001 for a fresh new start, a rebirth of unimaginable proportions. Anne and I had been dating for about a year, three months of which were spent in co-habitation. Overdosed on sex appeal, she was a sexual inferno, with freak oozing from every pore. Inseparable, we did almost every thing in tandem, even commuted to and from work together. Anne, a short, nubile 24-year-old with a captivatingly pretty face had breasts that were abnormally sized for a woman of her height, and race. They were like two watermelons on a slight downhill race. Upon meeting her for the first time in a shopping mall in Orange County, I stood at full attention throughout our entire conversation and fortunately upon my first visit to her apartment, she was quite permissive. Had she not been, I would have been rotting in a penitentiary as we speak, as I pounced on her like a desperate crack fiend the minute she opened the door. Throughout our relationship she would always refer to the pouncing in jest. From the first hit it was clear that addiction was inevitable. Hence, with inexplicable, out of this world chemistry, I fell hard and we moved in together shortly after meeting. Fruit fairy living with a gay roommate, with whom she partied heavily in West Hollywood, Anne loved ecstasy and cocaine. Hailing from the typically oppressive Korean-American family, she was unceasingly insecure about her physical appearance and extremely uncomfortable around straight men, a clear signal of fire in the hole. All indicators pointed to a high probability of some sexual trauma during her childhood. On the surface she appeared to relish in her ability to bring men to their knees, but in private, twice the victim of date rape drugs at parties at her alma mater USC, Anne confided in me that she hated that the only thing men saw in, on, around or about her was sex. Im short, pretty and all tits. The only thing men wanna do is fuck me. I hate that, she said, sometimes tears streaming down her burgundy cheeks. The cocaine and ecstasy consumption, the heavy drinking and partying, shes

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masking something, I thought. Fruit fairy, no straight male friends, short, selfperceived overweight with humungous breasts, especially for a Korean woman, she hates herself, I concluded. Something definitely happened to her in her childhood, she might even be borderline, I analyzed. After all, I knew her type very well. They are the most exciting women on the planet. Those borderline personality disorder women are without question the pinnacle of sexual nirvana. Normal women fail to deliver the kind of sexual excitement that borderline women can, who until recently, were the only women to whom I was attracted. Getting to know her, she revealed to me that indeed - like all freaks, all the sex addicts with whom I have been - she too had been constantly molested by a family friend since five. Since that revelation I had begun to encourage her to seek therapy and after convincing her of my unconditional and unending support, she had finally heeded my advice. But for the first time, Anne and I would have to separate. Charged with domestic abuse and vandalism for destroying (Simone Changs) my daughters mothers cell phone in post OJ Simpson California, I was sentenced to participate in a month long work furlough program in San Francisco. In her emotional amnesia Anne freaked out, convinced that I had abandoned her. Though only thirty days, the separation was unbearable for her and during that time she met someone else at the supermarket, abruptly ended the relationship and I became an instant enemy. It was as though we had never even known each other, let alone made plans for a future together. Our previous Siamese-like state, attached especially at the lips and genitalia, was a fugitive from her memory. You just up and left me, she kept repeating. What was I supposed to do? In the first week of our separation I shed ten pounds, wept like Jesus for three months, and was forced to visit the cardiologist for crippling and debilitating chest pains. Making matters worse, it was the Christmas season and I was a mess. I made the bold move of unloading even on total strangers, sometimes comically. And thanks to their support and that of a few friends, the pain became manageable. Aware that my yellow desire was now carved in diamond and that it would be impossible for me to become interested in anyone non yellow, I packed up and moved to Japan, where I could act on my extreme preference and get over my

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lost love, especially our plans to get married and move to Monterey. I couldnt have made a better move. This complete change of environment and what was to follow, was the perfect prescription.

