NOVA's Going Down Sans Dental Dam

That's right, friends. The wonderful company with which I signed a year-long employment contract is currently going bankrupt (rumor published by newspapers) and leaving thousands of foreigners to financially flounder about before we get deported. In addition, the higher-ups of the company have just been paid recently after not receiving payment from last month and the poor Japanese staffers haven’t been paid yet at all. Of course, I've just recently moved out of my NOVA-sponsored apartment and into my own cheaper place downtown. This came at a very good time since all of the other employees still in NOVA accommodations are currently being evicted because guess what...NOVA is taking rent money from their paycheck but not paying the rent for the apartment! Wow! Talk about professional!

So...tomorrow is the official Union Strike during which all the teachers belonging to the union will take off of work and file a complaint of prosecution against the company president, hold a press conference and protest for extra media attention. However, this is all happening in Tokyo, 8 hours from me, so I will be enjoying yet another sick day with my roomie Parris watching YouTube movies and eating cheaply-made meals while I wait for job offers and interviews to materialize. But no worries, I've already secured a private student, an additional part time teaching job with children and am also applying to two other part time teaching organizations so I think I have the majority of my bases covered. I just want to be able to pay the rent / gym membership / cell phone / Internet / utilities / food bills. Let's see that happen with my account currently at $200 USD. This should be fun to see how elastic my money can be.

Well I apologize for the un-satirical and realistically bitter blog but I just wanted to let everyone at home know of the wonderful situation of things in Japan but soon, things should get better. I'm forever positive and like to believe that things will just work out for someone as fabulous as myself. At least that's what my self-help cassette tapes tell me to think. Anyway, talk to you all soon and hope not to see you too soon!


Twinkilocks and the Three Bears (CH2)

Chapter 2

As you’ve already noticed, Twinkilocks is not your average hero(ine). Instead of sulking in a state of perpetual woe-is-me-ness, Twinkie mounted that horse once more in search of a proper mentor. The sour date with Barney McClingster didn’t faze him in the least. Twinkie decided to up his ante and employ a new search engine. Maybe a little variety was all he needed. After all, those Craigslist ads were just so vague to him and that whole e-mail business turned out to be way too slow for a twink with such velocity as his.

And so it came that Twinkilocks turned his attention to the all too-conveniently-named Gay.com. A few months back on a trip to Ibiza, Twinkie’s post-op cruise acquaintance, Julie, had turned him on to the wonder and awe of the gay-dot-com realm. Before meeting Julie, Twinkie had spent two dateless nights upon the cruise ship meandering from activity to activity, trying to strike up conversation around the shuffleboard court and failing miserably. At such a tender time in his life, Twinkilocks just didn’t feel very confident around all the other gays. He had just come out of the color-coordinated walk-in closet and tread very lightly on his newfound faggot feet just like an innocent baby calf. Walking aimlessly around the deck, feigning interest in the darkened horizon ahead reminded him of his high school days when he’d walk carefully around the high school gymnasium trying not to be noticed by the girls waiting to be asked to dance. He’d never felt such pressure in his life. As if he were obligated to make those cows feel loved! Niucca, please! Even at fourteen years of age, Twinkie knew that he was not about to entertain any of those hags’ ideas of a possible romance with such a svelte stud as himself. Besides, he was busy watching the captain of the wrestling team grind on the dance floor with his girlfriend, oscillating his hips ever so maliciously as if he knew that Twinkilocks’ eyes were glued to his pelvis, secretly envisioning it clad in a purple and gold singlet. Just as most gays can commiserate, Twinkilocks’ high school years weren’t his finest and being reminded of them wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences.

And so, as if sent by God herself, Julie appeared to Twinkie one afternoon on the deck as the ship cruised along the coast of Morocco. Julie elegantly eclipsed Twinkie’s sunlight and as he glanced up from his upholstered chaise lounge, he knew that his life had just been changed forever, without a lick of his own consent.

Julie had just completed her transition into womanhood and decided that as a reward for the endless months of hormone therapy and psychiatric evaluations, it was time to flaunt everything that deserved flaunting. She was very proud of her new and fairly voluptuous breasts, even if they were pill-induced. She pushed them together so violently in her mandarin-orange tankini top that you’d think there should’ve been someone nearby with a bottle of Korbel awaiting a Mimosa. Luckily, Twinkilocks wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the bodacious melons and the two began to converse like old swim-club cronies. Just as Twinkie mentioned that he had been having a hard time socializing on the boat, Julie asked him why he hadn’t tried the website.

“Are you serious? It’s really called Gay.com?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought all gay websites had to have some clever name that merely suggested homosexuality.”
“No, baby, it’s pretty straight to the point.”

And so no sooner did Twinkie jump up from his lounge and toss on a sarong, was he back in his room, logging in to Gay.com for the first and most certainly, not the last time in his life. As the home page loaded slowly on his nautical Internet connection, Twinkilocks could hear the angels rejoicing in his head. How could I not have known?! He was allowed to post a picture of himself and view photos of other guys all over the world while simultaneously chatting with all of the guys in one of thousands of chat rooms categorized by sexual fetishes, location and/or ethnicity! Twinkilocks was practically creaming himself before he even finished setting up his account, finally deciding upon JaiLBaiT69 as his username. Because he didn’t have any of his professional headshots with him at sea, Twinkie quickly snapped a classic elevated-camera-big-doe-eyes-equals-innocent-mischief picture of himself. Totally MySpace. The picture was only posted next to his username for two minutes when Twinkie started receiving private message after private message, soliciting him for sexual favors, decadent weekend jaunts with salt-and-peppered businessmen and offers of cold hard cash for his presence at various high school reunions and lacrosse game after-parties.

“Is this really happening?” Twinkie asked no one out loud. He couldn’t believe all this instantaneous action that he had been missing for so long. This just couldn’t be true!

The messages just kept popping up in front of his eyes, which were glazing over with weiner-wishing wonder. They were filling up his screen so quickly that he barely had a chance to respond to all the various suitors from all over the world, all wanting just a morsel of Twinkie for themselves.

GaryG1972 – 35 – Austin, TX: Hey, JB! What’s goin’ on?

AzzMaster – 44 – Wichita, KS: u lookin?

HairyPitsnFeet – 59 – Hackensack, NJ: hey, what u into? u hairy?

All of these men were way too forward for Twinkie’s liking, not to mention a bit too raunchy for the type of mentor that he had in mind. Moreover, all of their pictures were of the dirty ex-boyfriend kind. You know the type: the dirty pose with next to nothing on that’s at such a distance and angle that it couldn’t have been taken with a timer. Let’s not kid ourselves now. There’s no way a camera can be positioned above a bed to catch a guy in bird’s eye view while he’s on the receiving end of a golden shower. Some guys do actually get turned on by these pictures, but Twinkilocks is not one to get excited by a fantasy previously shared by two other men in a relationship. He’s definitely not into sharing, especially when it comes to lovers. Twinky likes his men like his party cups: solo. Corny, right? Well so is this story, so shut the fuck up.

After some time ignoring certain guys and reviewing others’ profiles, Twinkie decided to give it a rest. None of the guys that were talking to him were cute, not to mention remotely near his hometown, so why should he even bother getting excited? Just then, as things tend to conveniently and miraculously happen in tales such as this one, a new message popped onto his screen like a Bubbalicious explosion of jism. Twinkilocks read with eyes as wide as Jeff Palmer’s money-maker.

Swinger77 – 30 – Metropolis suburbs: Hey stud, wanna chat?

Twinkilocks was absolutely elated. Thirty was old enough to have a decent amount of wisdom, right? Plus, he happened to be from the same area so a date was definitely possible. What was even better was that his screen name suggested that he was into swings and must really love to go to the park, so he must be a real fun guy! Twinkie sure couldn’t believe his good fortune.

JaiLBaiT69: Hey! Sure! What’s going on?
Swinger77: NM man. pretty bored here… figured id see whos online from home.
JaiLBaiT69: What do you mean from home? You mean ur not from outside Metropolis anymore?
Swinger77: no no. i am from there. im just not there now. My friends took me on this stupid cruise and im bored out of my mind.
JaiLBaiT69: A cruise? Where are u right now?
Swinger77: well the captain said we passed morocco today so were probably somewhere north of there by now, idk.

HOLY SHIT! Twinkie must’ve spent his entire past life helping old women cross busy streets to have such uncanny luck as this. There’s no way this could be happening! But of course, it was. The two guys were absolutely dumbstruck with such a random meeting and agreed to hook up for a date later that night at the ship’s piano bar.

To prepare for his impromptu boat-date, Twinkie decided to spend the rest of the day in the ship’s spa. He figured he’d start off with a nice full-body mud bath, followed by a rejuvenating cucumber-mint facial, a full mani/pedi and of course a deep tissue massage provided by none other than Hans, the ship’s Swiss masseur. Conveniently enough, Twinkie had spotted Hans last night canoodling with one of the deck hands during the unusually raucous round of Blow Job Bingo on the upper deck. Who knew all the ship’s gays would’ve gotten out of hand at such an innocent activity? Anyway, with Hans’ not-exactly-limp-wristed-status confirmed, Twinkilocks was pretty sure he could squeeze a happy ending out of his 50-minute massage. All he needed to do was coerce our blonde and bronzed Swissy into opening as wide as he did last night.

Fortunately, everything worked out in the spa for our protagonist and he was able to dress for his date with a refreshed mind and body, having fully rid his corps of toxins and pretty much all his semen as well. Hans, on the other hand, would have to lay off the mixed nuts for the next few days for fear of a protein overdose.
Twinkie made sure to slip his inches into his novelty Ginch Gonches and then threw on his favourite white linen barely-buttonable shirt. Very Ricky Martin circa 1999. But Twinky could pull it off due to the innumerable hours he spent on the ship’s clothing-optional deck in the past few days. That shirt paired with sleek khaki Bermuda shorts and his brown leather mandals from H&M made our young yet timelessly stylish Twinky a fashionable force to be reckoned with.

It was nearing 11pm and Twinky decided he’d better get a move on if he was going to gracefully walk the line between fashionably late and a possible no-show. The last thing he wanted was for Corey (Swinger77) to think that he stood him up, especially not since they were hometown heroes. Twinky just wanted to make sure he didn’t come off as uber-desperate and show up exactly on time. Only a few minutes later, Twinky made his prerequisite Cinderella-at-the-ball-esque entrance and sauntered towards the bar once he was finished signing autographs and kissing babies.

He could tell he had found Corey as soon as he laid eyes on the over-sized lapels of his 70s-inspired salmon dinner-jacket. Corey was indeed 30ish as could be seen from his youthful hairline and bleached faux-bouffant, playing the part of the lovechild of Zack Morris and Ross Gellar. As Twinky approached Corey, he noticed his foot shaking incessantly under the bar, making the bowling ball bag at the bottom of his stool jiggle like Bill Cosby’s career-saver. So he was a little nervous, not a problem. After all, who wouldn’t be nervous to meet a catch like Twinky?

“Well, you must be Corey…I’m Twinkilocks but you can call me Twinkilocks. It’s a pleasure.”
“Oh, um, hello! Yeah! Yeah! Great to meet you too, man! Let’s get a, um, let’s get a table, ok?!”

