learn. Jim is about to conclude perhaps he is just a failure as a language teacher, something that might be connected to the fact that the only related training he ever had for this job was a freshman college class in public speaking. "Jeemu you are a bery good teacher. I sink if we spend more time together I will make fast progress more." She is rubbing up against him! He tries to correct her grammar. "You will progress more fast, uh, I mean, you faster more progress, yes." Kimiko is looking up at him and smiling. Jim may be a little rattled but he's no idiot. He knows he is being flashed an international signal. "Kimiko, would you like to have coffee or something at a kissaten? I mean, uh, to discuss this further?" Kimiko nods her head ever so slightly and their eyes make contact for a brief instant. Jim will soon realize he will never have a problem getting laid in Japan again. He will quickly discover that he has one of the world's greatest jobs—he is getting paid to pick up girls.
Tony Watson (not his real name) has been teaching English in Tokyo since before most of his current students were born. Although he speaks quite fluent Japanese, he has never lost his Tennessee drawl in English and his taste for Jack Daniels whiskey. One night, mixing the whiskey and water in one of his favorite Shibuya hangouts, we talk about his experiences. Tony is currently living with a mid-twenties Japanese lady who is one of the most beautiful and sexy women I have ever seen. He's left her at home tonight to speak frankly. "I'd have to be an idiot to go back to the States," the balding, sandy-haired American says, clinking another ice cube into his glass. "I realized that in my prime I never would have been able to get, let alone find, the types of girls that are here." And things have gotten better, not worse, as Tony has gotten older. "Well, first of all, the girls are more beautiful than they used to be. They have better legs. Because of the diet and all, nowadays you don't see as many daikon ashi (stumpy fat legs) girls. Take a stroll through Roppongi, half the girls are bodicon, wearing scanty body-hugging outfits and they look terrific. I'm not a young man anymore but I've got the routine down. I could probably pick up a girl in ten minutes in Roppongi if I wanted to." In a nutshell, Tony discovered a long time ago that just being an English teacher qualifies him to have groupies. "Yeh, what a great way to go through life," he says laughing in between puffs on a Marlboro. "No, I'll never go back. I'm going to die a happy man here."
For the novice or the veteran, a casual affair or a permanent girlfriend is usually sitting out there in the classroom even if she seems to be wearing a mask of disinterest through the 50-minute sessions. Not everyone can or wants to teach English (or French, Italian, or Swahili) in Japan. That, however, doesn't preclude the rest of the gaijin crowd from reaping the benefits. Tokyo is dotted with English conversation lounges. Typically, they charge a reduced flat-fee for admission to foreigners (usually ¥350-¥700) which might include unlimited coffee or tea, and a pricier by-the-hour entrance charge for Japanese. The foreigners are expected to do nothing more than speak in their native language to the native visitors. Some of the female Japanese patrons are merely looking to brush up their language skills or to attempt to converse with a living, breathing foreigner. They sometimes visit from neighboring prefectures—Chiba, Saitama, and Kanagawa—where opportunities to meet native English speakers are rarer than in Tokyo. Others are gaijin groupies who desire nothing more than to enjoy sexual congress with exotic (i.e. non-Asian) men. Some even have particular predilections, tall fellows, black men, or those with lots of body hair (although most Japanese women seem to prefer those whose chests are follicularly challenged). While it is unusual but not impossible to troll a lovely out of the lounge and into a love hotel the same evening, the standard operating procedure is to exchange phone numbers and/or make a date for some other night. Within a couple of meetings it will certainly be clear whether the lass is interested only in your conversational abilities or those of a more intimate nature.
For those who just can't bear to enter a place where essentially they have to masquerade as English teacher on the meter, there are a number of other establishments in Tokyo which have gained a reputation as prime spots where young Japanese women on the prowl go to meet foreign men. At one time, certain discos in Akasaka and Roppongi met this criterion; it is less the case these days. Many women actually go to discos to do nothing more than dance with each other. Men find it hard to get a dance or a word in edgewise. Other establishments, such as Charleston or Deja Vu in Roppongi, Aspen Glow in Shibuya, or the gay-turned-reggae club 69 in Shinjuku, despite being listed in other guide books as popular hunting grounds, are well past their prime. I hesitate to select only a few to include in the contemporary hit list. It's like a fad portrayed on the cover of Time magazine—by the time it hits print it is already passé. Another fear is that publicizing something that has been merely word of mouth will ruin it. On the condition that every horny male reading this book agrees not to converge on these establishments on the same night—I will name names. Agreed? Sure, right.
The current number one is no big secret since every visitor and local ends up there eventually just to say they've been there. But it also seems to attract an inordinate number of beautiful (although a bit slutty, according to many critics) free-spirited young Japanese women. It is the Hard Rock Cafe. If you don't mind competing with US Marines (just don't get drunk and call them "bloody jarheads") and watching the girl you are pursuing bounce off other men around the crowded bar like a hockey puck, the Tokyo branch of the chain world famous for its T-shirts is the place for you. I have personally witnessed a colleague of mine on several occasions end up leaving with" a woman after less than ten minutes at the bar! "I can usually tell within a few minutes if they're game but I hang around for another few minutes just to make it not look so obvious to the girl," he says. Yeh, sure.
The present number two is an eclectic establishment close to Ogikubo Station called the Library. It is the personal domain of proprietor David G. (for God) Munoz, a literate but tough-as-nails Vietnam veteran, who makes no secret that he has first crack at any hot-looking babe that walks in the bar. On some nights there's a lot to go around so this isn't a problem. If he likes you, David will even point out the young ladies he knows are amenable and perhaps put in a good word for you in Japanese. On other nights the atmosphere can be a bit ugly with rugby-type smashed Irishmen with no visible means of support glaring down at intoxicated North American computer programmers. Munoz has no qualms (nor lack of brawn) about stepping in and breaking up the ensuing fights. A word of warning: anyone not up to Munoz's standards of behavior (which can vary widely from night to night) may find themselves summarily ejected. After all, as big Dave proclaims, the Library is now a members' club. The best advice for first-timers (who need not show a membership card): cuddle up in the corner with one of the hundreds of used paperbacks for sale and take some time to figure out the place. It is a very unique Tokyo hangout.
MEET MARKET
It seemed the answer to every bashful man's dream—a simple way to meet a pretty girl with minimal risk of rejection. The admission was under ¥1000 and the cashier explained that after the first 45 minutes an extra ¥1500 would be added on for each hour I remained. Simple enough it seemed and a hell of a lot cheaper than the run of the mill Tokyo hostess bar. But in the back of my mind, I figured, there had to be a catch.
I was seated on a long sofa extending down one side of the room. There were five tables on my side at each of which sat a guy. In the middle of each table a large sign jutted out with a number on it that was clearly visible on the other side of the room (about five meters away) where young ladies sat behind tables. The women, who appeared to be mostly in the late teens and early twenties, sat behind tables which also displayed big signs with a number. I immediately focused on Miss Five. I knew that the women were not employees of the establishment but were also customers who were charged a much smaller flat fee.
The game works like this. When a guy spots a lady he is interested in talking with he fills out a small pink form on his table and hands it to the maître d'-looking fellow who is in charge of the whole affair. To fill out the form requires a rudimentary knowledge of reading kanji. You are asked to write in the number of the lady you desire to meet, list your zodiac birth year (example rooster or rat), blood type, and your hobbies. By the time I had figured out what I was supposed to write after slowly reading my way through the