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JAPAN, YEAR ONE Wednesday, April 18th 2001. Unlike many of my Western contemporaries in Japan, I conducted no research about my future home prior to my arrival and engaged in no preparations. However, upon arrival, I soon discovered that nothing could have prepared me for this Fantasy Island. Immediately besotted by its physical beauty, Japan struck me as an infinitely more beautiful version of my native Jamaica, meets England where I had spent some time. My introduction to the lay of the land occurred in a very small rural town in the Kansai region, about a hundred miles from Osaka. Immediately I was surrounded by the women of my extreme preference, surreal to say the least. That unforgettable Wednesday of my arrival coincided with a weekly house party held by one of the teachers from the school where I was to commence teaching. In attendance were many of the local students, mostly women who numbered about fifteen, in the presence of about five or six men. I was the first person of African decent to descend on this small town and the very first that many of the natives were beholding in the flesh. Months later one of the girls told me in glee, she was beside herself when I walked in the room, as she had been a hip hop fan in this Hicksville for many years, constantly wondering what it would be like to meet an African-American. She later became my first stalker in Japan. Ayumi was what I later came to label an untouchable in Japan; 26, about a hundred and twenty pounds, overweight by Japanese standards and divorced with two children. Though we had not been intimate, not even a kiss, many mornings found her in her car, dictionary in hand waiting for me to emerge from my apartment in order to negotiate with me to be her boyfriend, occasionally even soliciting the assistance of perhaps her only friend with marginal English skills. Before long I realized that being African-American or Jamaican in these parts was akin to being some kind of film star, and having been born in Jamaica and lived in America, I had a double advantage, which I milked to the hilt. For the

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Japanese girls who idolized and fetishized Beenie Man and Bob Marley, I was Jamaican and for those who worshipped JZ, I was an African-American, though the latter sometimes created discomfort as hip hopper I was not. And when told by Japanese girls that I bore a strong resemblance to Jo, they were dismayed at my ignorance about the artist. The only Jo(e) I knew was my favourite uncle Joe who died when I was ten. Present at the party was one of the managers of the language school which had sponsored me to Japan. With her otherworldly beauty, barely opened upturned eyes, small dainty concave nose and creamy tofu skin, she was unerringly my type. It was love and lust at first sight and unbeknownst to silly me, the feeling was mutual. I came to learn that my specialized attraction is to Manchurian women. Small concave noses with a low nose bridge, small upturned eyes with the epicanthic fold and milky skin. That really rang my bell, ever since I was a child. Her general responsibilities were to ensure my smooth transition to this small town, so we spent much time together as she introduced me to Japanese culture. In addition to her Louis Vuitton handbag and other name brand items, she wore me like jewelry, flaunting me to everyone. Though 23 years old, Miyuki bubbled with the innocence of a juvenile, a trait which, having been new to Japan, I found quite sexy and arousing. Little did I know that in a few short years, I would become sickened by that general characteristic among Japanese women. Within two weeks we were all over each other, necking and fondling her baldness in her Honda Life and when she finally visited my apartment, her milky shaven beauty was a sight to behold. Her shoulders were ever so slightly wider than her hips but, her petite frame and shaven heaven mesmerized me. As to her shaven venus mound, that I found a bit uncomfortable, as it reminded me of my prepubescent days when I would try it on with little prepubescent girls. Their baldness and absence of breasts disgusted me and since my introduction to sex at seven, until my mid-twenties, I had always preferred older women. However things changed and I found myself, not only being attracted to younger women, but also attracting them the older I got. Miyuki reminded me of school girls, the kinds I frequently saw riding their bicycles in their ultra-mini uniforms upon my arrival in Japan. And as I tasted her and fondled her small but perfectly shaped breasts, my imagination would

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momentarily place her on a bicycle in school uniform. I dont want to have sex as yet. I want to get to know you first, she said, to which I was respectful. After releasing my tension all over her pearly skin, she would shower me with profuse apologies for having caused me to resort to what she thought was such a shameful act. Instantly madly in love, I refrained from consummating the relationship and suspended my usual predatory tendencies, which I later lived to regret. This sudden immersion in Eden was unbelievable, making out and receiving fellatio from my superior, the manager of the school where I would be teaching was nothing short of fantasy. But my roommate who had arrived a year earlier, assured me, You aint seen nothing yet, in Japan, nothing is off limits. Shortly after, another manager from a different location was introduced to me, butt ugly with apple catchers for teeth, which were the norm in the countryside. However, hers was a curvaceous physique of amazement and within only a month after my arrival she introduced me to the love hotel scene and gave me my first piece along with my first venereal disease in Japan: the ubiquitous Chlamydia. One thing I quickly realized in that rural town, was that my limitation to women who spoke only English, was a fairly small pool, but no hindrance to regular action. However, more disturbing than that was my observation that it was the less attractive women who spoke English. The super babes, my type, couldnt even recite the alphabet. Especially in the countryside, there was an inverse relation between their English abilities and their level of unattractiveness. This second manager was near fluent, with teeth of varying shades of yellowbrown, which seemed like rusted barbed wire protruding from her crooked, asymmetrical face. But man, that bod! Later I discovered that she had given my roommate, other teachers and at least one American manager the same welcoming treatment, minus the Chlamydia because they went in strapped. Three or four times a week as soon as the last student vacated, she and I transformed the school she managed into our own love ho, going buck wild leaving body fluids everywhere, like dogs urinating to mark territory. I couldnt help but pity her, as it was clear her self-confidence was on the soles of her feet, a trait of promiscuous women in the West and indeed a common trait of many Japanese women.