As Corey grabbed his bowling bag and led the way to the restaurant, Twinky joked to himself, “Oh my, he has a lot of energy. He must be carrying around a kilo of fresh Colombian coffee in that bag! Haha!” Well, Twinky was at least half-right. There was something Colombian in there.

Twinky hadn’t even sat down before Corey was pouring them both large glasses of water and simultaneously lighting a Newport.

“So, I mean, uh, it’s great that we’re both from, uh (sniff) the same area because you know, if uh, if we uh (sniff) hit it off then it would be totally convenient to meet up back home sometime.” (Takes a quick drag from his cigarette, barely inhaling before exhaling, more out of habit and roughly used his sleeve to wipe his nose.) “So, yeah, um, what do you do back home, anyway? Cuz I know a lot of people in the business and I’m always (sniff sniff) networking and shit, so I know lots of people in the business and I’m pretty good at networking so if you ever need any, you know, (sniff) whatever you might need, I could probably get it for you. Just let me know like a couple hours in advance ‘cuz some of my contacts, I mean friends, don’t like to be bothered or rushed when they’re, uh, working, yeah working (sniff) so just give me like a couple hours and some cash and I can like, totally hook you up, with, you know, whatever you’re looking for.”

Twinky was confused but still interested. If he had known Corey had a cold, he would’ve brought him some chicken soup to help him with his sniffles. But since Corey was supposedly so good at networking, Twinky thought he could probably get any old chicken noodle soup delivered to him any time he wanted. “Wow! Networking is so cool! I bet he knows so many interesting and influential people back in Metropolis!” he thought.

“Wow! Networking is so cool, Corey! I bet you know so many interesting and influential people back in Metropolis!”
“Well, you know (sniff) uh, I don’t like to brag but if you ever have a, um, problem or anything, I’m the guy, to uh, go to, uh, I’m your go-to guy.”
“Oh, gee! Really?!”

Twinky decided to move in early and even though the drinks hadn’t even come yet, he moved his foot across to Corey’s underneath the table but instead came into contact with his bowling bag.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I just kicked your bag over. Here let me fix it for you.”

As Twinky glanced underneath the table to place the bag back upright, he was greeted with a huge cloud of white powder. He must’ve kicked the bag harder than he thought to have brought up that much dust!

“Oh my! I’m so sorry, Corey. I kicked your bag so hard that all the talc came off of your bowling ball! Or is that just your gym bag? I like to use baby powder after I shower too. It makes me feel so clean and innocent, especially after a busy day in the locker room.”

“Uh, yeah (sniff) yeah. That’s my gym bag. I reeeaaallllyyy like baby powder too. I just can’t stand, uh, to sweat. Hehe. You know? I just gotta, um, keep dry at all, uh, times, you know?”
“Totally, Corey. I just hate being all wet and icky! Ewww!”
“Hey, uh, you know what? Why don’t we just skip dinner and do some shots and sing some karaoke, huh? (sniff) What do you think about, uh, doing some shooters and, uh, singin’ some karaoke? Huh? Yeah?”
“Um, yeah ok. I guess that’s alright. I can always just heat up a South Beach micro-meal later. Alright! Bring on the shots! I want a Red-headed slut!”
“Yeah, uh, sure man. (sniffs and signals waiter) Two shots of liquid cocaine and one shot of, uh, what did you want again? Red-handed whore?”
“No, a red-headed slut.”
“Yeah, one of those. Thanks babe.” Corey slipped a fifty in the waiter’s dangerously-low front pocket and slapped his ass as he walked away to fetch the shots. “Good kid, that guy. I, uh (sniff) I uh, networked for him the other night. He was, uh, feelin’ really low so I, um, you know, helped him raise his spirits, you know? Gave him a little pick-me-up, right?”
What a humanitarian, this guy! “Aww, really? That’s so nice of you, Corey. He must’ve really liked whatever you gave him because I just saw him walk away with a big boner! Haha!”
“Well, yeah, um, that’s what coke… coca-cola does to you, you know man? Hehe. Yeah. That’s exactly what coca-cola does to the, uh, body. (sniff) All that fuckin’ sugar, you know? Just pops that dick right up! Hehe.”

Just then, as Twinky was beginning to get an actual inkling of what was going on, Corey suddenly snagged an electronic device out of the back pocket of a passing waiter and slammed it down on the table.

“It’s karaoke time!” he screamed at a level just high enough to make Twinky uncomfortable in this low-key piano bar. Corey grabbed his fork and started to stab unforgivingly at the tiny keypad, making his selection as quickly as a virgin at the Bunny Ranch. Just as soon as Corey threw the fork back on the table, the intimate soundtrack of the evening abruptly stopped and the sound of a shoddy stereo system hummed slowly to life as 5 separate TV screens around the dining room lit up to announce the title and table number of the upcoming entertainment. An automated spotlight spun on its rusty hinges to soak poor Twinky’s table in a horrible fluorescent glow, which Twinky feared was going to make his complexion appear blotchy and un-tropical. However, he caked enough foundation on earlier that all the audience saw was an unevenly-bronzed youth sitting next to a jittery man dressed younger than his age and being handed a wireless microphone from a very reluctant waiter.

However, as bad as the scene did indeed seem, Twinky was momentarily relieved when he heard the first chords of “Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady” grace the air. “How bad could this really be?” Twinky thought to himself, “After all, it is my favorite song. If anything, I can always join in to duet and cover the harmonies.”

Unfortunately, it looked as if Corey would need no help at all. He confidently got up from the table and the spotlight followed him to the makeshift stage, lagging mechanically and creating an aura of amateurism around the performance. Twinky was grateful to be out of the spotlight but still craved the attention, as is the case with most gorgeous and modest gay men. Suddenly, Corey turned a dial on the machine adjacent to the stage and the tempo increased to 160bpm and Corey had never looked happier. He sped through the entire song faster than K-Fed’s career and the audience was absolutely shocked he was able to impeccably enunciate each and every lyric of the song. Corey cow-towed rather ostensibly while the audience applauded numbly, still not quite believing what they had just seen. Not a sniffle had interrupted his song and it was all over in a matter of a minute and thirty seconds.

After handing the mic back to a nearby waiter, Corey reappeared at the table with a boy that couldn’t have been any older than Twinky.

“Oh, um, hello. I’m Twinkilocks. And who might you be?”
Corey interjected, “Dylan and I just discovered that we have some mutual friends back in, uh, Metropolis and I thought it would (sniff) be nice if we all got to know, um, each other a bit more, you know, intimately.”

Twinky was a little wary of the situation but decided to go with the flow to see if Corey was really worth the trouble. Dylan looked like the kind of guy who had seen his share of trouble. He was dressed in a dirty fedora with a worn, vintage AX t-shirt and stone-rinsed, acid-washed jeans dyed to look new again. Twinky was not about to be fooled by this boy. He knew that Dylan shopped at Marshall’s and the only expensive thing he owned were his cheek implants, which were probably a gift from a rich, businessman trick anyway.

Dylan pulled up a chair and sat unnecessarily close to Corey’s side of the small table. With one hand under the table placed at a questionable angle towards Corey’s crotch, Dylan pulled a moist-looking roach from his crumpled pack of KOOL menthols and proceeded to light up in the middle of the restaurant.

“Um, excuse me, Dylan. I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke your reefer here in the restaurant. They have laws about that even if we are at sea.”
“Fuck off, Twonky. I’ll do what I want. You don’t know me.”
“Hold on one hot-fucking-second, you bitch! You can curse at me all you fucking want but there is no way you will ever again utter the word you just used against me. I am a lean, fabulous and Adonis-like faggot from Metropolis and you better fuckin’ recognize!”
“Whoah, um, Twinky,” Corey interrupted, “Take it, uh, easy, ok, man? (sniff) How bout we all skip the drinks and go back to, um, my room and, uh, soak in my hot tub to, um, cool off a bit. Yeah? What d’ya think, uh, boys?”
“Sure, let’s go before this twonk gets us kicked out for screaming like a bitch,” Dylan politely added.

With that line, Twinky leapt over the dinner table, knocking over the candles, drinks and silverware. He landed directly on top of Dylan and started pulling his badly colored hair out and scratching his face up just like he learned from his girl, Sho’nuff-Diamante, back in Metropolis. Corey stood over the two boys, pouring candle wax on his nipples and masturbating through the hole in his trousers, which apparently didn’t serve as a pocket.

When all was said and done, a team of waiters, specifically trained in gay combat, had separated Twinky from the lifeless body and discarded the corpse over the starboard railing. Dylan’s ID had proven that he wasn’t even a legal passenger aboard the ship and therefore was not anyone’s problem and Twinky was exonerated from all charges.

Unfortunately, date number two didn’t go as well as Twinky had hoped and Corey had stopped bothering him after he refused to have a three-way with one of the G-S.W.A.T. guys in the lobby fountain. But the tide is always changing in the life of a gay. When the cruise returned to Metropolis, Twinky disembarked, sad to think that the site that had brought him such wonder and awe had now disappointed him. But, the mood quickly turned around as Twinky passed one of his favorite bars, Hole, on his way back to his apartment. Tonight, hole was having an End-Of-Summer party sponsored by some website called Manhunt.net.

“Manhunt.net? That sounds ridiculous. I am sooo over all that internet dating shit anyway.” Twinky continued on his way home but one block later said to himself, “Well, it’s not like I’m doing anything tonight…”

to be continued…


Reisurely Activities in Japan

After having lived in Japan for little over a month now and becoming comfortable with my job and my surroundings, I’ve been able to enjoy a little of what old Nippon has to offer its denizens in the way of leisure.

Firstly, I got back on the proverbial bucking bronco and joined a new and semi-overpriced gym here in Osaka. Now I’m used to the wonderful ‘mom & pop’ feel of the YMCA back in Jersey where it’s very laid back, the towels are a comforting pea green color and the machines haven’t been serviced in about 5 years. That’s just what I like. I guess I find a sort of comfort in mediocrity and not trying too hard. So the evil, new gym is located about a ten minute walk from work and it’s on the 6th floor of the shopping complex called Ame Mura, which of course, is short for America Mall. I do not know who does the translation for these people. I just know they’re usually wrong. So to get to Ame Mura, you have to walk through the trendy shopping district of Shinsaibashi. The streets are lined with hundreds of small, overpriced boutiques that sell typically Americanized fashion, or at least what the Japanese consider to be American fashion. All the stores sport signs for Hollister or Abercrombie and have mannequins on the sidewalk dressed in ripped jeans, converse sneakers, a trucker hat and of course, the typical dirty-looking and overpriced faded, vintage tee. Outside these stores and in several courtyards are all of the Harajuku girls and boys who basically sit or stand around and try to be noticed in their fashionable attire. Who are they trying to be noticed by, you ask? I have no fucking clue. They’re pretty much all dressed equally eccentrically so I can’t imagine anyone really being impressed other than a foreigner like myself, who happens to view the entire things as pretty absurd. But then again, at least they’re not smoking pot and killing little girls on bicycles.

