H.A.R.O.R.S.G.C.L. Part II
This Aaron Spelling Production has been brought to you by….
California’s University for Neurological Treatment (C.U.N.T.)
“Half-off your next Paxil prescription with coupon!!”
The “Mister A to Z’s Encyclopedia of Dick-Head Comments”
“Mister A: putting the “Erection” in “Correction” since 1986.”
Norfolk & Wayman Brand Contraceptives:
From Security Systems to Safe Sex - our name says it all!”
Closed captioning provided by….
Hello Kitty Cochlear Implants (a division of Sanrio)
“Let’s Enjoying Deafness!”
The LGBTQQIA association for Program Teachers sponsored a field trip to Okayama Prefecture’s “Naked Man” Festival. The real Japanese name is some baloney about peace, purity, and blah blah blah. However, from here on out, it shall be referred to with irreverence as the above name. Either way, no matter what it’s called, we knew this festival would be yet another example of glorified Japanese machismo.
Ugh!
Fortunately, a group of 20 sexually frustrated queers always know how to add a touch of flare to hallowed heterosexual bonding rituals - namely with 100-megaton nuclear flames and campy drag outfits!
Yay!
We dusted off the purple wigs, dug out the rainbow T-shirts, and scoured dollar stores from here to eternity for the last drops of glitter make-up - Admittedly, I was a *bit* of a party-pooper, since my last drag experience had left a bitter taste - let’s just say it was a disaster only the closest of friends could forgive. This time around, with so many first impressions to make, I personally chose more conservative attire: black and white pinstriped shirt with black cord pea coat and bright red scarf. Though not quite “Rocky Horror” hardcore, my Parisian Mod ensemble DEFINITELY fulfilled the “campy” prerequisite - I mean really, the line between Euro trash and Metro homo IS rather blurred. It also made a nice addition to our colorful soiree….
And boy, what a sight we were causing such a raucous in downtown Okayama!
HEY, QUICK TRL SHOUT-OUT TO ALL MY HOMEBOYS, BIANCA AND THE TOTTIE HOTTIES: NIKI, KAT, AMY, STEVE, YIH, AND DILLYPOO WHOOOOO!!!!!!!
It was one of the best times I’ve had so far in Japan. They are the kind of people that brighten my day and warm my heart. They are the kind of dear, sweet friends that make me stop and think, “My god, I am so lucky to have them! BFF!! Let’s NEVER be apart -
Wait-a-sec is that a cute boy in the corner?!?!”
And sure enough it was!!! Ho’s before bro’s, right, or is it the other way around? Eh, never mind, I ditched those lame-O’s in two seconds flat and set my sites on a hot lil’ American number. He was the kind of kid you put in your fanny pack and take home to mamma, squealin’, “Can I keep him, ma, can I?” I kind of kid you just wanna hold, and pet, and squeeze till there’s not a breath in his tiny body. But sadly, after 10 minutes there was still no spark, so I went back to hanging with my friends.
You know they are just the nicest, most sincere and caring people on Earth. I would have died a lonely death in this horrible country long ago if I had never met -
WHOOPS, stud-alert! L8er Sucka’s!
Oh, and bachelorette #2 WAS a stud. Dream-boat all the way - tall, dark, handsome AND British [swoon]. He had the moves n’ grooves, and with that accent could schmooze Schmooze SCHMOOZE!! But this guy wasn’t no scrub, baller OR shot-caller either - we’re talking real, GRADE A gentleman - I had almost forgotten what they looked liked. Blame it on the desperation. Blame it on the hormones. Either way, I was all aflutter in his presence. However, in all honestly, I also felt a bit insecure. If he was the suave knight in shining armor, the dashing Prince Charming, then who was I? Probably a not-to-fresh Princess Di, since lately my dating life seems to be such a WRECK! We cliqued great, but I feared it was just too good to be true…. After all, Lady Luck hasn’t been very smiley since I borrowed her Manolo Blahniks without asking first! A dark cloud loomed and all came crashing down when Brit boy announced both he and the American cutie were participating in the festival, and therefore would not be watching it from the sidelines with the rest of the group. Great! Here I was, dressed to the nines and left high n’ dry while my two best prospects ran off together for naked time….
I didn’t was to even be in their stuuupid festival ANYWAY!
Which leads me to the educational part of this program.
