Turning Japanese
by Clive Arno

JAPAN- Two hundred miles off the coast, is the tiny little island of Okinawa. Riding in a honcho heading downtown, listening to Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Way of the World” over the speakers. The cab driver had asked me if wanted “Coco-jinn” or “Gai-jinn”. Seeing how I was a black man, and that’s what “Coco-jinn” means, he suspected which one to play. I didn’t disappoint him. I selected Coco-jinn. Now I’m on my way to B.C street listening to a tape of 70’s R+B. In the twenty-five minute drive, I took in the surroundings and let my mind wander.

The weather is a pleasant 85* degrees, gorgeous beaches, breathtaking mountains and a race of the most kind and honorable people you’ll ever meet. In this utopia a black man can find peace with himself and be judged by his character, and not the color of his skin. There’s just one thing...

I wanted off this fucking rock.

I’ve been stuck here for six months now, and I’ve done everything I could to keep my mind and body busy. I wanted to go home, and wanted to go in the worst way. I wanted to be where I could see sisters in all their beautiful shades of chocolate. Where women squeezed eight pounds of ass in five pound jeans. Women wore see though shirts with no bra, and hairstyles so complicated architects are kept guessing. and most of all I just wanted to see women over 5’ feet tall.

Six months is a long time to go without sex, extremely long. I could hear my blood pounding in my ears, pounding like drums in the distance, Nothing would silence the drums, not walking the island from end to end, learning to speak Japanese, jogging, reading or drowning them with alcohol, I tried. The six beers I drank that day only told me what I had to do. It was time to sample the local delicacies, and there’s only one place for that.

“B.C” street.

One of the first things they tell you when you land in Okinawa is “don’t drink any of the local drinks as they may contain small amounts of opium” and “stay off B.C street”. So with two hundred dollars in my pockets, it’s only natural that’s where I would be heading. Anybody that’s been there more than once, they know that the “B.C” means “bring cash”. It has enough lights, neon and billboards to make Las Vegas look like a January Christmas tree. B.C street is a place where everything is for sale. Sex, drugs and any other desire you might have is for sale, and all at a reasonable price. I’ve heard some people describe it as hell, and would never go back. Some guys say if there’s a heaven, B.C street was a part of it and would never go back to the states. It seemed like a good idea to find out for myself.

Once there, I muscled my way up to a takeout window at a restaurant to get something to eat. All that alcohol on a empty stomach is not good. I ordered “Yaka Soba”, a dish made with noodles, vegetables and chicken. I hope it was chicken. Anyway, “when in Rome...” or is it Japan? I’m feeling pretty good walking up the street, taking in the sights and sounds. People are everywhere, It’s funny seeing that many people of one race, it’s also a little isolating too. After a while of rubber-necking everything started to look the same. Then I saw her. She stood about a inch taller than everyone else. Somewhere in the distance I heard the music “Suki Yaki”.

She had a beautiful face, if you ever got up that far. Her eyes were set a little too close together and her lips too full for the classic Japanese look, but just right for my taste. She had on a gray two piece knit skirt set, her flesh yielded and strained against the outfit in all the right places. Her jet black hair flowed past her shoulders in a loose ponytail. She floated her way up to me, looked me directly in the eyes and said “Hi” and kept walking. Now, in America that doesn’t mean anything, but here women never make eye contact, and seldom speak to strangers. That “Hi” was as blatant a come on as your going to get. One minute and half a block later, my brain processed that information, and I went running back up the street in search of her. “Sajdsjkh roiewoi v,m osdiffoie?” that’s me trying to speak Japanese after six Heinekens. In my mind I could see a dictionary with the phase “stupid American” in it, and next to it is a picture of me. Fortunately, she spoke English better than I did Japanese.

“What you name”

“Arno, Clive Arno” I thought I could recover some cool points with the 007 opening.

“What’s your name?” I said, this time in English.

My name is Lena.

“Lena” That’s a very pretty nam-

“Lena Horne”.

What?

It can be “Chaka Khan” if you want it to be she said confidently.

Ooooookay, so much for the “delicate flower of the orient” bullshit.