So if the neighborhood is as uber-posh as I’m describing it, you can only imagine how faux-ritzy the gym must be. First of all, everyone gets way too dressed up just to walk in the door. But this is common in everyday life, people being ridiculously overdressed for mundane activities, so in comparison, getting dressed to go to the gym is perfectly reasonable. I mean, you’re going to be seen by easily at least 200 people walking there, taking the train and passing through Shinsaibashi so you should probably get out your red carpet gown. Once you’re finally in the gym, there’s a complex system of getting yourself started, JUST LIKE EVERYWHERE ELSE! God forbid I ever have an easy time doing anything but wiping my ass in this country. They’d make you wipe to and fro and side to side if they could only find a way to monitor it with a high enough level of customer service.

So when step out of the elevator, you enter the main lobby, which overlooks the humungous sky-lit pool on the top floor of the mall. I give my ID card to one of the many attendants at the desk, all of whom are dressed in the same uniform of sneakers, grey shorts and this blue jersey-type thing that’s not very flattering for the females but since when are females important in this society anyway? After I hand in the ID card, there’s usually some problem with something that I can’t understand even after it’s explained to me so I just ask them if the gym is open and if it’s OK for me to go. So eventually, they just get sick of trying to explain things to me and just let me go. Ignorance really is bliss sometimes. But before I go into the locker room I have to swipe my ID card through another card reader for attendance purposes I guess. Then I grab a towel and head to the locker, in which it is prohibited to wear your shoes, just like the fitting rooms in department stores. So I walk through the beautifully floored and lacquered locker room and choose a locker. Once at the locker, I put my ID card in a little slot in the door, which releases a numbered key from the door. This key is on a little blue bracelet that I wear at all times while at the gym and it’s a bit cumbersome but at least I don’t have to pay for it. So once that’s all set and I’m changed, I am ready to finally begin exercising. No! Wait! I still don’t have my shoes on.

I have to collect my shoes from among the mountain of everyone else’s shoes at the door, a totally inefficient system, and walk with shoes in hand to the stretching mats opposite the pool. After stretching sans shoes, I can finally tie myself up and get on a treadmill. Fortunately, my gym, which is called Tokyu Oasis: Club West, (uppity, right?) uses the same equipment as the YMCA so all the treadmill’s buttons are written in Japanese but are in the same place. So I run like I fucking own the place. Every time someone passes I fiddle with the buttons as if to say, “Duh, of course I can read Kanji. Do I look like an idiot to you?” Most of my life here is about fooling people into thinking I actually know what’s going on. I do pretty well at this considering my absolute Alicia Silverstone status.

After a sweaty half hour of treadmill, it’s time to move on to the weights. This is where I was first humiliated on my first day at the gym last week. Apparently this gym is all about ego because on each and every piece of weight equipment (smith press, leg press, etc.) there are two stickers on the weights, a red circle and a blue circle. Much to my own chagrin, I only realized that these stickers refer to recommended weight amounts for men (blue) and women (red) after about two days of using said machines. So, I was all over that awesome red dot because the blue was a bit too heavy for me after taking a month off from working out in any way whatsoever. And so I can just imagine how John Wayne I must’ve looked huffing and puffing away trying to lift those red dotted weights on my first few days. “Rook at the pretty rady rifting his weights!” They all must’ve had a good chuckle about that one later on in the tea room.

So needless to say, weightlifting is quite a humorous and humbling experience in this country, for me at least. Anyway, on my most recent trip to the gym, I was on the treadmill, which looks across the open plaza (6 floors down) and faces the pool area across the plaza. So basically, I have complete surveillance of the pool and its swimmers at all times while I’m running, which really does the trick when it comes to distracting me from counting the minutes. Not only do I get to watch all the funny aqua-cise classes but I also get to scope out all the J-boys in their skivvies. So the other day, these two ridiculously toned guys come strutting out of the locker room, yes, strutting, and they make their way over to the lounge chair area where they are in plain view of my treadmill. They are both at least 6 feet tall, evenly tanned, wearing tight blue jammers and have at most 6% body fat. As if I wasn’t sweating enough already, my perspiration levels quickly spiked as my interest in the countdown clock suddenly waned. Now of course, the more handsome of the two boys decides that before his swim, he needs to take a few pictures for god knows what. I’m not sure how popular MySpace is over here but I need to get his fucking user name. So he hands his buddy a digital camera and proceeds to pose against the glass window with his ass directly in front of me. I’m pretty positive he had no idea I was watching as intently as I was, but at that moment, I could swear he was posing for my eyes only. Moving on, he takes a few pictures and after each one dutifully reviews it giving it the thumbs up for immediate uploading or the thumbs down due to over-smiling or bulge positioning. I thought this was bad enough and I was all ready to go get my frustration out in the locker room and skip my work out, but no, he was not finished yet. Mister super model decides to take his jammers off and reveal his skimpy-wimpy hot pink Speedo underneath. Yeah, I tripped on the treadmill and had to support myself with the railings for a few steps until I regained my composure. A pink Speedo I was definitely not expecting. I wasn’t complaining but I definitely wasn’t expecting it. So of course, there he goes with another round of pictures with even more suggestive poses this second time and I. AM. DROOLING. I mean, come on. I can only take so much before someone gets hurt.

Oh, by the way, these guys were completely straight. Behavior like this is perfectly normal in Japan and guys are dressed as prettily as girls are and if guys are possibly bisexual, girls get turned on like crazy. The idea of two guys getting it on is such a hot image for females that there are entire floors of comic book stores dedicated to man-on-man comic book action. And the customers are all girls, which is crazy in my opinion. But on the other hand, if two guys would ever decide o have a relationship, the world would probably end. Being gay is so hush-hush here. One explanation I received is as follows. Men are so important in this society and they completely overpower women; women being subservient and generally of a lower class. So, having two men get together is like seeing two Zeus’ fuck each other. It’s comparable to the Britney-Madonna kiss or Cher going on tour with Kelly Clarkson. It’s a meeting of the two highest forms of being which results in an orgasm of power and forbidden sin. However, these two supreme beings could never ever form a copasetic relationship because society has such strict views against homosexuality, even more so in areas outside Osaka. So, two guys are hot to watch but never meant to work. Fortunately, this is not the case in the rest of the world and we have Will & Grace to thank for that.

So as we have seen, the Japanese just love to be without their clothes, whether they’re wearing pink Speedos, frolicking around the locker room in dainty towels or hanging out in Spa World. Yes, you read that right. Spa World. My roommate Parris and I recently visited this wondrous location because August is discount month and we just had to do it at least once. Spa World is an 8-floor amusement park for the gluttonous in the middle of downtown Osaka. A place like this would never fly in America but the Japanese are just bonkers about it. Here we go.

Upon entering Spa World, you must deposit your shoes in a locker and go barefoot from here on. I hope you got your pedi done because you are on fucking display. Next, you must buy your ticket from the vending machine, which is not in English so it’s kind of a guessing game / do what the person in front of you does. It’s only 1,000 Yen for about 5 hours, a great price, so I’m not that put off just yet. I AM put off when I pass the beetle store. In the middle of this lush lobby with Corinthian pillars and plush carpeting is this ridiculous area where this old guy is selling scarab beetles. Yeah. Big, shiny, black and horned scarab beetles. WHAT THE FUCK! I’m trying to relax and go to a spa, not to steal the fucking lamp from Jafar. Who the hell sells scarab beetles at a spa?! Ugh! So Parris and I bypass the beetle booth and head toward the turnstile, yeah a spa turnstile, where this little girl in a smock takes our tickets and replaces them with green, electronic wristbands. From now on, if we need to buy anything in Spa world, we charge it to our wristband and pay at the end. Very smart idea, I thought.

They do this principally because you do not wear clothes in Spa World. I did not know this when I signed up for the trip. I thought I’d get a big robe with slippers and I could get a mud bath in a private room or maybe even a hot tub with four or five people. I was very wrong. Once, you’ve been wristbanded, you move upstairs to your respective floor, separated between men and women. That day, the men happened to be on the European floor and the women were on the Asian floor. I have no idea what the differences between the floors are but I was just happy to finally be doing something that wasn’t Asian. Parris and I get upstairs to the locker room where we have to get yet another locker for our clothes and we change into these little warm up suits that are comprised of blue, scrub-material Capri pants and a blue and white, striped barber’s shirt that fits me like a circus tent. So there we are, with our wristbands and ninja suits, ready to enter the wonder that is Spa World.

We walk about ten feet and realize that we have to get naked already. Not two seconds away from the locker room is a bin of used ninja outfits and beyond that is the entrance to the men’s spa where clothes are not allowed to be worn. So why the hell did they give us these outfits to wear if we can’t even wear them?! As usual, things would probably make more sense in this country if I could just read a fucking sign every once in a while. So we strip down to our tangerine face cloths that can either be used to dry your face, cool your head or worn as a sarong. I chose the sarong route and boy were we a sight to be seen. Not a week earlier, I had gone to the beach and gotten this horrible burn on my stomach and chest which was in this intricate rash shape, making it even worse to look at. So, just that morning I was beginning to peel and there I was at Spa World, flaky, red and naked. Not the best of situations. I mean, I get stared at to begin with just because I’m white. I don’t need extra reasons to be looked at. Plus, I had Parris with me who is, for all intents and purposes, a black man. So as soon as we entered the spa, people’s heads were spinning to check out Fire-crotch and Tripod. We were quite entertaining and this is the kind of attention that I was not enjoying. I couldn’t even reply with a biting quip or anything cool like that. I just had to smile and try act as if I wasn’t horribly bothered by all the nakedness.

Little boys were running around completely naked, jumping and splashing in the hot tubs next to men of all ages and no one was worried about this. Apparently, pedophilia is not a thing to be feared or talked about in Japan so people just let their children frolic freely about the spa. This shit would never work in America! There would be signs that kids of a certain age need to be accompanied by adults and certain rooms would be ‘kids only’ and others would be family rooms and all sorts of other rules. Plus, there would be “caution wet floor, cuidado piso mojado” signs all over the place. The whole building is covered in ceramic tile, slick from people’s soggy footprints. I mean, this place was a lawsuit waiting to happen. But hey, if it’s working for them, they should enjoy it. But when some old man slips and falls on top of some little boy’s no-no spot, don’t come complaining to me. I warned you.

There are all sorts of different rooms in Spa World. There is a salt room where you can step on piles of salt (WEIRD) and a fish room where you can sit in a glass-bottom hot tub surrounded by fish tanks on all sides. That was a little strange for me but I still enjoyed it. Another fun room is the Greek room with three different kinds of baths all in a black-lit room with starts projected on the domed ceiling. Each bath has a different temperature and a huge potato-sac tea bag floating in it filled with different herbs like mint, jasmine and lavender giving each bath a distinct color and aroma. Verrrrry relaxing was the Greek room. You can also go in the outdoor hot tub with a blazing hot waterfall on one side of it. This is not refreshing and I did not enjoy this room. Also, my sunburn was quite visible in this area and people were not ashamed to stare rudely and blatantly. It’s unfortunate that giving the finger has no significance in this country because I was flipping the bird at so many of them that day. My favorite room was probably the Paul Bunyan room which consisted of log cabin saunas and log bridges over ice cold baths. So, we sat inside this horribly stifling sauna for a good three minutes because that was all I could take and immediately ran into the startlingly cold bath. I stayed in that bath for a good twenty minutes. Partly because I was enjoying the cooling sensation and partly because the shrinkage was so severe that I just couldn’t be asked to walk around like that.