Naked Man. Outside Okayama city. Once again, each year, thousands of spectators travel far and wide for this crazy hoo-ha. Anyone (foreigners as well) can participate as long as they are a man, which in a politically correct world is quite sexist…. But you don’t hear any complaints coming from this one! For the festivities, the men (who most def numbered in the high triple digits) strip down and don teeny-weeny diaper-like pecker-packages similar to what sumo wrestlers wear (or fundoshi, if my memory serves correctly). Then, arm-in-arm, huge teams (usually grouped according to town or community) jog through the streets for miles wearing nothing but thin socks, their traditional, time-honored tighty-whities and maybe a do-rag….. Apparently, the fact that it was late winter and sleeting outside bore no impact on their decision to partake.
But it gets worse (or better, question mark???). After trotting ‘round town till their feet bleed and nips freeze, they go for a dunk in the temple’s sacred pool….
….of water….
….in February, FEBRUARY for Chrissake!!!
I assume this act of ablution has to do with purifying the body and soul (Oh that’s right, boy, scrub it! Scrub it hard! You better get on yer knees and scrub that dirty soul till its nice n’ clean!). But, it takes F-O-R-E-V-E-R to cycle these eager peeps through. Finally, after everyone’s sufficiently blue-in-the-balls and practically hears Death a knockin’, they gather in the temple courtyard to await the appearance of the head-honcho. This priest, after performing some perfunctory rites, throws into the crowd several objects (I *think* they were bundles of sticks, or something equally unassuming). Much to the participants’ chagrin, however, only one is actually sacred and the others: damnable decoys! The fortunate man who happens to steal the anointed bundle of twigs (or shall we say “capture the fag”?! tehehe!) receives an extra special blessing from the gods and eternal bragging rights to his buddies. Nevertheless, you can guess it ain’t THAT easy. If you’ve ever seen a bouquet-throwing at Ozark weddings, you get an inkling. Couple that with a punk rock head-bangers’ mosh pit, and you’re getting closer.
Plus, to make matters MORE worse (or MORE better, question mark???) the Yakuza mafia men (identifiable by their signature black bum-wrappers) will go to any violent length in order to wrestle the winnings. Imagine: a sea of wet, nearly-naked drunk egomaniacs hell-bent on tackling a piece of heaven. Things got real nasty, real quick!!
Luckily, I was above the fray. True to form, my friends and I stood safely on the side, snug as bugs in a rug and cracking on these poor hacks’ cracks! Good times, except once the 8~12 gin tonics wore off, I started irrationally entertaining fears that both crushes had since bonded over their mutual loathing of me, confessed undying love and already completed the guest list for their lilac n’ eggshell hued rehearsal dinner!
So, I was greatly relieved when some schmuck got his wretched stick and the whole damn festival ended…. Oddly, though, in most cases, my fun BEGINS when the clothes come off, right? But this time around, it was AFTER the re-frocking that things got freaky. The crowds obligatorily dashed to their respective modes of transport, while our flakey faction fell apart. Split up and lost beyond belief, I began fumbling towards the direction of the bus, which for reasons unknown, was parked like THREE MILES away! I eventually reconvened with some fellow JETs, but this didn’t brighten my day one bit. Remember:
Walking long distance + Utter darkness + Freezing sleet + Getting lost + XYZ (unknown variable accounting for copious amounts of liquor) + Bladder of a five year old girl = Cody, the unhappy camper!
You can sympathize with my pain.
The bus station was nowhere in sight. Hell, it was so DARK nothing was in sight. Then, I saw the lights ahead, scrambled forward aimlessly and WHOOSH! SPLASH!!! I’M WAIST-DEEP IN A SURGE OF STINKING-COLD WATER!!!!
[Editor’s note: at this point in the story, Cody has fallen into what’s not-so-lovingly-called a “gaijin trap.” For those who are unfamiliar, “gaijin” is a rude word for “foreigner” - literally “outside person”. And “trap” is, well, a “trap” - something you don’t want to get caught in. Basically, your run-of-the-mill gaijin trap is a irrigation ditch. See, Japan is very small, and very crowded. All topographical features fall under 1 of 4 categories: concrete, Japanese people, mountains, or rice paddies. This is not exactly ideal for water displacement, and so therefore, the country is riddled with EXTENSIVE irrigation networks, lest the whole place turn Biblical after each storm or snowmelt. They are almost never filled with raw human sewage - that was Cody being dramatic to get your attention. But, they are filled with gunky rain runoff and swamp-paddy muck! Most ditches are little more than tripping hazards, but a few can swallow whole people. They are also ideal for trapping car wheels, especially those belonging to unsuspecting, international license-carrying gaijin.]