You wanna drink? You buy drink. You see banana show. she rattled off quickly.

“Banana show”, as I said before, B.C street is lousy with bars, and most of the bars have shows. You can tell what kind it is by what’s in front of the word “show”. Whatever the word is, what it really means is “I’m gonna have sex with it”. Now, you have several different types of shows, Banana Shows, Snake Shows, Bottle Shows and Donkey Shows. let’s not talk about that last show. She took me by the hand and led me up a flight of stairs into a bar that had a man out front yelling about a banana show. Inside, the bar was dark, with tiny dots of illumination above dozens of small tables. Lena, I decided a liked that name best, led us to one of the tables against the wall with a good view of the stage. A waitress immediately showed up, and Lena ordered me a drink in Japanese that I was to drunk or too ignorant to understand. I took a moment to look around the club, even in the afternoon the bar was half full with tourist, natives and military personal from every American branch. All being catered to by beautiful women in exotic stages of undress. Then our waitress returned.

$20 dollars!! you’ve got to be kidding, look at the size of that glass, it’s like a thimble on steroids. I was just about to decide that I had had enough for one day, and was going to leave. Then I heard the drums in the distance. Awwww hell, what the fuck. I came this far, might as well see it though. I paid the woman, downed the drink, lit a cigarette and started to wonder how long I was going to let my dick lead me around.
The lights went dim, a spotlight fell on stage.

The woman standing there looked a little tired, but you could tell not too long ago she was beautiful. Wearing a tradition kimono, red with gold dragons woven into it. She had that white makeup on her face, giving her skin the look of porcelain. The lipstick was the same red as the robe. Adding to the contrast, jet black hair framed her face and fell way below her waist . Oh yeah, she had a banana.

Suddenly, I wasn’t angry anymore. A feeling of relaxation washed over me in waves from my midsection. Like falling asleep in front of a window on a winter day, I felt warm and toasty. Remember those drinks I told you about? I think I just drank one. Everyone’s attention was now glued to the stage, my own included. That’s when Lena’s hands went under the table.

I jumped, then I realized what she was doing. turning to look at her, Lena’s face did not betray her actions. Her delicate hands found my zipper and set free the beast, and with gentle caresses and strokes began to tame it. The first half of the dance was pretty normal. But I was thrilled. Hey, when a woman’s stroking your dick like a genie’s going to pop out and grant three wishes, everything’s better.

On stage, dancer and banana had managed to shed their outer layers. To the cheering and yells of the crowd, the banana disappeared in the Bermuda triangle at her thighs.

I came in Lena’s hand. It was not a ordinary orgasm, no shudder, no heavy breathing. Just a quiet release, it just eased out. Just before the lights came up, Lena used a napkin off the table to clean up my enthusiasm, and placed me back in my cage. She then licked her fingers as if finishing the last bite of some delicious meal. Smiling, she said: “you like?”
Take a guess.

Meanwhile, banana dancer was writhing her body around for the big finish. She squatted over a bowl, and pushed the banana out. This in and of itself is no big deal, except the banana came out in slices. The neat kind you would find on top of your corn flakes in the morning. This drove’em wild, and men ran up to the stage to eat the slices out of the bowl. “The breakfast of champions”.

The warm feeling that washed over me, turned into a tidal wave. Suddenly, their were twins on stage and the club got twice as crowded. I was about to pass out, and I knew I had to get out of there. I stood up to leave, but my legs thought different. I couldn’t make it out of the bar without help, and Lena had went somewhere. I hoped it was the restroom. When she came back, I would get her to help me to a honcho. Then I noticed two Japanese guys. They were dressed like James Dean. Even though he’s been dead for decades, he’s still an idol. Him and Marilyn Monroe. Talking, laughing and staring at me like I was a turkey in November. You didn’t have to understand the language to know that I was in shit. The deep kind.