After that, Parris and I decided to call it quits. We had been naked long enough and my skin was becoming oniony. To this day, I am still peeling and still pink and it’s been about two weeks since going to the beach. So I’m going to end this blog here for now. I have go re-apply and check my Johnson & Johnson stocks anyway. Domo arigato gozaimasu!


Working for the Man

So I’ve started my job teaching English at Nova. Now, it’s not exactly what you’d imagine. The two main things that I need for my job are a lanyard and a McDonald’s drive-thru head-set. Sounds like a fabulous outfit, huh? Just imagine when I pair those with my frumpily pleated work pants and a dress shirt so moist from the walk to work that even the “dry creaning” guy cringes upon seeing it delivered every week.

Basically, I’m teaching English to people all over Japan via this antiquated web cam system called Ginganet. Who named it, I do not know. But I sure hope the poor guy’s name wasn’t Ginga. That would really suck for him on the playground.

I feel the best way to describe my job is to take you through a day in the life of Biru. (That’s Japanese for Bill because the fucking riceheads can’t pronounce Ls to save their atomically-shortened lives.) I’m not bitter, I swear. Moving on, I start my workday at 5:30am on Sundays and Mondays. My alarm jars me awake and after about 11 hits of the snooze button, I’m out of bed by 6:00. I take a nice cold shower using no hot water whatsoever. This isn’t to punish me in some sort of Buddhist manner but just to cool me off as I have no window in my room and as the sun rises, it brings with it about 90 degrees of pure hate every morning. So by the time I roll off my futon mattress and onto the tatami mat floor, I’m already sweating. After my ice cold shower, I shave. This never happened back in Jersey. I’d estimate that I shaved every 4 or 5 days with only one electric moustache touch-up every 2 days. I was perfectly comfortable with that. A little stubble never hurt anyone and shaving is such a fucking chore. However, the company handbook clearly states that only fully-grown-in facial hair is acceptable and any stages before that are strictly prohibited. Translation: if you don’t already have a lumberjack beard, now is not the time to start growing one. Unfortunately, that means I have to shave every single fucking morning or risk being sent home for stubble. Nova is Japanese for Nazi.

After shaving, I think about completely shirking the ironing process but instead I haphazardly run the semi-warm iron over the closest pair of dress pants I can grab while I mentally plan out which of my 7 ties I’ll match with the outfit. Some shirts just do not have a tie that can support their color and I just don’t know what to do. The dress code states that a knotted tie is a must but I can’t just not wear three of my dress shirts. I didn’t bring them all the way across the planet to hang in my room all year. They’re just too hip to be omitted from the daily rotation. So, I think some tie shopping may be in order soon. Anyway, after I’m dressed, it’s 6:30 and I’m already running late. So I pack up my bag making sure I have the following items: apartment key, iPod, sunglasses (tigers optional), cigarettes (for the much needed smoke breaks), money, train pass, lanyard, head-set and a train book. The train book is one of the most important items in my artillery as it lets me immerse myself in a comfortable world of fiction during the 20-minute train ride to work and ignore all of the “look, it’s a white man” stares I get. However, before the train is the daily stop at the one of fifteen (no exaggeration) vending machines on the way during my 10-minute walk to the station. Seriously, there is at least one vending machine at least every 100 meters and that’s downplaying it. Usually, they’re grouped in 2s or 3s with one being for coffee and green tea, one for Gatorade-like sport drinks and soda and the third for cigarettes. The Japanese are an extremely automated society. So I grab my steel, not aluminum, can of iced coffee made by Suntory Boss. Suntory Boss: Suntory is the boss of everyone since 1992. No lie, that’s the company’s motto. Cocky, right? I love it. So I got my coffee and I’m on the train and everything’s goin’ fine as long as I catch the early train. If not, I’ll be extra sweaty for my arrival at the office. I exit the train, push my way through the platform up to the main station. Now, I work at the Namba Station which is comparable to the 42nd Street Station in NYC. It’s fucking crowded. In the station, not even above ground, is an entire mall called the Namba Walk. I have to walk half the length of the mall (ten minutes) underground in order to reach my building which is adjacent to the Osaka City Air Terminal. I don’t know why it’s named that, there is a train station there. There is no helipad or runway there. Like I’ve said before. Japan is ridiculous. Maybe they sell air somewhere there, but I doubt it.

Anyway, I walk through the mall, past the art gallery, which consists of 25 paintings on the wall of the mall, and into my building. Once in the elevator, it’s a race to see who can put their lanyard on the fastest. On the company lanyard is my ID card that grants me entrance to every single door in the company. I mean every single door. You can’t get anywhere without this ID card. You need it to get to the cubicle. You need it to get into the smoking room. You need it to fucking wipe your ass. But that’s really only if you run out of TP. Just check before you sit down and you won’t have to bother with the ID card. The first employee to get their lanyard on shoves to the front of the elevator car and waits earnestly for the doors to open up to the 15th floor where the time cards are located. To get into the time card room, you have to swipe your card and for some reason, people treat it like an honor to be the one to swipe so there’s this little race to the door, but no one really acknowledges it. It’s just one of those things everyone does but never mentions. Anyway, if you win the race, you really actually lose because then you wind up having to hold the door for everyone in back of you and that just sucks, especially if you’re late. So I take my time. After I clock in, I have to check one of 22 television screens for my booth assignment for the day. The screens advise me of my booth number, the level of the student I’ll be teaching and what floor I’m on. I usually have to head up to the 16th floor to teach and once I find my cubicle, I’m ready to go. This is at 7:30am.

Exactly on the half hour, the bell rings, which signifies the beginning of the 40-minute lesson. The bell is the classic Bing Bong Bing Bong…Bong Bong Bing Bong. Then it repeats. Apparently, this tune is used all over the country as the signal for anything to begin whether it be a class, a workday, a meeting, etc. Even the trains use a little Mr. Belding xylophone system whenever they make an announcement over the loudspeaker. It’s a little childish but whatever they need not to go crazy, I’ll let them have it.

Side note: Japanese people go crazy almost every day. It is not uncommon at all to be late to work because of a “jumper.” At least once a month, according to multiple sources, some ‘salaryman’ (pronounced ‘sarariman’ and it means anyone who works in an office) takes it upon himself to commit suicide because he’s either overworked or just lonely. So, he files off his fingerprints, pulls out his teeth and jumps in front of the subway train of his choice, usually during the morning rush. They maim themselves so badly beforehand in order to die anonymously to save their family from public shame but seriously, if you stop coming to work, someone’s gonna notice and call your house. So I think it’s just for dramatic effect. If the train actually kills the sarariman, the removal team is called to clean it up and the whole thing is over in usually under a half hour. Then, upon arrival at your destination station, there are several attendants standing at the doors with little tickets that say there was a jumper, which caused a train delay. This ticket must be given to your boss so you don’t get in trouble at work. I’m not kidding. They have cards for this. Could you just imagine how much creative freedom Hallmark employees must have in this country?
Sorry your dad committed suicide on the train tracks but I’m even more sorry I was late to work! Haha! Just kidding. But seriously, my condolences. Love, Louis.

Back to the main story. Ok, so once the bell has rung, I have only ten minutes before the next lesson period begins. In that ten minutes, I’m supposed to socialize, have a smoke, grab another iced coffee from the break room and plan the next lesson, all in ten minutes. Obviously, I’m a very new employee because all I’ve ever managed to do in those in-between moments is plan my next lesson and possibly read a bit from whatever train book I brought with me that day, but I’m slowly getting better. Really, I am though. Just the other day, I almost made it all the way to the break room and had about two coins into the coffee machine when the bells rang. And of course, we’re not allowed to drink at our cubicles for fear of mussing up the ancient keyboard apparatuses. So I sullenly trudged back to my desk, coffee-less and therefore, energy-less, to plan my next lesson.

When planning lessons, you have to look at each student’s past lessons and see which ones they’ve taken and which one’s they’ve passed/failed in order to choose one that hasn’t been done yet or one that hasn’t been done in at least three months. There are about 50 different lessons per student level, of which there are 7, which gives us a pool of 350 lessons to choose from. The good thing about this is that since we teach 7 to 8 lessons a day, we repeat lessons like it’s our job, which it is. So, once you’ve taught one lesson, you know where you can rest during it, what might be hard for the students and what stupid little jokes you can make to break the ice. It’s very customer service-oriented, to tell the truth. So now that you’ve finally settled on something appropriate for the jappies, you have the remaining moments to look it over and practice the lesson in your head, if it’s new, and then you’re off.

The bell has rung and now you’re stuck with 3, at most, jappies for the next forty minutes during which you’re forced to converse with them, correct their grammar and basically schmooze them into falling in love with the English language enough to buy another lesson period. Students range from junior high schoolers to working professionals ( lots of people in the medical field ), to elderly men and women so bored with their lives that they’ve decided to conquer a foreign language. So far, my least successful student group has been older males who are around 30 and up. I know that must be quite a shock given my past dating history but let’s keep in mind that I’m not dating my students, but teaching them. With that said, my favorite students have turned out to be the housewives of all ages. These women are so much fucking fun. When I have three of them together in a class, I’m a fucking Don Juan and these women are giggling up a storm and learning at the same time, I really love it. They generally have loads of time on their hands and are prohibited to work by their husbands so once they’re done cleaning and/or cooking for the day, they’re completely free and need something to fill the gaping holes in their schedules. So, that renders them very much open and willing to learn as much as they possibly can and their individual progress is absolutely astonishing. I mean, this one lady Hidemi has only been studying English for a year and a half and she said to me yesterday, “My husband is a silly man. He no let me touch the computah because since I don’t know how to work computah good, that I might make computah sick. How can computah get sick? He say something about a weerus (virus) but I don’t berieve him. Computahs don’t get sick. They don’t take medecine.” Frankly, I’ll be ecstatic when I can get that ridiculous point across to someone in Japanese.

So that’s the gist of the lesson. Lots of silly phrases that need correcting and a lot of Japanese egos that need coddling. Once I get through eight of them, I can happily clock my ass out of there and hit the streets. Unfortunately, the streets can only be hit every so often due to the subway closure time of 11:45. Who the fuck is ready to go home at 11:45? This curfew is ridiculous. So you have three options: 1. Get your ass home at 11:45 and save some money and lose some friends. 2. Go home whenever you like by paying $30 for a taxi who won’t even bring you directly to your house because there are no fucking addresses so you’ll still have to walk from a subway station or local landmark. 3. Stay out until the subway re-opens at 5:00. Oddly enough, option 3 has been the most popular one so far, even considering our early work schedules. But let’s think about this. The job doesn’t really require that much effort. You’re sitting at a computer and as long as you look clean, no one can tell you smell like a vagabond. Also, you’re already in your work clothes from the night before so there’s no need to change because you still look semi-professional despite the cigarette burns on your collar and the sake stains on your tie. The only thing that really ever needs to be taken care of is your sweaty-ass face. Spend a night out in Osaka and I dare you not to sweat as profusely as a sorority girl in a clinic. I guarantee you; you will be moist. But not to worry, that’s nothing a few wipes of a deodorized wet-nap won’t ameliorate. So that’s the latest in the life of Biru. Do stay tuned as I hope to move to a new apartment next month, which should definitely be providing me with some new material. My roommates will be a red-neck hippie Canadian from New Brunswick and a black valley boy gay from San Diego. And people say the Real World was stereotypical…

Herro! How May I Herp You?

