in the opening pages of yukio mishima's confessions of a mask, mishima's protagonist recollects the stirring vitality he felt in regularly seeing the finely muscled night soil gatherer come to collect from the neighborhood in his tight shorts. although i've a copy of the book on my shelf, i've never read anything more than that first chapter, and that only in an undergraduate introduction to modern japanese literature. confessions of a mask has pervaded that discipline so far as to justify its students never reading the book. the school of the flesh, in which a clique of wealthy middle aged divorcees grasp for meaning throughout conversations at 1960s tokyo gay bars (it's "the first wives club" meets "sex and the city" meets second wave feminism well before all of their times), secures mishima's place as an early standout of queer fiction. (we'll leave his extreme right wing politics out of the discussion for now.) he isn't, however, as i was assured by the manager of a tokyo gay bar some seven years ago, a "gay author." "yukio mishima was married."
tonight was my first foray into kyoto nightlife. the first time i came here was for the second half of the school trip i took during my year at japanese high school, and i was with my parents for the second. the bars and clubs in gion and kawaramachi (each on one side of the kamo river from gion shijou station) aren't dissimilar in arrangement from what you'd find in ikebukuro, shinjuku or shibuya in tokyo: multistory buildings with vertical signs advertising the names of the establishments inside but with no street names or numbers. the hosts and hostesses are equally as eager to exploit an older mark in the old capital as in the new, and with drink minimums and service charges for the snacks you're automatically served, you'll have broken your budget before you've had a chance to decide if where you are is where you'll actually have any fun.
gay bars in kyoto follow the same basic plot structure with the added complication of being intentionally under-advertised. insiders tonight told me that the city hosts about ten, but i was lucky to find two after a laborious internet search. at least the bars in shinjuku are collected in one spot -- although one of the bar owners tonight told me that there are places more along the lines of what you'll find in kyoto in shibuya. what you'll find in kyoto are small, carefully decorated bars that seat maybe a dozen people, most of them with "members only" signs to deter any bargoers not in the know. laugh, where i stopped first, is the only stop at the basement floor of the garnet building in gion, and despite its being only about twenty feet deep and ten wide, genki-san, the owner and resident dj, told me that as many as seventy people will show up to dance on designated nights. "it makes it easier to introduce yourself."
the four other patrons that were at laugh when i arrived had already been drinking hard and long and left shortly after i came back to the bar after running out to catch the last train back to fumi's apartment to find my money clip, which i was sure i had when i ordered my first drink. i found it deep in one of my pockets about two blocks to the subway station. i hadn't yet meant to cash out, but i did pat my back pocket after a trip to the bathroom and found it empty. for all my apologies and distress, i'm glad the group at the bar stayed to see me walk back through the sliding wood gate with my head bowed and my tail between my legs. genki-san had been inspiringly gracious, refusing to let me leave my rental phone (the only think on me worth anything more than my tab) at the bar until i was able to come back with payment. if gay bars in japan have nothing else to offer (and most gay bars anywhere don't), at least i got to be the beneficiary of the trust that comes from the desire for a shared experience.
tuesday isn't a grand day for nighttime outings -- in fact, two of the places i found online are closed that day of every week -- but, unfortunately, most gay bars in japan aren't open to women, and tonight was my last night in kyoto before my seven year reunion with the female friend of mine who's let me stay at her apartment since i've arrived in kyoto, and who will be hosting me for the rest of my stay. tonight or never if i wasn't going to step on anyone's toes or, worse, be ungracious to a japanese. i double checked, just in case, and no, laugh wouldn't welcome fumi.
japanese culture is inexplicably closeted for as accepting as it is of sexual adventurism. pull your weight for your social and familial obligations and you're free to pursue whatever tickles you, just so long as your social and familial face conforms to accepted society and family. sure, the logic of that system supports a system of underground venues not open to a sex that can readily find sex elsewhere. but.
genki-san spun a few "minor" hip hop records for me after the others left. we talked about scenes. laugh isn't so dead on saturdays, he told me. whatever. i'll be with fumi, so i won't see you. "we're open until five on weekends." ditch her late then, you mean. i've a noon train on sunday anyway.
laugh was cute. portlanders (i know you miss me): think the tube in the carribean. i'll probably go back early one evening to snap a couple of shots. i got along well. my japanese is near perfect.