Ok, so laugh, laugh ALL you want! Hardy har-har!! But know that I was NOT alone in my fate. Like Bob Jones’ lemming parade, a dozen or so others had plunged as well. I was miserable, but at least misery likes company. I found out my dear friend Katherine had lost her digital camera to the watery beast. And I also discovered that, lo and behold, Brit boy too had been one of the misfortunates! The three of us, like drowned rats or filthy street urchins of old London, huddled together on the bus all the way back to Okayama proper. Once at the hotel, we made a beeline for our rooms with little on our minds except hot showers and warm beds. Stuffed like sardines in the rickety elevator, and smelling twice as bad, we shuddered with frost-bite. Suddenly, Brit boy lamented that he didn’t have a dry change of clothes nor a penny to his name. Me, being the consummate over-packer and worry-wart, blurted out (without missing a beat), “You can borrow something of mine.” I can be so naïve!
With smiles on our faces, we went to my room and, well…. Oh, I can’t go into the details! You all know how shy I am about sex! Let’s just say…. Let’s just sat he got “into my pants” in more than one way!!
Soooo, that’s it. That’s the story. The end!! Sorry for the two-part cliff hanger - ugh, somehow I managed (as always) to take a mediocre tale and drag it out for pages and pages. In hindsight, I know it was just a one-night-stand with a somewhat amusing back story. I know it was one long poop joke that ended in *shock* Cody being idiotically laughable.
Big deal! What’s the fuss?! You mean I read the whole damn thing and all I got was this stupid T-shirt?!?!
Well, hmmm, it certainly all makes me chuckle now - the whole incident, I mean. But the day after it happened, there was a deep sickness in the pit of my stomach. Brit boy was a hook-up, plain and simple. But I can’t help but curse spiteful Fate for winning again. The boy and I shared a few brief moments - on the bus, shivering in my room - those perfectly awkward, innocent moments right before the first kiss, or when you’re curled up together like kittens - when a few small pieces of the puzzle seen to fall into place. No, I’m not in love - lonely and in lust, yes, but NOT in love. Still, I wonder if circumstances had been different, if he didn’t live 15 hours away by train….. what would my life be like now? Instead, I had another near miss; I had another close call…. I add another name to the long list of “Oh-what-could-have-been boys.” I just hope Lady Luck forgives me soon. It would be nice to meet that British boy again in THIS lifetime, and not in the next when we’re both reborn as daffodils.
In the meantime, I’ll be single and alone again, waiting for the next Prince Charming, and working that “3 ton lingam line” in every bar this side o’ Lake Biwa….
California’s University for Neurological Treatment (C.U.N.T.)
“Half-off your next Paxil prescription with coupon!!”
The “Mister A to Z’s Encyclopedia of Dick-Head Comments”
“Mister A: putting the “Erection” in “Correction” since 1986.”
Norfolk & Wayman Brand Contraceptives:
From Security Systems to Safe Sex - our name says it all!”
Closed captioning provided by….
Hello Kitty Cochlear Implants (a division of Sanrio)
“Let’s Enjoying Deafness!”
The LGBTQQIA association for Program Teachers sponsored a field trip to Okayama Prefecture’s “Naked Man” Festival. The real Japanese name is some baloney about peace, purity, and blah blah blah. However, from here on out, it shall be referred to with irreverence as the above name. Either way, no matter what it’s called, we knew this festival would be yet another example of glorified Japanese machismo.
Ugh!
Fortunately, a group of 20 sexually frustrated queers always know how to add a touch of flare to hallowed heterosexual bonding rituals - namely with 100-megaton nuclear flames and campy drag outfits!
Yay!
We dusted off the purple wigs, dug out the rainbow T-shirts, and scoured dollar stores from here to eternity for the last drops of glitter make-up - Admittedly, I was a *bit* of a party-pooper, since my last drag experience had left a bitter taste - let’s just say it was a disaster only the closest of friends could forgive. This time around, with so many first impressions to make, I personally chose more conservative attire: black and white pinstriped shirt with black cord pea coat and bright red scarf. Though not quite “Rocky Horror” hardcore, my Parisian Mod ensemble DEFINITELY fulfilled the “campy” prerequisite - I mean really, the line between Euro trash and Metro homo IS rather blurred. It also made a nice addition to our colorful soiree….
And boy, what a sight we were causing such a raucous in downtown Okayama!
HEY, QUICK TRL SHOUT-OUT TO ALL MY HOMEBOYS, BIANCA AND THE TOTTIE HOTTIES: NIKI, KAT, AMY, STEVE, YIH, AND DILLYPOO WHOOOOO!!!!!!!
It was one of the best times I’ve had so far in Japan. They are the kind of people that brighten my day and warm my heart. They are the kind of dear, sweet friends that make me stop and think, “My god, I am so lucky to have them! BFF!! Let’s NEVER be apart -
Wait-a-sec is that a cute boy in the corner?!?!”