The Japanese people are so fucking nice and courteous that it’s really starting to get to me. Just once, I’d love to see someone blow up on a customer at the supermarket or just slap someone who’s acting like a douchebag in line for the train. But alas, I doubt I will ever see this unless I take a firsthand part in the horrid event myself. Good news for the Jappies, though: I suffer from conflict avoidance.

Everywhere I go, people are literally bending over forwards to do things for complete strangers. I have never encountered such a blindly kind culture before in my life. For example, on my way to work in the morning I take the train, which is about a 15-minute walk from my unmarked, unaddressed building. Only Emperor Akihito knows how anyone finds one’s way around in this labyrinth of a country. Anyway, on my way to the train, there are your typical street hander-outers by the subway entrance, which is typical to most urban settings, you see them everywhere. However, recently, the hander-outers have been peddling free packets of tissues like those travel Kleenex my mom always sent with me on my sniffly days in sixth grade. Now, instead of just trying to haphazardly hand them to passersby like a normal person would in NYC, the hander-outers have been trained with such a high level of customer service that they must bow to each person as they hand out the tissue, the bow being just to say “thank you for taking my free tissues.” The best part is that these people have to hand out these tissues at such a velocity that doesn’t let them fully recharge from a bow after it’s been made. So, in order to get ready for the next customer, they’re already halfway down to the ground before the tissues ever touch anyone’s hand.

If this is unclear, which I’m sure it is, here’s the picture you’d see outside the station: a bunch of women in kimonos and men in black and white suits without jackets bent halfway over down to the ground with tissue packets in their outstretched hands searching for a taker. Once the tissue packet is finally taken, each person snaps back up, grabs a new packet and slowly lowers him/herself back into a semi-bow, ready for the next taker. This goes on until all packets have been cleared from their baskets. No, I didn’t stay around to watch the whole cycle, but what if I did, huh? Would it have made the story any better?

Since arriving only 6 days ago, so many Japanese have gone very far out of their way to help me, a complete stranger and obvious foreigner, and each person has found each situation an absolute laugh riot. Not ten minutes ago, I left my apartment to recharge my phone card and call my father for his birthday. The brochure that comes with the card says that all you need to do is bring the card to any Lawson (like a WaWa or QuikChek) and the cashier should scan the card and then just charge you the amount of yen that you want on the card in installments of 2,000. Easy, right? Not for me. Of course, my fucking card doesn’t scan so I have to whip out the booklet, which, thank Yeshua, has directions on how to recharge in English and Japanese. I shout out the phrase that the booklet tells me to tell the cashier in the worst and probably loudest accent he’s heard all day. He obviously doesn’t understand me and begins to laugh along with his friend, during which they both look at each other and point to pretend booklets and shout out loud. Apparently, I’m a regular Jerry Lewis over here. After they have a good laugh, the one cashier takes the booklet from me and after reading the Japanese translation, takes me over to this little ATMish thing on the other side of the store. He points at it and starts going off on a minute-long rant on how to use it, showing me gestures and getting more and more excited as the explanation continues. I, of course, don’t understand a single word that comes out of his mouth and just nod, saying, “Hai, hai,” the entire time. After he’s done, he folds his hands and looks at me earnestly as if it’s my cue to perform the previously-mentioned task at hand. Fortunately, there’s an explanation for dummies in the back of the booklet that tells me how to operate the machine step by step. As I press the first button on the machine, the cashier starts giggling and covering his mouth in the classic “I shouldn’t be laughing” manner. As I continue on, selecting how much I’d like to pay and typing in the card number, his giggling gets more and more intense and the cashier back at the counter can’t contain himself any more than my little friend by the machine. I finally complete the transaction and a receipt prints out for me to bring to the counter where I’ll pay for it. As soon as the receipt finishes printing, both Japanese cashiers start to clap and shout, “Hooray! Hooray!” They were genuinely really excited that I got it to work but at the same time, I was utterly humiliated that I needed cheerleaders to get me through such a menial chore.

Anyway, the point of the story is that the Japanese are super helpful and I’m very impressed with their level of customer service and general kindness thus far. I can’t wait until Saturday when I get to pick up my dry cleaning at the store on the corner. That should be good for about a whole half hour of laughs for everyone present. Seacrest out.

Al otro lado del mundo

Una historia para mis amigos hispanoparlantes… Pues, esta noche fui a algunos barres con amigos nuevos de la compania. Al principio, fuimos a un bar que se llama Murphy’s, era un verdadero pub irlandes. Nos sirvio copas muy baratas de cerveza irlandesa y otras cosas que no se encuentran a menudo en Osaka. Habia un guitarrista y una mesa de billiards que nos gustaba mucho. Bebiamos durante dos horas pero despues nos aburrimos y nos fuimos pa otro lugar. El segundo bar se llama Cinquecento y era un sitio super amable donde trabajaban algunas personas de varias nacionalidades, como un negro, dos japoneses y tambien un ingles que conocia a mi amigo… un poquito de foreshadowing si sabes lo que quiero decir. Despues de dos copas, tuve que irme con mi amigo a causa de la temprana hora cuando cierra el metro. Gracias a dios, tenia conmigo mi libro favorito que compre en Madrid hace dos anos, Historias del Kronen. Lo llevo conmigo cuando salgo por las noches porque me gusta leer durante el viaje del metro y tambien porque no me siento muy seguro llevarme un iPod cuando camino por las calles en la peligrosa oscuridad. Pues, sigo… estaba leyendo mi libro y no molestaba a nadie. De repente, las puertas del tren se abren y entra una pareja mixta que estaba hablando espanol. Esta chica que parecia japonesa hablaba espanol en una manera muy extrana y sabia que no era una espanola indigena a causa de su accento. Pero su novio, un tio rubio hablaba con accento madrileno, con el lisp y todo. Que largo tiempo ha pasade desde que he oido un accento tan excitante! Mas tarde, nosotros tres salimos en la misma parada donde vivo yo y al salir, el tio me miro al libro y noto que las letras eran espanolas. Me pregunto si de verdad eran y le conteste que si, claro. La chica se dio cuenta de que debia haber entendido todo lo que ella decia durante el viaje y se puso roja al saberlo. Pero no paso nada porque su conversacion era completamente inocente. Yo les hablaba durante algunos momentos y supe un milagro! La verdad era que el tio nacio en Madrid, en el mismo barrio donde vivia yo durante el verano pasado en 2005. Pero, crecia en francia, asi que habla las dos lenguas como yo pero no hablo el segundo muy bien. Espera, espera, espera! La chica no era indigena como creia y ella es estadounidense. Yo la pregunte de donde venia y me dijo que era de New Jersey. No me digas, la grite. Dijo que era de Bergen county! Ayyyy! Yo tambien, soy de Bogota! QUEEEE???!!! Sus padres viven en la calle al lado de la mia! Eso no podia creer. Si existiera una pareja heterosexual con quien me gustaria follar, ellos lo serian. Pues, veremos. Tengo un ano entero…

Bill Moves to Osaka

Just as the title says, I’ve just moved myself to Osaka, Japan and it’s official: shit is going down. People are driving on the left side of the road, there are little men sprinting through green doors on exit signs, there is plastic food in the window of every restaurant. And best of all, not one building ever has a legible address.

After a 13-hour flight (not so bad) from Detroit to Osaka, I met up with a few other instructors in the airport and a Nova representative (Nova is the company for whom I’m working) handed out train tickets, apartment keys and various other directions and insurance information. I was immediately shocked and a bit dismayed that they were not placing me with the semi-Shia LeBoeuf-ish boy from Connecticut for my apartment accommodations. It’s all right though. There’s always this weekend. I don’t think he’s even gay anyway, but he’s from CT so he might need to let out some pent-up regression after a few sake shots, you never know, really.

By the grace of emperor Aikhitu I end up at my apartment, comically misnamed the Lion’s Mansion. It is no mansion. But it’s not a dump either. Of course, you must remove your footwear at the entryway and all the lights are fluorescent and circular, very peculiar. The floors are made of straw mats and the doors are all sliding and as paper thin as the walls. My room is quite cozy to say the least. It’s about 8x6ft but has this massive shelved wall closet with sliding doors. It’s not a walk-in but it’ll certainly store my cumbersome suitcases (whenever they arrive). I sleep upon a thin futon mattress covered with a quilt and some sheets and believe it or not, it’s very comfortable. I just wish I had more room to hula hoosp and what not. Curiously enough, one wall of the room is lined with about 4 mini entertainment center-like display cases, which I use for clothing storage and bookshelves. I guess the last person who lived in my room had a penchant for garage sales. There are two other rooms that belong to my flatmates who are absent upon my arrival. I’m sorry, but if I had a roommate moving in, I’d at least have a fruit basket waiting.
The bathroom is probably the oddest room of them all. It has no door, but a shower curtain in the doorway. That’s ok. Inside the bathroom there is one main room with two smaller rooms jutting off on either side. The main room has a plastic apparatus that looks strangely similar to a Fisher Price play sink but it’s functional. Next to that is the cold-water-only washing machine that looks like it can fit about three of my boxer briefs. Looks like my sheets won’t be getting washed this year. One side room contains the toilet and one must put on special little red slippers before entering this room. The Japanese have this rule that you can’t wear your house slippers in the bathroom and you can’t wear the bathroom slippers in the house. Why not just get rid of the slipper rule all together? Things don’t make sense here and they make less sense upon hearing explanations for the various rules. The last tiny room is the shower/tub room. You’re supposed to shower first in the middle of the room, which has a drain in the floor. Then, you’re supposed to get into the tub and sit in the hot water but not use any soap whatsoever in the tub. That’s just impolite, considering that every member of the family is supposed to use the same bathwater. Eww. Just eww. I will not be taking baths this year, principally because the bathtub looks like a prop from “Big People, Small World”.

So upon arrival, I shower and dry myself with the t-shirt I wore on the plane all day because I forgot to pack towels. It’s ok though. No one’s home to know I did that. Wait a minute, my roommate Andrew just walked in. He’s cute, British and semi-twinkish but it’s ok because he doesn’t know it. He’s also undeniably straight and a bit timid. Says he doesn’t go out to bars and hasn’t even done karaoke yet. He’s been here for six months. Why hasn’t the boy done karaoke yet? The other roommate comes in as well. He’s Patrick, 40ish, not cute and not that social either. So I ignore him and eat some trail mix. Now I write this note. My first hours in Japan are over and I’m pretty content and somewhat tripping out on not sleeping. I’m going to sleep now.