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I was born in a car, she revealed. My mother was on the way to the hospital, solving the mystery to why her face was so asymmetrical and twisted. Shortly after my arrival, the weekly school party was relocated to my apartment owing to the departure of the previous host, and every Wednesday night an onslaught of beautiful, eligible female students descended on my living room. Rapidly the collection of sex partners grew and soon it became impossible to conceal my whoring character in this small town. Inevitably, the first manager discovered this and decided that she wanted nothing more to do with me intimately, a painful decision magnified by conflicting forces within. On one hand I loved her though on the other, I was a sex addict with uncontrollable yellow cravings in yellow candy land with a bottomless supply of yellow pleasure. Especially difficult was the fact that we had to continue working together for a year, which required daily preparedness for pain. Though my whoring soared to new heights, she was one who got away, the one I really wanted. My fragile male ego was trampled and I to this day regret not introducing her to the darkside. She wouldve been hooked, unable to let go, like the mass of fans which were accumulating. They say once you go black, you never go back. But more accurately, once you go black, you always, go back..for more. But I was new to Japan, not knowing then what I now know about the psyche of Japanese women. Word got around fast in that small town and pretty soon it was clear that I had to expand beyond the immediate community. The community harem was growing and within three months, I had a steady rotation of seven women, a predictable attrition rate, most of them my students, each with their allotted time. I was living my fantasy, I was living everymans fantasy, at least every sex addicted, yellow fever afflicted mans fantasy, totally immersed in a limitless sea of yellow women.

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MOTHER AND AI Among my roomies many private students, were a royally attractive 50-year-old woman and her 22-year-old daughter, who graced our apartment twice a week for one-hour lessons. Planning a trip to Kyushu he requested my substitution, which I initially resisted, possessing no interest in teaching outside of the language school. My personal time was for rampant sex and naught else. But the mother was a very nubile and beautiful woman, for whom I had been lusting at the gym since my arrival. I had been drooling at her in her swim suit some four times a week, befuddled at how delicious she looked, especially for fifty. Frequently she invited me to join her in the pool which I always declined, as there would have been no way to conceal my leftward pointing excitement. Intent on focusing my attention on her daughter, to whom I had no attraction, I agreed to teach them. But to my dismay, upon my Peters return from his trip they decided that they had no desire to return to him and insisted that I continued being their teacher. Again I protested, but upon making the acquaintance of her older daughter, my protest was transformed to retarded, slobbering, speechless babble. Ai was stunning, a younger version of her mother, nubile, wide child-bearing hips, small waist and extremely steatopygic. Spontaneously I stood at full attention upon seeing her, especially in my favorite bob hairstyle. Upturned and unusually big, her almond eyes glistened and unlike many girls in the countryside, her snow-white teeth were perfectly aligned. Though she spoke as much English as a dolphin, we quickly became acquainted using whatever means of communication possible, including her amazing drawing skills which came in handy, as she expressed most of her ideas in detailed pictures. During her debut at my apartment, I attempted to cook for her, but she insisted on helping and I acquiesced so that I could lust after her while she stood in front of the stove. Giggling in shyness, she tried to turn my head away from staring at her, as never before had she been admired or more accurately, visually defrocked in such a manner. With my tongue on the saliva drenched floor, I strolled over to her and held her from behind, turned her around and began kissing her, sometimes polishing her pearl white teeth with my tongue. I begged