And sure enough it was!!! Ho’s before bro’s, right, or is it the other way around? Eh, never mind, I ditched those lame-O’s in two seconds flat and set my sites on a hot lil’ American number. He was the kind of kid you put in your fanny pack and take home to mamma, squealin’, “Can I keep him, ma, can I?” I kind of kid you just wanna hold, and pet, and squeeze till there’s not a breath in his tiny body. But sadly, after 10 minutes there was still no spark, so I went back to hanging with my friends.
You know they are just the nicest, most sincere and caring people on Earth. I would have died a lonely death in this horrible country long ago if I had never met -
WHOOPS, stud-alert! L8er Sucka’s!
Oh, and bachelorette #2 WAS a stud. Dream-boat all the way - tall, dark, handsome AND British [swoon]. He had the moves n’ grooves, and with that accent could schmooze Schmooze SCHMOOZE!! But this guy wasn’t no scrub, baller OR shot-caller either - we’re talking real, GRADE A gentleman - I had almost forgotten what they looked liked. Blame it on the desperation. Blame it on the hormones. Either way, I was all aflutter in his presence. However, in all honestly, I also felt a bit insecure. If he was the suave knight in shining armor, the dashing Prince Charming, then who was I? Probably a not-to-fresh Princess Di, since lately my dating life seems to be such a WRECK! We cliqued great, but I feared it was just too good to be true…. After all, Lady Luck hasn’t been very smiley since I borrowed her Manolo Blahniks without asking first! A dark cloud loomed and all came crashing down when Brit boy announced both he and the American cutie were participating in the festival, and therefore would not be watching it from the sidelines with the rest of the group. Great! Here I was, dressed to the nines and left high n’ dry while my two best prospects ran off together for naked time….
I didn’t was to even be in their stuuupid festival ANYWAY!
Which leads me to the educational part of this program.
Naked Man. Outside Okayama city. Once again, each year, thousands of spectators travel far and wide for this crazy hoo-ha. Anyone (foreigners as well) can participate as long as they are a man, which in a politically correct world is quite sexist…. But you don’t hear any complaints coming from this one! For the festivities, the men (who most def numbered in the high triple digits) strip down and don teeny-weeny diaper-like pecker-packages similar to what sumo wrestlers wear (or fundoshi, if my memory serves correctly). Then, arm-in-arm, huge teams (usually grouped according to town or community) jog through the streets for miles wearing nothing but thin socks, their traditional, time-honored tighty-whities and maybe a do-rag….. Apparently, the fact that it was late winter and sleeting outside bore no impact on their decision to partake.
But it gets worse (or better, question mark???). After trotting ‘round town till their feet bleed and nips freeze, they go for a dunk in the temple’s sacred pool….
….of water….
….in February, FEBRUARY for Chrissake!!!
I assume this act of ablution has to do with purifying the body and soul (Oh that’s right, boy, scrub it! Scrub it hard! You better get on yer knees and scrub that dirty soul till its nice n’ clean!). But, it takes F-O-R-E-V-E-R to cycle these eager peeps through. Finally, after everyone’s sufficiently blue-in-the-balls and practically hears Death a knockin’, they gather in the temple courtyard to await the appearance of the head-honcho. This priest, after performing some perfunctory rites, throws into the crowd several objects (I *think* they were bundles of sticks, or something equally unassuming). Much to the participants’ chagrin, however, only one is actually sacred and the others: damnable decoys! The fortunate man who happens to steal the anointed bundle of twigs (or shall we say “capture the fag”?! tehehe!) receives an extra special blessing from the gods and eternal bragging rights to his buddies. Nevertheless, you can guess it ain’t THAT easy. If you’ve ever seen a bouquet-throwing at Ozark weddings, you get an inkling. Couple that with a punk rock head-bangers’ mosh pit, and you’re getting closer.
Plus, to make matters MORE worse (or MORE better, question mark???) the Yakuza mafia men (identifiable by their signature black bum-wrappers) will go to any violent length in order to wrestle the winnings. Imagine: a sea of wet, nearly-naked drunk egomaniacs hell-bent on tackling a piece of heaven. Things got real nasty, real quick!!
Luckily, I was above the fray. True to form, my friends and I stood safely on the side, snug as bugs in a rug and cracking on these poor hacks’ cracks! Good times, except once the 8~12 gin tonics wore off, I started irrationally entertaining fears that both crushes had since bonded over their mutual loathing of me, confessed undying love and already completed the guest list for their lilac n’ eggshell hued rehearsal dinner!