my japanese is near perfect because i could personally stand to be able to say exactly what i want to say as precisely as i want to say it and without any thought as to what i'm trying to say. i guess my english is just near perfect as well. but, i say so to prove a point, and not the boastful one. they tell me that my accent and my intonation are, well, japanese; and i only have to accent and intone the name of the university where i spent my junior year of college to have a room rapt. so it was tonight at masa masa. already well inebriated, i still felt it my duty to stop by the other place i'd to which written directions on the scrap of paper in my pocket before i'd be barred by present company.
masa masa is worlds away from laugh, though only a short walk away. i could hear laughter from the street, and the smell of incense pervaded the space between the door and the entryway curtains. it took the same five seconds as at the last place to put the patrons at the bar at ease by demonstrating proficiency in their language. "you're from uji? the wisteria must be beautiful there in spring." really, i shouldn't get down on men for playing parts while i'm knowingly playing my own. but this place. it made sense. what laugh is to portland, masa masa is to kyoto. the incense, soft light and the delicate interior with its aged wood accents. the owner, i don't think i ever got his name, was a stupendous wit, and i was somehow able to match him tit for tat across the bar. it's easy when you've had time to rehearse, that near perfect japanese.
"how tall are you?" "i bet it's big." "[name here] i can tell that you're interested. he's handsome, hey?" "oh. it is big. are you sure you're not excited?" "university? in japan?" "why don't you bring your friend with you?" "oh. really. we just can't." "but you're handsome. i'm not so old as you think. we could go the three of us. what do you think [name here]."
he's handsome. i thought so immediately i sat down at the bar. the owner, a character, is pleading my case, and when the also handsome forty-something business man who's engaged me in delightful conversation for an hour gets up to leave he takes the seat next to me. they're all friends, of course, by association and necessity, and i tell him that really i would just like to be his friend as well. he has a disarmingly charming smile, and he's dashing in his shirt and tie and slender suit pants. but the pants look good because of the man himself, tall and slender and with eyes for me as long as i've had them for him. the owner has conspired with us all to keep him here for another drink, another drink. i banter with the owner. "you're japanese is so good. and you're so cute." i am so fucking charming.
he has to get home. i would have liked to have talked to him more about the ring on his finger. four years. no children. "and you? do you have a boyfriend?" it's comically unweird coming from a man with a wife. i know the context. the other bartender has a seventeen year old niece who asks him fashion advice, but he tells me that i shouldn't make a point of saying anything to anyone unless it really matters. i'd been on the fence, and it helped to be given that advice, even if just to justify having been giving it to myself.
i would like to kiss him, or at least put my hand on his thigh. we make easy conversation. nothing about the situation is out of place for the situation. but he has to get home. after all, he has a wife. i want to put my arm around his shoulder as we walk out and down the alley toward traffic. i would like to kiss him, but i don't care about sex. i wouldn't invite someone to where i'm already staying on good graces anyway. fumi told me to make myself at home, but i'm not about to soil her sheets the night before our first meeting in seven years. i genuinely and basically and desperately just want to talk. i say so. at 3:30, nowhere's open anymore.
he offers to detour his cab to take me home. if you're just going home, then i might as well walk. i don't have any plans tomorrow. "it's cold." i'm wearing layers. and then, god, "i really would like to talk more, but i don't know how this sort of thing is supposed to go in japan." god, i would be his friend. i would listen to him talk about his wife and his children. someday, maybe. but knowing that he has tomorrow off i just want something to happen so that i can sit next to him being handsome. i want him to know that i want nothing to happen so that i can sit next to him and talk while he's sitting there being handsome.
"um. so i guess we should just leave it at it was nice that i got to meet you." who's line is that anyway? the dark air along the river is crisp and fresh for all of the three miles back to fumi's apartment. it was nice. i did appreciate it. there's a girl in an evening gown in the convenience store where i stop before getting home. because it's four in the morning, that makes me smile. i wanted to bloody my fists on every tree by the riverside on my walk. that girl reminds me that things are different out of context, and i can bitch all i want to fumi come next evening.
ugh. the sun is coming up, and i'm laughing at my lost resolve to be upset about last night. at least the owner of masa masa did better than laugh and discounted my bill for my performance. japan. what a maliciously extended kick in the face of a gift: the key to a city that i don't give a damn for unlocking.
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