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her to remove her pants and after moments of shy resistance, she allowed me. Then I requested that she simply stand away from me so I could engage in a visual feast. But again, in her chronic shyness she wanted to dim the lights, but I pleaded with her to keep them on as I removed my stretched, starched limb, stroking it as I admired her. This was her first experience with a foreigner. She wanted to touch it, but I refused her and insisted that she stand in position, as I watered the floor. Almost instantly I blew off and she was taken aback by the large quantity, as she dashed for some tissues. Even after arrival, I remained in active mode with no refractory period. So I lead her into my room and immediately removed her bikini. Her overgrowth, through which I waded, concealed surprisingly black lips which I began to devour whilst playing with her breasts. For a full hour I feasted on her. Though her overgrowth was well deserving of a trim, I was preoccupied with introducing her to the foreign object for an entirely new cultural experience, even if it meant ingesting a few strands of hair. After driving her crazy with my mouth, I entered and as with most Japanese women thus far it was like a camel passing through a needles eye. Mecha dekaii, (very big,) she responded. But she was a trooper, receiving me with minimum protest. I asked her in my prehistoric Japanese and sign language what she liked in bed and what would stimulate her arrival, but to my disappointment, at 26 years old, she had never experienced an orgasm but said she liked everything, especially if I am enjoying it. My hardened negritude was up to her belly button where she pointed, indicating thats where it felt like it was. Turning her around exposing her dark lips further heightened my arousal, but again like most Japanese women, she was unable to engage in proper dorsal reception. So I retreated and relieved myself, while planting my lips on her jet black lower lips. Weeks later, Ais mother proposed the unthinkable; that I marry Ai and give her three grandchildren. I was beside myself and found her request impossible to grasp. After many years living in the States, a far more liberal society, it was unfathomable that some white woman in Walnut Creek, California would literally offer me her lily-white daughter and request three mulatto (I know its politically incorrect) grandchildren. But here I was in Japan, in xenophobic, conservative and racist Japan, where a mother is encouraging me, not just to marry her

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daughter, but to produce children with her. Japan is all of the aforementioned, and a country of astounding paradoxes. Not just normal oxymorons, but contradictions which will cause one to do triple and quadruple takes. In Japan, one is bombarded everyday with hyper-etiquette, but in contrast, especially recently it seems that every week or so, one hears about heinous crimes committed on 7-year-olds, sometimes by 11-year-olds. Reports of matricide frequent the newspapers in this tranquil country. Nippon is the land of the bullet train, but no central heating in ones home. Here in Kobe, an international port city which was hit by a devastating earthquake in 1995, I heat my modern apartment with kerosene heaters, which every winter pins me between two choices: death from hypothermia or asphyxiation. There are hitech 3G cell phones with global positioning navigation systems, but classrooms in elementary schools use the same nauseating kerosene heaters I use in my apartment and there were no heaters or air conditioners in the junior high and high schools where I taught. And these are but a few of the numerous paradoxes. As marriage was on my mind upon initially arriving, Ai quickly became a potential candidate. My objective was for her to attend a university, a move discouraged by her parents before my arrival, as even in these modern times in Japan, though many women are indeed attending universities, it is more likely that parents will encourage their sons to obtain a tertiary education, while encouraging their daughters to stop at two years. Such is the case especially in the countryside. She had already attended a two-year college and was now working in retail but - even whore that I am - a paradox in my character is that Im also a feminist. And as such I firmly believe women should be educated to the highest possible level, especially one who I would make a life partner. However, neither Ai nor her mother could understand my alien ideology. Her mother thought me loftily ambitious and that I should not worry about money, as they had had enough, just as long as we produced her three grandchildren. While waiting for Ai at her home one afternoon, the strangest thing occurred. She had gone to work unexpectedly but was due home in a couple hours. Having no intention of waiting for her I began to bid my goodbyes, but her mother in typical Japanese hospitality insisted on preparing me a meal at least. While we sat at the kotatsu - a small low table with an electric heater mounted

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on the underside - she placed her hand on me. Okii desu ne? (Its big isnt it?) Well, I thought, if it werent big before, its definitely big now. But I couldnt say that in Japanese. Instead, I immediately unzipped my pants and allowed her to touch it as it grew before her very eyes. Its too big, she said. Then I placed my palms to her breasts, caressing them beneath her blouse, while kissing her lips. Nervous, lips quivering, she reciprocated awkwardly by slightly opening her mouth, then as she started trembling, I expertly undid her bra and raised her blouse to reveal her still perfect, beautifully shaped mount Fuji shaped peaks, hardly a wrinkle in sight. Like many Japanese women her age, she was well preserved and when I placed my mouth on her nipple she gasped, grew more nervous and began to tell me in her skeletal English that, she had not had sex in twenty years. Hadnt even been touched, not even a hug since 1982. In the West, no sex is grounds for divorce and the only time I had heard any such tale of a sexless marriage, was from a 53-year-old African-American woman in Southern California. Sexy and vivacious like Ais mother, Dorothy looked about forty, with a most beautiful crown of silver hair. Difference being, her husband had been ill for fifteen years, but we met and on a few occasions fulfilled her needs. However, shortly thereafter, having been a Christian and very active in the church, she was eventually consumed by guilt and overpowered by the shame she thought would have followed had her 30-yearold daughter discovered her affair, especially with a man her daughters age. In Dorothys case, sexless for fifteen years but maintaining the marriage was quite understandable. But in Ais mothers case no sex for twenty years while still married to a physically functional man was beyond my grasp especially with her being so show stoppingly libidinous. New to Japan, I had not yet learned of the tendency in marriages here to be sexless, an incredible state of affairs that sets in usually after the obligation of producing the first or second offspring had been fulfilled. Ais mother told me her husband for the last umpteen years returned home drunk in the wee hours of the morning from work, only to be up at six to do it all over again. Indeed this experience was echoed by most of my married female

