click here for pt 1
Not to suggest that white guys weren’t doing the same thing. Of course they were. And, having a much easier go of it, at that (due to that White Worship thing I discussed previously which transformed almost every white guy into Charisma Men!) . They’d share their exploits with me from time to time. Some with a bit of shame attached to it, like they ought to know better but “I am a man, after all, and there’s but so much a man can do against the animal magnetism I have here. Resistance is indeed futile, on both sides!”
Some of the white guys I’ve known here, though, avoid the stigma of being Charisma Men by avoiding Japanese women altogether, or at least they’d claim to. Some even claimed to take the high road, able to resist J-girl charms due to sound principals, morals and values instilled in them from solid upbringing. These walking/talking testaments to good parentage would settle in with the first J-girl that came along.
Joe and Greg, my roommates, were a couple of handsome guys. Joe was even blond and blue-eyed, young, talented, sharp (when sober) and had money. Basically, the J-girl wet dream. And, Greg was no slouch, either. Had more personality and a better sense of humor than most of the guys I’ve met here. But did they capitalize crazily on their appeal? Nope. Why? From what I could tell, they were either too shy or too inebriated to be bothered.
But, African-American cats…geezus! You’d think they never had pussy before, or they’d just got out of prison, or something. Most would wear their exploits proudly like a badge of honor. Myself included. I’d try to be subtle with it, but once I’d get in the mix with the black braggadocio, and got a little liquored up, it was on like popcorn. A whole night could be spent in bombastic jubilation over belt notches. I can’t recall even one African American cat even attempting to be subtle or reserved on the matter. It was as if our conquests provided long sought confirmation that we were, indeed, Da Men!
Damon was the epitome of such a guy…he took it to a level that got me to thinking there had to be something wrong with what we were doing. A reaction I usually had when I suffered guilt pangs. Maybe it was because I’d recently met someone…someone who was becoming special to me at the time. Despite her membership in the “We” gang, Aiko was an individual, and I was digging her. As good as it felt to bang J-girls with abandonment, it was starting to lose its allure.
One night, desiring some “Real” talk for a change, I turned on Damon and asked, “why do you think we do this shit?”
I was drunk but not overly so. So was he. He looked at me and nodded towards two J-girls who’d just crossed the threshold of the bar we were at in Shinjuku. “What? Are you gay, nigga? Look at this buffet! And, you gotta ask?”
“Nah, I’m serious, though.”
He took a sip on the beer he’d been nursing and checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. I’m surprised he didn’t keep a mirror in his attache case, one of his accessories. Fuck did a Nova Instructor need with an attache case? He also had, being a toy freak, all the latest gadgets Yodabashi Camera had to offer. He also had conversation pieces. Shit he’d picked up for its “kawaii-ness” (cuteness). Stuff J-girls would get a kick out of and served to neutralize some of that fear they have of anyone darker than a cafe au lait. Little doodads that gave the impression he had a soft creamy center to his hard chocolaty exterior.
He glanced at me, realizing I was watching him.
“They came here for us, nigga! Time to represent!” he said, like it was end of the discussion. “You with this, or what?”
He was already getting up off his stool. Damon had a very commanding way about him, but he usually reserved that shit for the other jokers at the office. With me, he’d usually ease back on his throttle due to the Street Cred he perceived me as having.
I glanced over at his prey for the moment, the two girls who’d just walked in. It was a gaijin bar so there was no doubt why they’d come. It was just a matter of who got to them first and had the best game. Unless it was some white boys. They didn’t need much game. Damon had already thrown his hat in the ring, and was waiting on me. Two white guys were hovering, I’d noticed, giving the girls a chance to at least take off their sweaters and sit down before they swooped in. Damon wasn’t about to let them do that. I knew his game so well. He’d told me of being cock-blocked by crackers too many times.
“Nah, you go ahead…”
“Awright,” he said, undeterred, as he turned their way. But, just as he took a step towards them, the two white guys moved in. Two cornballs, at that. One wearing a Space Invaders T-shirt, the other wearing a leather vest, fr’chrissakes. Both holding gay-looking cocktails. Probably European. Damon stopped in his tracks and wheeled on me. I could see in his eyes he was going through his mental J-playbook for this scenario. “How do you cock-block two Charisma Cornballs and walk away with the goods, on your own, and not come off as being so aggressive you’d scare the shit outta the bitches?”