Culture shock update – July 20, 2007

I’m semi-bored. Fuck that, I’m very bored. My first day here, I had to register myself at Suita City Hall as a legal alien and that was an event in itself. As I’ve commented before to several friends, the Japanese are extremely efficient but they’re so fucking peculiar. When they hand paperwork or cash back from a register, they hand it to me using both hands and bow their heads just a tad as if the item being passed was the fucking constitution or something else of equal paper-like importance. I guess it’s just a humility issue. Other than that, the fashion is very fun to admire. Most girls are dressed for runways. Leggings are very big here but coincidentally so are arm-ings, if that’s what you can call them. Girls will be walking around in 90 degree weather with these hot outfits on, like straight out of magazines, but they’ll also be wearing these fancy sock-like things on their arms, no matter what the temperature is. Some armings have glove-like extensions attached and most don’t even go very far above the elbow but either way, they’re very popular. I think that people are sensitive to the sun here. Most women walk around the city carrying umbrellas, wearing hats, very large visors and in the younger cases, these questionably fashionable armings. Whatever, at least the guys aren’t wearing them.

Speaking of the guys, I can’t tell who’s gay here and who’s not. At least not yet. Pretty much all the guys look either very angry or aloof like a coked-up model. Some of the aloof guys are kind of good-looking but all of the angry guys are very scary and I do not want to approach them. However, when asking for directions or something, I usually approach older women because they look the friendliest. However, not one older woman has been able to reply to me in English so far, so maybe I need to change my approach.

Speaking of older women, I was approached in the grocery store today, which is called Gourmet City, by two senior citizen women in the rice aisle. Out of nowhere I hear, “Hahahahahaha! Herro!!! How arrrre you! Hahahaha!” I didn’t use a question mark because it wasn’t a question. The phrase was pretty much just shouted at me. I turn to the ladies and I see one has a sporty rainbow fisherman-style hat and the other is just as clueless as hell and has about as many teeth as I do Japanese words in my vocabulary. They’re obviously excited to practice their limited English with me so I smile and say, “I’m great. How are you?” Of course, they continue to laugh and don’t even realize that they asked me a question and I just did the same to them. I guess that was the only phrase they knew. So then I say to them, “Nihongo wakarimasen”, which means, “I don’t understand Japanese”. This was kind of a warning to them that they could either speak to me in English or just go away and nod happily. Nope. They decided to start up a conversation with me in Japanese, pointing to various things in the aisle and in their baskets throughout the (no exaggeration) 5-minute one-sided conversation. It was more of a speech, I guess. Then finally, they looked into my basket, pointed at my food and said with the famous double-entendre Ms. Wong intonation, “Banana-wine, eh?” True, I did have bananas and a bottle of rose wine in my basket but she said the phrase in such a way that I thought she was offering me her prostitute son or something. And so I just rubbed my belly in response, saying, “Yes. Delicious.” After that, I was pretty uncomfortable so I just turned around and left the aisle. Enough of that.

By the way, the supermarket is a trip in itself. About 5 items in the entire store were labeled in English and every single package is as bright as a Pokemon cartoon. Every single piece of food looks like it’s going to be sooo much fun! Then I got upstairs to the second floor and found a whole section of nothing but raw, scaly fish packaged like chicken should be. Yes. Whole fish in those styrofoam plates covered in plastic. So I steered clear of that shit. When I finally did find the limited chicken section, it was ridiculous. It’s no wonder the Japanese are so fucking tiny. The chicken was packaged as follows: two raw chicken tenders laid side by side on the styrofoam plate and covered in plastic. All together, the package cost $1.40. Why even bother to waste all that material for two fucking tenders? Just put more in there! So I bought about eight of those packages and can not believe how many carbon shares I’m going to have to buy to offset the amount of pollution I’ll cause this year. Way too much to ask. I think I’ll just stick to Cup o’Noodle, which is as popular here as oxygen, which brings me to another point. The Japanese expect me to eat my cupped soup with chopsticks? You’ve got to be kidding me because that shit is hard enough to manage with a fork, let alone two splintery sticks. I’ll have to update you all with my chopstick progress as the time goes on.



Good evening, children. After reading and taking notes on quite an interesting article in last month's GQ, I've decided to include some of the article's key points below in an attempt to further their use in our everyday vocabulary. The article did not explicitly say whether or not these words are real, so that probably means they're real. So let's just stick with that. Anyway, please enjoy this new addition to your verbal artillery and do feel free to approach me at any time with a witty use of the following words. Because if you don't, then someone else will. And then you'll probably feel like a jandruse. Enjoy.

Afforous - adj - used to describe someone who believes he or she can never have too much cologne on.
Anatholic - adj - used to describe a shower that is either too hot or too cold.
Boulandre - v - to sing a song automatically even though you deeply hate it.
Baylish - adj - used to describe someone who's not as hot as you remember.
Camelflex - v - to realize that one's legs are uncomfortably crossed.
Cascarne - v - to meet a hookup at a funeral. (this is half sleazy yet half smart)
Connolisation - v - to laugh at one's own joke. (i am very guilty of this)
Danoosh - n - sloppy oral sex, most commonly referred to oral sex that uses an overabundance of saliva.
Elurination - n - the act of using an unnecessarily heavy accent in a foreign language.
Empardle - v - to make too much noise while using the bathroom.
Frittle - v - to fart while asleep.
Grimgriddle - v - to insist that a very small size fits a very large person.
Humnum - n - a smell so bad that one can't help but smelling it.
Jandruse - n - a public erection.
Kamerakazi - n - a recognizeable professional caught on a sex webcam video.
Larble - v - to laugh into one's own drink.
Odonization - n - the belief that cheating while abroad does not count.
Priney - adv - third cocktail invincibility, ie - you're acting quite priney, joe.
Quilson - n - the indent made by socks that are too tight.
Relch - n - a worryingly moist burp.
Robelm - v - to change from the familiar form of a language to the formal form in order to display one's dislike for another.
Schvelge - v - to retrieve one's cellular phone from a bathroom stall.
Shorbage - n - the distance between one's sock and one's pant leg.
Smadgen - n - just a touch of man-makeup.
Starvle - n - an eyebrow raise which signifies "are you leaving?"
Twandle - v - to urinate directly after ejaculation.
Ugload - v - to turn away from a nasty sight.
Weelebrity - n - a celebrity that is surprisingly small in person.
Xytantic - adj - used to describe someone whose waist size exceeds their chest size.

Some possible uses include but are not limited to:

- Can you believe how afforous Jim is today? He must think that acting all priney at the bar and not showering are a good combination before a staff meeting. Ugh!

- So last night, I was just finished schvelging when all of a sudden I saw Larry close the stall door next to me and he started to empardle like it was the end of the world!

- Poor Hal Sparks really needs to fix shorten his shorbage, especially since he's a weelebrity. That's like two strikes against him.

- Just when the boss got to the punch-line, I was feeling so over-zealous that I larbled all over my shirt and cheek and totally ruined my smadgen in the process.


Twinkilocks and the Three Bears

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, there was a youngish adolescent named Twinkilocks who lived alone in the suburbs of an anonymous metropolis on the East Coast. He rented a modest studio apartment with the inheritance that was left to him by his recently deceased yet highly respectable uncle. His late uncle, Victor Williams, was a prominent entrepreneur, a gay rights activist and a celebrated socialite, butterflying from party to party among the jet set’s finest. However, a recent spiked-stiletto mishap during fashion week in Milan caused poor Victor to bequeath all of his amassed fortunes to his dearest nephew and neophyte to the gay world, Twinkilocks.

When Twinkilocks received news of his dear uncle’s untimely demise, he was genuinely and deeply saddened, to the extent only attainable when a mentor is degraded to a mere mortal. Poor Twinkilocks! He had been looking forward all year long to spending the upcoming months with Victor at his summer home on Fire Island. During that time, Victor had planned to introduce Twinkilocks properly and tastefully to the gay community because a boy as gorgeous and naïve as Twinkilocks would surely be lured to the dark side if he were to be tempted by the evil half of the community. Now what was poor Twinkilocks to do all alone with his newfound fortune? He would certainly need a new mentor to guide him through the emotional labyrinth of adolescence, but where to find one would be quite a task, even for someone as brave and resourceful as Twinkilocks.

Twinkilocks decided to start his query online, precisely where all young boys begin when their sexuality starts to bloom. “Maybe I could find a new mentor on Craigslist!” Twinkilocks thought to himself excitedly. “They have everything on Craigslist. I should most certainly be able to find myself a new mentor to help me enter properly into the realm of homosexuality.” As he typed the three w’s in his computer’s browser, Twinkilocks felt a shiver of excitement tickle his little prostate. He deftly navigated from the home page to the category entitled Men Seeking Men. Not a split second after he clicked the link did a whole world of opportunities download before his eyes. There was such a wonderful range of queries laid out before him that he was unsure of where to begin. Twinkilocks scanned each entry with meticulous feelers, looking for just the right one to fit his needs.

Hungry Athletic Bottom Jock Looking for Hungry Raw tops later today – 29

Hard Cock in pantyhose seeks younger regular suck slave – 46

I have what you crave. It is 8 inches. Ask and you will receive. – 31

“Hmmm…” thought Twinkilocks. “All these men seem to just be interested in sex whereas I’m looking for a mentor to show me the raunchy ropes of gay life. I’m never going to find what I need!” Little did Twinkilocks know that things always look most grim before the goddess Cher’s spotlight shines down upon the answer. Suddenly, the page refreshed itself and a new ad appeared at the top of the list.

Generous Dad type for curious young lad – 53

“Hmmm,” considered Twinkilocks, “Fifty-three seems a bit out of my range but at least he’s not 54. I’d most definitely draw the line at 54.” Having thoroughly convinced himself that a 53-year-old was his perfect match, Twinkilocks clicked his way over to his free and anonymous Yahoo! mail account to respond to his newfound lover’s petition of companionship. Twinkilocks debated with himself for quite some time about just how he wanted to come across in this most paramount of e-mails. He decided he’d just get straight to the point. After all, a 53-year-old may have bad vision and not be able to read long passages without a pair of trusty bifocals. Furthermore, Twinkilocks didn’t want to sound too needy so a nice, terse message expressing his interest should suffice just fine in his opinion.

Hey there, sir. I saw that you were looking for a curious young lad and since I’m young and curious, I thought I’d say Hi. Other than being old, are you also very experienced and well-versed in the ways of the gay? If so, I’d look very much forward to having you for a tutor and would reimburse you sexually for all services provided therein. Tootles!

Twinkilocks was heartily satisfied with his effortless and subtle version of ‘easygoing business speak’. He felt it conveyed his confident-yet-cool style that he tended to employ in social situations ever since that farting debacle last year in Junior High.