I manage to get my legs under me, and was off like a prom dress. A miracle on earth was performed, because I made down those steps without breaking my neck. At the top of the stairs, “James Dean” one and two were watching me. Outside, I made my way up the street using parking meters as walking sticks. Just another American whose had too much sake to anyone who bothered to noticed me. I looked around for some J.P’s that I could ask for help. Just like in America, there’s never any cops around when you need one.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Spinning around quickly, fist raised, whatever fight I had left in me, they were going to get. It was Lena. “You come with me” she said. “Hurry”. She led me down the street and though alleys until we arrived at a large white house. Inside, the house was well decorated and Japanese women in different colors of camisoles and teddy’s laid around like well fed kittens.

When we entered her room, the drumbeats stopped. Everything was painted in soft pastel colors, with a few stuffed animals here and there. It was her taste in furniture that bothered me. On the far wall was a huge wooden X with shackles at each corner. Centered directly over the bed, connected to the ceiling, was a series of ropes, pulleys and leather straps. The room looked like it belonged to that purple dinosaur, and he was into bondage. Fuck, I was about to be kidnapped and sold into slavery, or worse. Lena weighed what, a buck-ten. Somebody was about to get their ass kicked. She read the expression on my face. “No,no, you like, you see” she said excitedly, putting her hands on my shoulders forcing me back on the bed. Hell, she did that too easily. I was in no shape to fight anybody.

I felt like a car stuck in gears. My body wouldn’t move, but my heart was racing. Lena worked me out of my clothes. Whatdaya know, I still had a hard-on. I guess all this excitement got me, well ....excited. Great. Who-knows-what is about to happen to me, and I’m still thinking about sex. Fucking great.

Lena removed her clothes. She revealed that everything was even better than I imagined. Lena wasn’t thin, she ate and was proud of her body. She was athletic, healthy, not obsessed with her weight. She wasn’t a boy with boobs, she was soft all over, she was all woman. She had a scent to her, Lena’s hair and skin smelled of Japan. When we kissed, her skin even tasted different.

“You like” she reassured. She then started to work her way into the apparatus suspended itself over the bed. The thimble drink still in my system, and relived that I wasn’t the one getting strapped into that thing. I began to laugh uncontrollably. Lena looked like some kind of oversized puppet.

Once everything was securely in place, wrist, ankles and hips, suspended over me, she began to rotate herself the way a child does in a swing. After several turns, and making sure her pussy was the lowest point of her body, her legs completely horizontal, she lowered the boom. Lena eased me into her warm comforting place, and we both moaned in pleasure. She released the rope that kept the harness twisted, and began to spin on my dick like the propellers on a helicopter.

Five, four, three, tw- I came. That’s it. Game over. I’m done. What a rush! The feeling was indescribable. Laying there trying to catch my breath, Lena was laughing, it sounded like the tinkle of wind chimes on a warm summer night. Taking off the contraption, she said: You like yes? Obviously proud of her work. “Yeah, it was all right” I said. Thinking to myself: “I gotta get one of these things back in the states”. Laying on the bed, I felt like a baby waiting for it’s diaper to be changed. I wasn’t going to fight the drink anymore. Unable to move, I would close my eyes and fall to sleep. Lena walked over and opened the door. Standing there were the “November boys”. Grinning, using the ones with all the teeth in it. I was helpless, I had already started my descent into oblivion, and I couldn’t fight my way out of it. What the hell, maybe it was just my time. Fuck.

Somewhere in the darkness, I knew I was laying flat on my back. In the distance, there was a phone ringing, and I wish it would stop. It was the cheap kind that sounded like birds chirping. Why didn’t someone answer the damn thing? I opened my eyes, and wished I hadn’t. The sun burned them like a magnifying glass on ants. Whatdaya know, I was outside. It wasn’t a phone after all, it really was birds. Now I wished someone would shoot’em.

My head had a small construction crew working in it, and my tongue needed a shave. I manage to wobble to my feet, and saw four other guys sprawled on the lawn of the hotel, looking like they were trying to make snow angels in the grass. The events of the night before started to come back to me. I thanked God I was still alive, and then checked my pockets. My wallet was a hundred and forty dollars lighter than when the day started. A hundred and forty dollars. Hmmmm. Y’know, maybe Japan isn’t such a bad place after all. I mean, we should always take every opportunity to learn about different races and cultures. ...Right?

Clive Arno
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