So, I was greatly relieved when some schmuck got his wretched stick and the whole damn festival ended…. Oddly, though, in most cases, my fun BEGINS when the clothes come off, right? But this time around, it was AFTER the re-frocking that things got freaky. The crowds obligatorily dashed to their respective modes of transport, while our flakey faction fell apart. Split up and lost beyond belief, I began fumbling towards the direction of the bus, which for reasons unknown, was parked like THREE MILES away! I eventually reconvened with some fellow JETs, but this didn’t brighten my day one bit. Remember:
Walking long distance + Utter darkness + Freezing sleet + Getting lost + XYZ (unknown variable accounting for copious amounts of liquor) + Bladder of a five year old girl = Cody, the unhappy camper!
You can sympathize with my pain.
The bus station was nowhere in sight. Hell, it was so DARK nothing was in sight. Then, I saw the lights ahead, scrambled forward aimlessly and WHOOSH! SPLASH!!! I’M WAIST-DEEP IN A SURGE OF STINKING-COLD WATER!!!!
[Editor’s note: at this point in the story, Cody has fallen into what’s not-so-lovingly-called a “gaijin trap.” For those who are unfamiliar, “gaijin” is a rude word for “foreigner” - literally “outside person”. And “trap” is, well, a “trap” - something you don’t want to get caught in. Basically, your run-of-the-mill gaijin trap is a irrigation ditch. See, Japan is very small, and very crowded. All topographical features fall under 1 of 4 categories: concrete, Japanese people, mountains, or rice paddies. This is not exactly ideal for water displacement, and so therefore, the country is riddled with EXTENSIVE irrigation networks, lest the whole place turn Biblical after each storm or snowmelt. They are almost never filled with raw human sewage - that was Cody being dramatic to get your attention. But, they are filled with gunky rain runoff and swamp-paddy muck! Most ditches are little more than tripping hazards, but a few can swallow whole people. They are also ideal for trapping car wheels, especially those belonging to unsuspecting, international license-carrying gaijin.]
Ok, so laugh, laugh ALL you want! Hardy har-har!! But know that I was NOT alone in my fate. Like Bob Jones’ lemming parade, a dozen or so others had plunged as well. I was miserable, but at least misery likes company. I found out my dear friend Katherine had lost her digital camera to the watery beast. And I also discovered that, lo and behold, Brit boy too had been one of the misfortunates! The three of us, like drowned rats or filthy street urchins of old London, huddled together on the bus all the way back to Okayama proper. Once at the hotel, we made a beeline for our rooms with little on our minds except hot showers and warm beds. Stuffed like sardines in the rickety elevator, and smelling twice as bad, we shuddered with frost-bite. Suddenly, Brit boy lamented that he didn’t have a dry change of clothes nor a penny to his name. Me, being the consummate over-packer and worry-wart, blurted out (without missing a beat), “You can borrow something of mine.” I can be so naïve!
With smiles on our faces, we went to my room and, well…. Oh, I can’t go into the details! You all know how shy I am about sex! Let’s just say…. Let’s just sat he got “into my pants” in more than one way!!
Soooo, that’s it. That’s the story. The end!! Sorry for the two-part cliff hanger - ugh, somehow I managed (as always) to take a mediocre tale and drag it out for pages and pages. In hindsight, I know it was just a one-night-stand with a somewhat amusing back story. I know it was one long poop joke that ended in *shock* Cody being idiotically laughable.
Big deal! What’s the fuss?! You mean I read the whole damn thing and all I got was this stupid T-shirt?!?!
Well, hmmm, it certainly all makes me chuckle now - the whole incident, I mean. But the day after it happened, there was a deep sickness in the pit of my stomach. Brit boy was a hook-up, plain and simple. But I can’t help but curse spiteful Fate for winning again. The boy and I shared a few brief moments - on the bus, shivering in my room - those perfectly awkward, innocent moments right before the first kiss, or when you’re curled up together like kittens - when a few small pieces of the puzzle seen to fall into place. No, I’m not in love - lonely and in lust, yes, but NOT in love. Still, I wonder if circumstances had been different, if he didn’t live 15 hours away by train….. what would my life be like now? Instead, I had another near miss; I had another close call…. I add another name to the long list of “Oh-what-could-have-been boys.” I just hope Lady Luck forgives me soon. It would be nice to meet that British boy again in THIS lifetime, and not in the next when we’re both reborn as daffodils.
In the meantime, I’ll be single and alone again, waiting for the next Prince Charming, and working that “3 ton lingam line” in every bar this side o’ Lake Biwa….