Whenever I meet a new Japanese girl sooner or later they get around to asking me The Question: What are the differences between Japanese girls and American girls?
It’s a loaded question to be sure.
Back in 2003 when asked The Question, I’d look right into the doe-like eyes of my Josei (girl) du jour and say with a straight face, “Japanese women are sweeter,” just to keep my answer simple and cajoling. A more thorough and frank answer would have been, ‘I think Japanese girls are the fucking bomb! In general, they’re prettier (in a prepubescent kind of way), sexier (in a dumb blond kind of way) and are just fiendin’ to be feminine, like overdeveloped (so to speak) pre-teens dressing up in Mama’s clothes. They’re passive and pliable and just dying to be led around and told what to do…which taps into some deep psycho-sexual sadistic thing dwelling in my psyche, I suspect. They taste great, they’re less filling, they smell better and are lower maintenance than their American counterparts. They require little to no game (effort) whatsoever…like Top Shelf call girls (even dressing the part) only relatively free of charge. They are awkward, giggling, confidence-free, drama-free aphrodisiacs incarnate…
Yes, I was in Nirvana, quite removed from reality. And this high lasted for years.
I remember this Twilight Zone episode where a bibliophile who was taunted and harassed for his passion by his wife and others was alone in a bank vault when a sudden nuclear war occurred. He survived to find he was the last man on earth…he was about to kill himself when he found that the library had also survived the atomic bombing (somehow). He was happy as a pig in shit until, in a particularly cruel Rod Serling twist, he breaks his glasses. That’s fucked up, right?
Well, my glasses broke, too. The rose-tinted lenses through which I adored Japanese women, that is. (I’m actually managing to retain 20/20 vision against incredible odds.) Yes, now I can see the truth behind the curtain of stereotypes about them. At least, I think I can (-:
The truth: They’re just women. And women are women.
So, you heard Japanese girls are easy? You want to know if it’s true? The answers is an equivocal YES, they are! However, I submit, they are no easier than American girls under the same conditions.
Case and point: When I was a teenager growing up in Brooklyn I was a very sentimental lad, and had very romantic notions about the opposite sex. Love songs made my heart pound. Rejection brought me to tears. I wrote tear-stained pages of poetry and short stories about love and loss. I had a stack of notebooks filled with this stuff, not unlike the guy who had previously owned the house that Brad Pitt and Edward Norton were squatting in in ‘Fight Club” (“I am Jack’s medulla Oblongata” “I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise”) Mine was more like, “my heart is a red tear in the duct of a dead man.” That’s the kind of stuff I wrote after Kim tore me a new asshole.
Kim was my high school sweetheart, so to speak. She was this lightーskinned cutie from Bed-Stuy who inexplicably managed to emerge from a Bed-Stuy housing project exuding a purity and sweetness so uncorrupted you’d think she was raised in, well, in Japan, or a Nunnery. Only problem was Kim’s high school sweetheart was not me, but this cat named Richard. She just pal’d around with me. I was like her Forrest Gump. “Run, Loco, run.” Richard was a lying asshole, but we all were so that didn’t make him special. What did make him special was his heritage: he was half-Asian. Half Jamaican, half Chinese, and had those half slanted eyes and that half-straight hair, and was half as dark as me…and half the girls in the school went half-bananas for half a chance to run their fingers through it. He was my boy, until Kim went entirely bananas over him. Then, naturally, I hated him.
So what he was exotic! Well, half-exotic, anyway. Who was the one writing poetry for Kim? I was. Did I give her my undivided attention? Well, when I wasn’t smoking blunts and drinking 40’s, you bet your ass I did. Did I make it clear that if this world were mine (yes, Luther inspired me) I’d place at her feet all that I own? Yes, indeed I did. But, did she give a damn after she met Richard? No. Did Richard give a shit about her? No. Did Richard talk to her on the phone every night and listen to her drone on and on about totally mundane shit? No. Did Richard drag his ass to her church on Sundays (despite my abhorrence of all things religious)? Hell no. Did he hold her sheepskin coat when it was clearly too hot to be wearing one but they were fashionable so she wore it any fucking way? No.
Fucking Richard, lucky bastard…What the hell was my point? Oh, right! Sorry.
Was Kim an easy mark for Richard? Yep! Goddamn pushover. Why? The same reason Japanese girls are easy. Here in Japan, I am, and virtually every foreign guy on this island is, Richard. We are all Richard. We are all lucky bastards. We are all exceptions and thus exceptional. We are a chance to feel different, to do things a little differently, to be a little different. We’re a ride on the wild side. A chance to learn about something aside from that which you know all too well. A chance for notoriety, if you desire it, or to say “fuck you” to a society you disdain. A chance to have a baby that looks like Richard.
Never underestimate the eroticism of exoticism.
And, on top of that, somebody’s been spreading rumors. A LOT of rumors. Somebody pumped Japanese girls heads so full of “information” about “me” that my actual input is redundant at best and counter productive at worst. They know all they believe they need to know about “me” to make an informed decision and, in a satisfactory number of cases, have somehow concluded “I” am indeed desirable. I’ve spent a lot of energy and ink (so to speak) on the downside of being stereotyped, but relatively little on the upside. Not having to actually work for relatively quality girls (the stereotypes and rumors do all the work for me) is, for all intents and purposes, an upside (-;
Never underestimate human susceptibility to stereotype.
And, Kim, you heart breaker you…I hated you for a long time. But, now, I ain’t got nothing but love for you. I realize that anyone can be vulnerable to the exotic factor. Now that I live in a nation where a good number of the women are afflicted as you were, I am Loco’s complete lack of surprise that you let Richard run up in that when I offered you my eternal love. (-:
I sympathize and I forgive you
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