Young Twinkilocks had just begun foraying into the magical world of butt sex at the tender age of 14 and he had yet to learn all the necessary preparatory measures and post-butt sex strategies that, if ignored, could result in disastrous consequences. It was early June of his final year before high school and Twinkilocks had been studying all afternoon long for his final English Literature exam the following day. This would be his last exam before he could finally relax and enjoy his summer vacation and await the torturous angst-ridden years of high school, which would commence in September. However, like most adolescent boys, studying can be quite a chore, especially with an easily distracted mind such as Twinkilocks'. All sarcasm aside, Twinkilocks’ mother had to be careful not to over-polish any of the tabletops for fear of Twinkilocks being caught off guard again by his reflection. That was quite a stressful day for our poor protagonist. But back to the study session. All that literature milling around his little head was just too much for Twinkilocks and he needed a good, rejuvenating break before he could continue his studies. So, Twinkilocks logged into his account on Gay.com and decided to see who was online in his small, suburban area. It just so happened that there was a twenty-something black man online that night who called himself Tyrone. Tyrone was an experienced top looking for a tight, virgin ass to deflower. Who knew what a coincidence God had in store for them that evening! After just a few minutes of casual and flirty chatting, Twinkilocks had successfully set up his first anal sex appointment. The two boys decided to convene at Tyrone’s tastelessly decorated post-college apartment downtown twenty minutes later. Twinkilocks sure was excited, not only because he was going to have his bum-cherry popped but also because Tyrone was his first black man. Their rendezvous couldn’t have gone better. They both got along swimmingly and Twinkilocks was barely both feet inside the apartment before they were entwined in an Oreo-like battle of amour. Needless to say, Twinkilocks was unprepared for what Tyrone was packing in his seamless, white 2(x)ist briefs. Twinkilocks wasn’t a total neophyte. He knew to apply lubricant on the condom as well as on his own hole but nothing could’ve prepared him for the 11 thick inches of ebony pride that invaded his tight twinky twat. Unlike most first-timers, Twinkilocks loved every second of his anal adventure but would pay dearly for it the following day. He returned home after saying goodnight to Tyrone and finished up his studying with a wonderfully refreshed mind, set to succeed. However, Twinkilocks failed to take into consideration his current state of elasticity and the duration of the written blue-book exam. Like most final exams, he’d be required to sit at his desk the entire duration of the three-hour period until all the students had completed their exam. Furthermore, literature lacked the ease of multiple-choice responses and thus required much concentration and perseverance. Normally, this would not have been a problem for young Twinkilocks. But he was suffering from a textbook case of Loose-Ass, which was further aggravated by the fact that the perpetrator had been African American. So one can imagine Twinkilocks’ consternation as he moved steadily into his second hour of the exam and began to emit a silent but very deadly gas from his cavernous man-cunt. Throughout the rest of the two hours, Twinkilocks displayed flapless determination as he finished the rest of the exam to the best of his ability, farting, squirting and generally splurping/splatting his way throughout the entire event. No one else in the room was able to finish his or her exam as they were all focused on the spectacle that was shooting out of Twinkilocks’ gaping hole. But of course, our hero kept pristine poise and finished his exam in record time, after which he urgently excused himself to take care of the Hershey Olympics that were taking place in his hindquarters. Being the tactful and courteous young man that he is, Twinkilocks returned to the classroom promptly to tidy up the skid marks he had left earlier on during the exam. Enough back-story. Let’s return to the issue at hand.

Before Twinkilocks could lean back and take a sip from his Smirnoff Ice, a new message appeared in his Inbox. As it turned out, the Dad type lived only a 5-minute drive away, which pleased Twinkilocks immensely. Not only had he found a new mentor, but he was so close to home as well! They quickly exchanged several more e-mails and planned to meet that evening at a local bistro in the gayborhood.

“OOOHH! I can’t wait!” Twinkilocks was giggling like an Asian schoolgirl as he lathered, rinsed and repeated for the third time. He knew that he wanted to look his best that night and that meant a few extra shampoo cycles to make sure his golden highlights really popped in the dim restaurant ambience. Preparing for any possible post-dinner encounters, Twinkilocks skipped ahead two days in his weekly schedule to properly ensure a peach-fuzz-zone in his nether regions. There’s no way any stubble was going to ruin his chances of securing a steady mentor. In his limited experience, Twinkilocks discovered that most older men like their twinks to resemble prepubescent Backstreet Boy fans. Good thing for Twinkilocks, because he had that area covered. At 140 pounds and 5 feet 8 inches, he was an Internet porn webmaster’s wet dream. Flawlessly tanned skin, absolutely no musculature and little body hair made Twinkilocks a very popular boy at the gay clubs. He was hoping to work his magic once again tonight.

Twinkilocks knew he was in for an interesting night as soon as he set foot in the restaurant. The Dad type said he’d be in one of the back booths wearing all black, which sounded odd at first to Twinkilocks, but now he understood perfectly. The restaurant, Bistro Cuero, was a traditional Spanish-style tapas restaurant but if Twinkilocks had paid attention in Spanish class last year instead of giving HJs to the baseball players sitting next to him, he would’ve known that the word cuero means leather in Spanish. Yes, that’s correct. Poor Twinkilocks had unknowingly stumbled into the area’s only BDSM-themed restaurant and worst of all, he was wearing white. Besides it being way past Labor Day, Twinkilocks’ second offense was standing out ostensibly among all the thickly baby-powdered leather daddies in their ebony ensembles. Ever the little trooper, Twinkilocks sucked it up, figuratively, of course, and introduced himself.

“Hi! I’m Twinkilocks! But my friends call me Twinkie. You must be Barnacle McClingster.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Twinkie! You can just call me Barney for short. Have a seat…”

Twinkilocks was thoroughly enthused and 75% turned on by the firm handshake he received from Barney. “Oh gosh,” Twinkie swooned, “his handshake was so firm it felt like he would never let go. He’s so dreamy!” Little did poor Twinkie know that holding on for eternity was exactly what Barnacle McClingster had in mind.

Twinkilocks sat down and ordered a sparkling Pellegrino with lemon while Barney filled his glass with an already half-empty bottle of merlot.

“I hope you don’t mind that I drink, Twinkie. There’s just something about a nice red wine that really gets me in the mood.”
“In the mood for what?”
“For just about anything your tight little ass can handle, Twinkie-cakes.”

Twinkilocks was simultaneously turned on and skeeved-out, a feeling he had grown used to since his first date with an older gentleman. However, Twinkie was willing to give ole’ Barney the benefit of the doubt. After all, a mentor sometimes says things to his protégé as a mental challenge of sorts. Kind of like that time Twinkilocks’ last mentor told him to get on all fours for a “hot beef injection”.

After all the requisite get-to-know-ya chat, Twinkilocks now knew that our friend Barney was 3 years older than previously stated, which made him a ripe 56. He was also the proud owner of his very own exotic insects store. His did not merely sell food for certain amphibians and reptiles. He made it very clear that these exotic insects were sold to his patrons for domestic and aphrodisiacal uses. Twinkilocks decided to just let that one go. Barney was also very much an advocate of ballroom dancing, bonsai tree trimming and had an alphabetized collection of every single original Broadway cast recording from 1972 on.

It was then that Barney reached across the table and placed his thick, calloused hand on top of Twinkie’s smooth and evenly moisturized one.

“You know, Twinkilocks, I really think that you and I have quite a lot in common. Since your cute ass walked in the door, all I’ve been able to think about how cute you’d look dressed in white at our wedding.”

Twinkilocks mentally slammed on the brakes as he withdrew his hand from under Barney’s.

“What? Dressed in fucking white? Bitch, please! Do I look like a fucking virgin to you? I am wearing a mother fucking 50% cotton-lycra mother-of-pearl tuxedo at my partnership ceremony and nobody, not even Cher if she beamed down here right now, is going to talk me out of it.”

“Ok, that’s fine. Mother of pearl it is, then. Anything for my beautiful bride.”

“I’m not your bride. Do I look like I have a twat?”

“A nicely shaven man-twat, yes.”

“Eww. Just eww.”

It was at this moment that Twinkilocks visualized what exactly a ‘man-twat’ might look like. The connotations that came along with the ideas of menstruation and baby fat made Twinkie vomit a little inside his mouth, which he dutifully swallowed without the slightest whisper of a flinch. But hoping for the best, Twinkilocks forged ahead.

“So what kind of experience do you have that makes you a good mentor for me?”

“Experience? Well… life itself, I presume.”

“BOOO! That’s fucking lame. I wanna hear some good shit here, okay? Like were you ever married to anyone famous in the disco scene? Do you have connections with Broadway? If so, we can milk that big time. Just think… My ass on a billboard. Who wouldn’t pay to see that shit?”

“Well I certainly would. But hopefully I won’t need to. We have the rest of our lives to get to know each other and explore our bodies. I’m just so ecstatic that I’ve finally found ‘the one’.”

“Okay. It was just fab meeting you,” says Twinkilocks, pushing back his chair, ready to go.

“Wait! Where are you going? Don’t you think that if we’re destined to be lovers, we should get to know each other a bit more?” Barney flailed to grasp Twinkie’s hand. But our Twinkie’s ‘clinger senses’ warned him of the impending offense.

“I don’t think so, grandpa. I’m just not feeling whatever it is that you’re feeling. Frankly, I think you’re tipsy and desperate and that is so not hot right now. It was nice to meet you, Mister McClingster.”

And with those last, gracious words, Twinkilocks checked off Barney’s name from his mental catalog. No one was going to lock him up without going Shawshank on his little twink-ass first. Then, “Whatever. It’s not like I needed him anyway. He was just too clingy. Maybe if I found someone a little more loose…”

To be continued.


This one time... at my porn job...

So I, in my immense wisdom and insatiable sexual curiosity, was searching on Craigslist back in December for a new job. It’s not that I don’t adore spending time with developmentally disabled children all day, it’s just that I feel that more people need to experience the loving touch of a little Bill in the their day. So anyway, I’m searching in all the usual spots on Craigslist. We’re looking at TV / Film / Video, Education, Art / Media / Design and finally a little Men Seeking Men if I get sidetracked. However, on this fateful December morn, I come across an ad looking for an “Adult Film Editor”. Seriously? Did someone really read my mind this morning and decide to make my little east coast boy dreams come true? I think that’s what happened. So I read on.

“Established adult film website in search of experienced video editor and right hand man. Must be comfortable in such an environment and have experience in linear editing systems. Compensation commensurate with experience. Starts ASAP.”

Well my friends, I got up from my uncomfortably lap-warming computer and proceeded to jig all around my room. I know, it was not much of a jig due to the size of my room (see previous entry) but it was still a jig and that in itself should not go unmentioned. After taking off my dancing shoes, I got back in my serious porn mindset and applied the hell out of that job. It was the most enthusiastic e-mail that I had ever sent. So enthusiastic I should’ve been taxed for the amount of exclamation points I abused. Well anyway, I sent the following message… seriously, I just copied the email and I’m even more embarrassed now that I’ve re-read it.

My name is Bill R@#(%) and I'm EXTREMELY THRILLED to have found your ad on craigslist! I'm a recent graduate of So and So College with a degree in Digital Media which renders me more than capable when it comes to computers and the such! I have experience editing, producing, acting, directing, choreographing, composing music,
storyboarding, filming and operating a camera! I've created music videos, documentaries, movie re-shoots, web pages, animated television shows and even some online flash cartoons!

Right now, I reside right next to Hackensack and am very much interested in this position because of my LOVE of PORN! I think porn is such a healthy expression of your sexuality and would love to be a part of the process in any way possible! Just recently, I've been downloading some porn and I've made some short pornographic music videos for some friends who don't have the same porn resources. So, I'm definitely into anything that will be thrown my way!

The letter continues on in the same sycophantic style and it only gets more and more needy sounding as it goes on so I’ve spared you that pain for now. So of course, I don’t get a reply from the e-mail even though I sent my resume along with a sexy headshot just for special effect. Gay, I know. Of course, I get antsy and send a second e-mail, basically a disguised forward of the first e-mail, and I finally get a reply from a man who we’ll call Renee. I choose Renee solely because of the feeling you get when you pronounce the name, knowing it belongs to a man who’s obviously not French and furthermore not suave enough to pull it off. But that’s his name as far as you’re concerned.

