Suffice to say, my relationship with Yoko never really got beyond that incident in that old shed.
Eventually she used that age-old line: “You don’t love me for me. You just use me to help you fulfill your sick fetish for soiled schoolgirl panties.”
She just didn’t understand me.
It’s research. It’s anthropological research.
And anyway, we all use each other. The j-girls bloody use me up and spit me out.
Naho was a cute little thing. I say to Naho this one time, I say to her, “So, little lady, how’s about if I take you out for a steak dinner?”
So says Naho, “I’d love to. When?”
“How’s Friday night sound butterfly?” It’s all on.
“Great! Can I invite my friend Michiko? She is interested in practising her English too.”
She’s interested in practising her English too.
Is that right eh?
How discreet. Well is it ok if I invite my mate, Hairy Pete? He’s interested in shagging you too…
* * * * *
Anyway, it ended up being Wako who became my real partner in panty-crime. I took her out on a dozen dates, before she finally broke the news to me that she had a boyfriend. And a daughter. And a husband.
You get that though. We hit Shibuya one night. For her it was a date. For me, another opportunity to sniff out some panties.
Across mighty Shibuya Crossing, to Senta Gai. Straight off the bat I got kicked out of a sex-information shop by the proprietor who, in broken English, calmly and apologetically explained that this store was only for Japanese men, and that I had to leave.
Not to allow this to break my stride, I tried in the police station: “burusera wa dokudesuka?” – using my expert grip on the language: “Where are soiled schoolgirls panties?”
I actually get that look far more often than you’d expect – three policemen looking at me as though they’d just scraped me off their shoe. Before they bark at me to get out of the station.
Obviously a ‘Japanese-only’ police station as well.
But pounding the streets block by block, and Wako grabbed my sleeve. And pointed. There it was, in hiragana, a sign surrounded by oscillating yellow lightbulbs, saying burusera.
This was it. My breathing came shallow, and my chest was hollow.
I slowly, in awe, made my approach. Wako slightly behind me, the way Japanese girls always walk behind you, never beside.
I pushed open the coloured strips of curtain, and we entered the shrine.
I felt I should genuflect.
Obviously it’s kind of embarrassing when you’re in a sex shop with your date, looking for sweaty used panties. But not as embarrassing as you’d think. Wako was intrigued by this whole idea too.
But still it is a sex-shop, and you’re just bombarded with blatant spread apart looking-at-women’s-internal-organs nudity. You don’t know where to look. Whoops there’s a big pair o’ titties, spin around, whoah girl what are you doing with those vegetables, duck back get a face full of doggy-style, hey I didn’t know you could tie it into knots like that.
So here I am, I’m in this porn shop, and I am trying to look but not look, so I look at the floor, glancing furtively around when I think Wako’s not looking. The proprietor sitting back reading the paper, all of you pretending that none of the other ones are there.
“There! Wako! in the corner!
“That big pink bucket!”
A hand drawn sign saying burusera. And that bucket full of stapled clear plastic bags. Inside the stapled down plastic bags are bras, panties, bra-panty combos, and with each set, a photo of a pretty schoolgirl, and a little signed piece of card. All of them simple and cotton.
This was it, burusera, soiled panties, evidence of a culture so removed from my own. I trembled as I gazed through them, trying discreetly to see if I could spot anything really pervey like stains. I said to Wako I said, “But where are the vending machines, and how can we be sure that they are real?”
Which is when she took me by the hand, and led me away to Shibuya Starbucks above the Crossing, and, over a latte (and Starbucks in Japan do the best motherfucking lattes on this planet), explained to me some really bizarre and disturbing shit. She explained to me that this bucket full of skid-marked panties was merely a vestigial remnant of an broken industry, fattened and gorged on itself, and broken.
Burusera is finished, a relic. The vending machines are no more.
Namasera is the New Perversion.
I shuddered.
Namasera. A cold shiver of a fœtal memory ran through me, a remembered subconscious aversion to this word.
Namasera.
Nama. My first ever Japanese word revisiting me.
Nama…
Fresh…
Raw…
Next time folks.