Japanese Men

One time when I was in Japan, not SOFA but on my own as a student taking intensive Japanese courses at International Christian University, I got around on a motorcycle, a Kawasaki 750, a large motorcycle for Japan, but of a size I was used to riding since my dad taught me how. I was tired of being groped by Japanese men on the crowded commuter trains (they would cut off locks of my hair, masturbate against me, take upskirt photos...you name it) and a motorcycle was easier to thread through traffic than a car.   I did wear leathers, custom-tailored Bates, black with red trim set off with white piping, that matched the colors of my bike.  I looked quite snazzy.

Anyway, one day I rode down to Lake Hakone (Ashinoko) and fell in with some Japanese bikers and became friendly with them. They were quite curious about an American girl tooling around Japan on a "nana-han." The upshot of this was that I was interviewed by a Japanese motorcycle magazine and as part of their story they arranged for me to be an honorary "race queen" (not that kind of race but the zoom! zoom! kind) at Suzuka Circuit.  They took a number of photos of me in my leathers beside my own bike, then in a miniskirt outfit with other race queens and in a bikini posed on a race bike and with some Japanese racers, all of whom seemed exceedingly bashful.  I thought at least one or two of them would have come on to me the way American guys did, but they didn't.  They just stared furtively and took snapshots with their own cameras when I was posing for the magazine photographers and looked away when I noticed and smiled at them. When one guy did that, then glanced back sideways at me, I stuck out my tongue at him. 

 I always found Japanese guys to be very weird in their reactions to White girls, maybe just American White girls -- well, me, anyway.  If I dealt with them in some kind of normal social situation, school, business, shopping, they were formal and polite at best and at worst tongue-tied and school-boyish.  But in an anonymous situation, even in such a public place as a crowded commuter train or bus, they were perverts. I've had Japanese men more than once leave a load of pud on my haunch when I was traveling on the Chuo-sen at rush hour.  One time after getting off a jam-packed Yamanote-sen train I found two gobs of cum on my skirt.  Whoever the creeps were who did it, you can be sure neither one of them would have taken the opportunity of us being jammed together to smile and say hello, introduce himself and chat me up, like a  normal American guy would have done.  Oh, no.  Just whip out his dick and jerk off on me.  

 That didn't only happen on commuter trains.  One afternoon I was sitting on a park bench reading when I heard a rustling in the camellia bushes behind me and turned around only to see an older man dressed in a business suit with his pants dropped and his dick rampant, staring at me and vigorously masturbating.  When he saw me looking at him he began stroking himself furiously, gasped and launched his load toward me, then pulled up his pants and scurried away. I looked at his leavings glinting wetly in the sunshine and decided I could read somewhere else.  There were plenty of people in the park, by the way, some sitting within a few feet of me, but none appeared to notice what had happened.  Well, my only consolation, if such I needed, was the knowledge that Japanese men did the same things to Japanese women.

Later I read in some weekly magazine that Japanese women would deliberately go to parks where they knew pervs would be lurking just for the thrill of it.  But I don't think so.  There is no thrill in being the object of some creep's public perversions when all you want to do is get out of your crummy apartment for a change of scenery and some fresh air.  I imagine the Japanese women just accepted that they would have to put up with the slimeballs if they didn't want to stay cooped up in their 1DKs all their lives.

Speaking of 1DKs -- that's a Japanese term for an apartment that is one room plus a dining/kitchen area -- at this time I lived in such, a four-and-a-half tatami sleeping/sitting room plus a tiny kitchen with room for a small table and chair and a little bathroom.  I was usually away at school, or working -- I modeled clothing for an agency with a big department store client.  Sometimes I modeled swimsuits or lingerie.  But even in this situation, no Japanese man ever even flirted with me.  If they accidentally made eye contact with me, they would flinch as if I had slapped them.

Anyway, one day I came home to find that my apartment had been broken into.  It had a little frosted window in the entry door and someone had smashed it, reached in and opened the door from the inside.  It was only secured with a snap lock.  My little dresser had been ransacked, as had the closet and some of my underclothing was missing.  Resting atop the dresser was a pair of my panties on which the thief had ejaculated, apparently using them to masturbate with.  I didn't know who to suspect and I was uncomfortable notifying the police.  If it had been a normal burglary, I would have, but .... I told the landlord I had been burgled and he repaired the window and offered to install a double-key lock but I decided I didn't want to stay there.  Maybe one of my neighbors was the burglar, maybe even the landlord.  Who else would know which apartment was mine?  

I thought maybe my motorcycle was attracting unwanted attention, so I sold it and bought a yellow-(license) plate or kei car.  That is a really small minicar subject to much lower taxes than a regular-size or white-plate car.  My car was a stupid-looking Suzuki Wagon R that had an engine smaller than that in my motorcycle.  I thought it would not draw attention to me.  I actually liked it because, even though I was stuck in traffic that I could have threaded through easily on my bike, I could carry stuff in it, dress for my outing without need to change and fix my hair at my destination, and not feel the need to take public transportation should the weather be bad.  I did somewhat  resent the expense I had to resort to to avoid being sexually harassed -- not only the car, but also a more expensive apartment.  But better safe than sorry.  And speaking of sorry, I felt sorry for all the Japanese women who couldn't afford to escape the eternal sexual harassment -- real sexual harassment, not the current USA "me too" stuff.

Thinking about it, the position of women in Japan may be why it seems that it is almost exclusively Japanese women who immigrate to America these days.  I don't think I've ever met a Japanese man who has left Japan for permanent life in the USA.  Typically, men are university students who go back home or businessmen assigned to the States by their company.  They go back home, too.  But I know a number of Japanese women who have fled Japan for America and would not go back on a bet.

 Curiously -- to me, anyway -- White men in the States don't sexually harass me.  Darn it!  Haha.  Kidding.  Maybe....  But black men have no problem moving right in and letting me know I get their motor running, all the while being quite charming and friendly, simply openly admiring my...um...charms and expressing the desire I elicit in them.  

 I suppose this is another example of Whites being obedient to public mores, however restrictive they may be or how much they chafe under them, while blacks don't really GAF and just do whatever they feel like doing.  I suspect a lot of White guys envy them their freedom.  Of course, you can't have a civilization or even a viable civil society if everyone openly indulges their basest appetites. 

I also suppose that my getting rid of my motorcycle in order to better fit into Japanese female behavior norms is an example of being obedient to public mores.  There are always costs to just doing whatever you want to do.  Fitting in is a kind of protective mimicry.

What a contrast all this is with Japanese men!  They may have had the same desires as American black men but never expressed them to me but instead furtively satisfied themselves through me with no consideration for how their acts affected me, how I might be embarrassed, shamed, humiliated, angered or frightened by not only what they did, but the way they did it. The only way to have any influence on them might have been to shame them, but as a foreigner, an alien outsider, that wasn't possible for me.  And from what Japanese women have told me or from what I have read that they have written, Japanese women also have very little power to shame Japanese men.

Incidentally, let me make it clear that I wasn't wanting a relationship with a Japanese man, I'm just noting how they behaved toward me.  But I would gladly go out with a homesick American sailor overwhelmed by being surrounded by the teeming masses of the Orient and so happy to see a fellow Yankee round eye.