He struggled with the strategy…for a hot 20 seconds. Probably concluding that though the accomplishment would fit nicely on his pimp resume, to do so solo would require more effort than he’d gotten used to expending on J-girls. He was spoiled. In Canada he’d have never let it go at that, from what he’d told me.
“Fuck it, they’ll be more…” he said. And he was right of course. There was always more of where that came from. The night was young and he’d hardly spent ￥1000 yet. So, he sat back down.
“So, what the fuck is your problem?”
“Nothing, ” I sighed. “Just not up for the hunt tonight.”
“Then why the fuck you come out?” He snapped, irritated. “You know what I’m about!”
That was true, and I started feeling bad about cramping his style having agreed to be there.
“Sorry, yo…my bad.”
“You feel guilty, don’t you? Man, I told you about that. This ain’t no Judeo-Christian society here. So, you need to leave those Judeo-Christian values with the Jews and Christians. When in Rome…you knowhutumsayin? These bitches just want to fuck…and so do we. It’s a match made in Tokyo! You can’t be applying all that western bullshit you got up in your head to these bitches. Trust me. I talk to them. I know them. I understand them better than these Japanese motherfuckers do. ”
“Is that a fact?”
“NiiiigGaaaa!” he sang, exasperated. He hated to be doubted and felt his supremacy, as far as knowledge and experience were concerned, to be irrefutable. A true connoisseur of Japanese people. “You practically just got here, son. I’ve been up in this piece four years already. I’d consider myself an imbecile if I didn’t know these bitches better than they Mamas do. And, trust me, son, you are what they’re all about! You! Not these corny-ass white boys and definitely not these faggot-ass Japanese motherfuckers. You!”
By “you” he meant himself.
“Listen, I feel you, but…”
“Take those two for example…” he said, cutting me off, pointing at the two white boys conspicuously, hoping they’d notice. He was obviously still a little salty about their interception. “Sure, they got that Euro-trash punk rock thing going, and these bitches definitely go for that, but…”
” Yo, Dee…bust it…”
“Huh? Bust what?” he looked around like danger had walked in the door and I’d been trying to cue him in. Sometimes he didn’t understand my slang. Granted it was New York slang and kinda old-school, at that. Plus I had a few years on him. And, he was Canadian, hard as he tried to front that like he wasn’t.
“I mean, check this out…” I said. “I feel you on all uh dat, but…well…I kinda met someone and…”
“So what! I got a girl too,” he said, shaking his head. “Man, ain’t I taught you nothing?
“Taught me?” I spat, putting down my beer, screwing up my face. “Yo, Son, don’t get beside yourself! You aint said nothing I ain’t heard a thousand times from a thousand wanna-be pimps on a thousand corners! Niggers in New York come out the womb kicking the same game you kicking. You ain’t taught me shit!”
“Yo, Chill Loco!” he pleaded. “Why you getting all uptight? I’m just fuckin’ with you!”
“Cuz you don’t listen…all you do is run your mouth!”
“Alright, fuck it,” he said. “So, what was it you said? Something like, ‘why do we do this shit?’ right? See, I be listening to you…”
“So answer the question!”
And I laughed. Mostly because it was almost impossible to get some “Real” talk out of anybody, and I felt silly for even trying.
“Seriously, though…” he said, suddenly, with a straight face. “Tell me this Japanese pussy ain’t the fucking bomb! I mean, I ain’t no fucking charisma man. I don’t know about you but I used to get mad pussy back home, too…and not the skanks, either. Quality pussy… from all kinds of bitches: White bitches, Black bitches, Mexican bitches, even Chinese bitches… but there’s something about these Japanese bitches that just makes banging them more…more something.”
Couldn’t have a conversation with Damon without him finding a way to mention that he wasn’t a charisma man (and that he wasn’t sure about your status) and that he’d always had more than his fair share of women. His constant assertion of this, to me, spoke to his insecurity on the matter and made me wonder whether he was being on the level or not. Of course I knew what he was talking about when he said Japanese girls had a certain ‘something’. I used to call that something the J-factor.
But, at the time, I was trying to deconstruct the J-factor, trying to understand it better.
“Maybe you hate them,” I said, hoping to shock him.
He actually thought about it for a second, shocking me.
“Maybe,” he said, and shrugged, like its relevance was inconsequential at best. “How Snoop Dogg say it…’I don’t love them hoes…'”
And he laughed.
“I mean. look at them!” he ordered, scanning the bar. “What’s to love?”
He’d had a point, but there had to me more to it than that.
…to be continued