Renee calls me and we chit chat about what I’m into and what his company’s about and I’m all hair-twirling-bubble-gum-harajuku-girl on the other end. Because of the nature of the company, he feels that our first meeting should not take place at the office but at the local diner, something which is kind of odd but I let it go because I was excited about looking at naked people.

The next evening, I pull up to the Coach House Diner and I’m looking good and ready to edit porn. I’ve got my butt jeans on, my new a-little-too-expensive jacket and my laptop just in case I need to show some portfolio work. I walk into the diner and just like I was told, I go up to the guy at the register and ask him for “the boss”. You really don’t know how much of a tool I felt like just acknowledging that it’s acceptable for someone to label himself as ‘the boss’ in a place where he has no managerial clout whatsoever. But I sucked it up, imagining my rendering of a huge corporate ladder with “Saying the phrase (the boss)” imprinted upon the bottom rung. I tend to over-dramatize some of my life events but that’s how I get through my day.

I’m lead not three feet away to the counter where this huge white man is sitting next to a turkey dinner and a beer. Oh, how suburban of you, Renee. Here’s my vantage point: Blue plate turkey special sitting on the counter, covered in that khaki colored gravy that you know is from a can, next to an unnecessarily high mound of mashed/cubed potatoes covered in the same slop which oozes over to taint the watery corn/carrot mixture that’s been left untouched. Next to this culinary fantasy is my dream man. Renee is a man of about 39 I’d say and he’s not fond of personal appearances. He wears black easy fit jeans that aren’t really fitting all that easily and a plain black t-shirt with a pocket, the kind that makes your biceps look good if they’re not covered in a metric yard of cellulite. Renee’s arms were not being salvaged by his shirt. On the stool next to him is a huge matrix-like black pleather jacket that must’ve required at least three fake cows to complete its fabrication. But the sexiest part of the ensemble was definitely his ponytail. If you haven’t already, picture now this man who’s easily 300 pounds with a generous Claus-esque belly and is also sporting a pointy black goatee-thing which does little to mask his triple chin but matches nicely with his sexy bifocals. Now we can add on his pedophile ponytail, which comes complete with a widow’s peak of long locks of love.

So as you can imagine, I’m just in awe because I never thought I’d meet my life partner so early on in my days. We sit down at a booth in the back and we’re not lead by a waiter because ‘the boss’ doesn’t need a waiter to help him choose his table. Just the fact that I’m following this hulk of black down the narrow aisle and the physical juxtaposition of the two of us together makes every pair of eyes in the diner follow us to the back of the dining room. I’ve never felt sluttier. Well that’s a lie, but we’ll get to those stories some other time.

We chat. He seems cooler than he looks. He’s actually pretty chill and down to earth which makes me able to look past the creepy exterior. So I agree to take the job as an editor and I tell him I’ll stop by the office the next day to check out the work station and some of the previous projects. All is well. But I hadn’t seen the ‘office’ yet.

The next evening after chilling with the autistics all day, (sounds like an alternative emo band doesn’t it? The Autistics? No? Well fuck off then.) I arrive at the alleged office. It is not an office. It’s a residential home in suburban New Jersey and a dirty one at that. The front yard looks like it hasn’t been touched since leggings were in. Oops, scratch that. Sorority girls think that’s a good idea again. Anyway, you get the idea. It’s one of those homes with chipped paint, numberless mailboxes and weeds growing out of the windowsill flowerboxes. Very garden state. I ring the germy doorbell and after several more reluctant pokes at it, a short and comely girl/woman answers the door. She’s about 5’1”, round in the middle and very weathered. She looks like she could be about 45 but unfortunately her hair and clothes suggest mid-20s. She’s got this horrible Pennsylvania Dutch bob-haircut that’s dyed jet black and it clashes nicely with her grapefruit shade of lipstick. She’s also wearing one of those adorable Strawberry Shortcake baby tees that would’ve actually been adorable if it didn’t have pasta sauce and pit stains caked on it. Yum.

--Hi! I’m Bill. I’m here to see, um, Renee?
--Oh, hi. Hold on.

She shuts the door in my face and I can hear her bound up the stairs; the first clue of many that should’ve clued me in to just leave right then and there. But no, I was being optimistic that week. She reopens the door two minutes later.

--Ok, come in. He’s upstairs.

Oh my, what a hospitable little witch. She must get her charm from the remnants of fetal alcohol syndrome still swirling around in those veins. I make my way upstairs, checking out all the faux-goth decorations on the walls; wrought-iron chandeliers, handcuffs, cat-of-nine-tail whips, the usual. I open the door to the upstairs area and I’m immediately disappointed. There are three desks in this place; all of which are constructed of old doors upon cinderblocks. The Swedes at Ikea would be very upset. It’s not like their shit is hard to put together. Damn. This guy’s wallet must be tighter than my Tuesday night appointment.

Moving on, he offers to show me some of his past work for the website and as he says that, he pats this little stool that’s on the other side of his desk, right next to the mouse pad. >>Shudder / Gag<< So being the nice new guy that I am, I maneuver my way around the back of his desk paying special attention not to graze any part of this man’s circumference. I sit down on this precarious little perch and he begins to navigate the website, which unfortunately due to the contract I signed, must remain anonymous.

Not two seconds into the porn tour, I’m bombarded with more fetishes and leather toys than anyone could ever desire. I couldn’t even believe that there was such a huge market for such specific eccentricities. This particular company specializes in the tickling fetish. This basically deals with strapping someone down to a bed or some other restraint contraption and then tickling the hell out of them until they either cry, laugh, beg or cum. The videos that I wound up editing were focused mainly on girls.

One of my last videos I worked on involved this white trash blondie that my boss had ‘picked up’ at the 2006 Fetish Convention in Orlando a few months earlier. That’s right. These people are fucking legit. So this girl is supposedly famous in the fetish scene but I’d never heard of her before, principally because vag makes me vom. But I still did a fabulous job on the video as well as the trailer. She was famous because she had these amazingly sexually sensitive feet that got her off like nothing else I’ve ever seen. The video starts off with her being tied to a bed and then my boss, who is the tickler in the video and who also calls himself ‘Mysteryhands’, rounds all the usual bases. He starts off tickling the pits, the stomach, leaves the breasts alone because just seeing breasts jiggle while a girl is laughing is enough, apparently, to get off most guys who have this fetish anyway. He moves his way downtown to her thighs, her calves and finally he gets to her feet. Most of the actors I’ve seen just laugh when their feet are touched and Mysteryhands politely moves on to the next most ticklish area. However, this famous Floridian was much different. No lie, as soon as he gets to her feet, she starts letting out these deep ass moans comparable only to a female walrus in heat. It was unearthly.

After the entire video was edited, I reviewed it quickly to count the number of times this girl orgasms or claims to orgasm during the tickle session. I tallied 4 squirts just from foot tickling and putting the vibrator on the soles of her feet. She also came two more times from the vibrator in the usual area. And once from the vibrator touching her nipples. I was awestruck and semi-jealous at the same time. Not that I would ever want to cum from someone touching my feet because I just don’t think feet need to be touched while in bed, but because this girl could squirt on call. I could make so much money if I were able to do that. And what if I could maintain a steady stream of it strongly enough to levitate a small beach ball or something, you know? Like that concentrated stream of air at the Liberty Science Center that holds that beach ball in mid air? I could definitely join the circus then.

Sorry about that tangent. Anyway, he finishes showing me the web site and I go take a seat far from the reach of his ponytail while he prints out some independent contractor forms for me to sign. This is when the comely witch comes upstairs. She sits down next to me and we start some small talk and I end up asking her what she does here? Like is she an editor or just an office helper or a potion-mixer, etc? She says to me in the most casual tone you could ever imagine:

--Oh, I’m his slave.
--Oh! … That’s, uh, cool.

Apparently, this girl/woman lives with Renee and his wife, whom I’ve yet to meet, as their sex slave. Why didn’t the career center offer this on the checklist of professions? I would’ve been fucking set with a 401k and everything, training into the wee hours of the morning at frat parties all over campus. As it turns out, the slave performs all the sexual favors that are asked of her, stars in some of the web site’s videos and on top of all that, works part time at the makeup counter at Macy’s. She is a true working girl if I’ve ever seen one. In return for her domestic services, she lives free of charge in a permanent threesome. And of course, I’m wondering, what does she label that as on her resume? Could you imagine reading that one?

2002 to Present ---------- Professional Concubine ----------- Hackensack, NJ

It’s one thing to be a sex slave to a Russian czar or a Persian raja. Like I think that would be pretty cool because you’d get to wear these skanky but really gregariously ostentatious outfits embedded with the most precious of jewels and you’d feed grapes and capers to your master all day long in his steamy throne room / sin chamber. I could totally do that for like a month. But being a sex slave in Jersey is like being a zookeeper in Somalia. Everyone’s general reaction is just, “Ugh, I hope you at least took a shower.”

I stayed to work as a pornographic movie editor for about a month and a half. In that time span, I spent maybe two days a week at the office and made like $200. It was not worth my time nor my stress. But one day I just couldn’t take it anymore. This was the day I finished editing that video with the foot girl. As you may remember, Mysteryhands or my boss, was the designated tickler in that video. Now let me set up the scene for you.

I work at a desk that is out of my boss’s line of vision but close enough that he can lean forward and peer at what I’m doing. Also, he does not believe in headphones at all so every computer’s audio just blares around the office at the highest of volumes through the trashy boxy speakers that came with the PCs. So people are editing loads of porn and if anyone has ever edited before, it’s a very tedious process. You will watch any clip at least seven or eight times until you get the cut right and that’s being modest. So just imagine this environment of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ and ‘oh yeah I’m gonna cums’ just floating around the office all day long. It’s enough to make anyone celibate for at least a couple days. Not ‘the boss’ though.

As I’m working on this one scene where he’s vibrating the soles of her feet, I have to keep repeating this one audio clip that I’m going to export to use later in the trailer. It’s of Mysteryhands saying, “Yeah, bitch, tell me how much you want it. Beg me for it. Let me see those tears.” It’s a disturbing enough clip to hear several times to begin with. But Renee is just so narcissistic that every time I replay the clip, he laughs out loud and then repeats the clip exactly as he says it in the video. So, I get to hear the dirty talk on the computer and then I get to hear it in my left ear for immediate, creepy playback. I was dealing with this.

What I couldn’t deal with was the following quote after several repetitions of the previous line.

--Damn, Bill, I’m so fucking hot in those videos. Like every time I watch them, it really gets me horny because I can remember how many times she came when I was touching her. Doesn’t it get you really horny just watching it?

He got up from his desk to tell me this wonderful tidbit. And as he did, I was able to notice the obviously protruding boner popping out of this guy’s black jean shorts. Eww. That was it. Hearing fat guys talk to foot fetish girls is one thing. Having fat guy boners pointing at me like an angry old nun is completely over the line.

I never went back to work after that day. And I’m glad I freed myself from that environment. It’s gone but it will never be forgotten. I still cringe any time I see diner turkey.