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students. Japanese society, consequently most Japanese men unfortunately, still subscribe to the notion that the corporation is family, benevolent in nature and therefore of greater significance than real family. The motto might as well be: Until death do we work. The Japanese, whose workforce consists overwhelmingly of men, toil inefficiently long hours. Thirteen hours a day, six days a week is the norm and 16-hour days, seven days a week is not uncommon. In addition, the amount of unpaid overtime is criminal. So prevalent is death from overwork in Japan, karoshi is a dedicated word in the language to describe death through that medium. Until recently, Japanese was the only language with a word specifically for dieing of overwork. However, the Koreans, with a workforce even more inefficient and grueling than that of the Japanese, have since adopted the word to their vernacular. A group of attorneys organized in 1990 to monitor karoshi in Japan, concluded that up to 2004, karoshi annually takes the lives of over ten thousand people, many literally at their desks clutching their keyboards. Among those startling statistics is a former student of mine who worked for a firm where I taught. Only 27 years old at expiration, he had started his death career as company slave at 22, where since his debut there, he had worked 16hour days until his exit by heart attack. A prime example of Japans many paradoxes is a 2004 Office of Economic Development report that Japan had the eleventh most efficient workforce in the world, behind Thailand and Italy. Italy! Who could have a more inefficient workforce than Italy? In Italy, if you mailed a letter to your neighbour just one floor below you, it may take two weeks to arrive, maybe even longer if its being mailed to an upstairs neighbor. More recently, according to a 2006 Japan productivity centres report, after adjustments for price differences, among the 30 member OECD countries, Japan ranked 19th in labor productivity in 2004. Contrary to the Wests perception of Japan as a high-tech haven, is the fact that Japans IT investment grew only 90% between 1995 and 2004, in comparison to over 300% respectively in Britain and the United States during the same period. In stark opposition to the Wests image of Japan, corporations the likes of Toyota and Canon represent a precious small percentage of Japanese firms which are operated efficiently. Westerners arriving here are easily bedazzled by advanced cell phones and heated toilets with built-in bidets, and presume that all of Japan is more technologically advanced than the West. However the

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fact is much of Japans application of technology appears to be for gadgetry as opposed to creating significant improvements in quality of life, or bringing efficiency to the workplace. In the words of Darren Huston, president of Microsoft Japan, There is a tremendous opportunity to increase worker productivity in Japan with Information Technology. Huston noted in July 2007 that many Japanese companies rely on piecemeal collections of personal computers and often have only one or no central server. Weeks later the Japanese government was moved to launch a task force to boost labor productivity, focusing on efficiency through Information Technology. Which begs the question, why do the Japanese work themselves to the grave, or more accurately, to the crematorium? The answer lies in their socialization. Whereas organisms, especially humans and especially Western humans seek to maximize pleasure and minimize pain, the Japanese from thousands of years of programming seek to do the opposite, cultural tendencies on which businesses and political leaders capitalize. During the Manchurian war in the 1930s, the government embarked on a campaign to gain the support of the masses, purporting benevolent family status. Corporations seized on this ideology after the war and the absurd idea of lifetime employment was born. Japanese leaders after World War II, set annual GDP goals and implored the nationals to persevere at all costs to meet these goals. Among the many casualties of this policy was sex within matrimony. A study by the United Nations in 2002 found that Japanese couples had sex an average of 36 times per year, while the American average was a hundred and ten times per year. More recently, the 2005 Durex Sexual Wellbeing Global survey revealed that the Japanese were the worlds least amorous, coming, pun intended, dead last at an average 45 times a year. Greece was the busiest, at one 138 times a year. And when they do get busy, a June 2008 Durex survey which questioned 26,000 participants in 26 countries, revealed that the average Japanese was among the least likely to achieve orgasm. When it comes to the ultra-euphoric act of arrival, only 27% of Japanese experience such fortune. This compared dismally to 66% of the Spanish, Mexicans and South Africans, who were most likely to climax during every sexual act. Only the Chinese and Hong Kongese both at 24% - had a lower propensity for orgasms than the Japanese. The survey continues, while 43% of Japans males almost always