“I felt it was time to call it a night. I had never felt so invisible in my entire life.”

Sex and the City (season 1, episode 2)

First Day of School

Everywhere a homo went, there was only one question in his head.

Any cute boys?

First day of school, he would scour the class.

First day of work, he would scour the office.

First day of volunteering, he would scour the guesthouse.

Every outing to a bar was like a secret service agent scouting for a target. Or a dog sniffing for drugs.

Yet starting today, all Ben could get high off was pen and paper. He was a student again.

He slept three hours and rushed to his new school with bloodshot eyes. The Starbucks cup from 7-11 in his hand was like a chef with takeaway. Yet desperate times called for desperate measures.

Surveying sixty new students during orientation proved exciting enough to rouse Ben. Most were tall, white guys.

“Does anyone intend to buy a bicycle?” the principal asked. “Every bicycle in Japan needs to be registered, and it’s hard to find parking. Even slight offences, such as driving tickets, can ruin all your future visa applications. So please let us know in advance.”

“You also need the school’s approval every time you leave the country,” another staffer said.

Ben smiled. Back to academic rules and complaining about homework. Back to going out with international friends and stressing over exams.

For the first time in his life, he would live in a big city: the biggest on Earth.

It occurred to him that he was not nervous at all. Meeting a plethora of new people, relocating to a new country, being on his own. Only two threats made his chest constrict nowadays. Love and finance.

“I love Japan, but the people are so polite, that it becomes fake,” a new French student voiced Ben’s thoughts from last night at a conveyor belt sushi in Kabukicho. “I want to find real friends who are honest.”

A blue-eyed ginger with a baseball cap who towered over the locals, his Japanese girlfriend had recently gotten pregnant.

“A foreigner who’d been living here for forty years had once told me that I would never become Japanese,” Ben said. “That’s okay. I don’t want to. I want to be a foreigner who lives in Japan.”

“Yeah, the people in Tokyo, they look so lifeless,” the French said. “They go to the office, scroll on their phone inside a train, work all day, and return home.”

Yet in true Tokyo fashion, Ben declined the offer to continue the conversation at an izakaya over drinks. He nearly fell asleep at the restaurant.

*

There were two hundred students in Ben’s Japanese language school in Shin Okubo, and eleven in his class. They hailed from Germany, Italy, France, Ukraine, Switzerland, South Korea, Taiwan, and the US.

What was he doing here? Ben freaked out the moment he sat down.

The Korean looked like someone he had dated in Busan. Short and skinny, with monolid eyes, oversized nineties streetwear, and a baseball cap. This was the rare Korean twink, bashful and soft-spoken, who seemed more Japanese.

An anchovy, Ben imagined Ha-joon saying.

Shin introduced himself in a voice that was barely audible. Ben immediately resolved to befriend him.

“So,” the teacher, a middle-aged Japanese woman, said after the introductions. “How does everyone study kanji?”

The students all blinked downward.

“I pray at a temple,” Ben joked in Japanese.

“Eh?” the teacher chuckled in confusion.

The students glanced at Ben without laughing. He wanted to drop out.

Recess brought better interactions. Kacie was a quiet girl from Taichung who marvelled at Ben’s exploits in Taiwan. Kristen was an American graphic designer who worked with Japanese rock bands, and attended their concerts weekly. Zelda radiated a high-fashion cross between elf and fairy. Aubrey seemed like the anime-inspired little sister of Billie Eilish, with silver pins on her scarlet hair, a doll-like face, and camouflage cargo pants.

Sandro was a handsome Italian with a pointed bone structure that accentuated his ocean eyes and sandy hair. Tall and athletic, he spoke eloquently with received pronunciation from a London relocation.

Yet it was Nathan, a German software engineer, who made frequent conversations with Ben. He was easy and engrossing to talk to, like an affable bust of a young Roman emperor come to life.

With thick, wavy hair escaping his cap, a trimmed beard, fair skin, and subtle features, Ben found himself staring at Nathan’s electric blue eyes. He recalled predicting on the first day of his two degrees who his friends would be. Back then, he was too shy to initiate any hangouts after class. Yet now, when he waited for Nathan in the afternoon and noticed how every student went to their own way, he returned to his share house disappointed.

He was the only student who had enrolled straight into an advanced class. By level five out of eight, everyone had been studying at this school for at least six months.

They already knew each other, he sighed. But didn’t they want to at least grab lunch?

“The guys all have Japanese girlfriends, too,” he complained to Mayume on the phone.

“Straggots,” Mayume muttered. “Bland chicken is at the top of the food pyramid in Asia.”

“Seriously though, those white-guy, Asian-girl couples are literally everywhere,” Ben said. “But never the opposite.”

“We should follow their example,” Mayume said.

“In your dreams,” Ben hung up.

He crashed on his bed and browsed rental apartments online with zombie eyes. Mayume, Ha-joon, and Will went out to ni-chome at night. But Ben was too tired and busy to join them. All he could do was recall the past.

Tokyo Pride in Ni-Chome

Saturday night at the most popular gay club in Japan, on the eve of Pride.

Muscle shirts, alcohol, pop music, and go-go boys. The music was loud, the people were countless, and the kissing was omnipresent.

I walked for five minutes from my hotel to Shinjuku ni-chome, Tokyo’s queer paradise. A rainbow torii graced the entrance of a famous bar. It was so crowded, that most of the patrons were drinking outside.

Then I stood in line to the club: my first one. I was nervous, but this trip was about trying new things.

Inside was more teeming than a bakery with free buns. I got sake and squeezed my way to the dance floor.

It felt weird. I never danced. A few people were standing in the back with their drinks in hand, looking uncomfortable. I forced myself to not join them.

So I started to move my body. I mimicked other dancers, and slowly let loose. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors almost made me cringe.

It didn’t help that there was a couple next to me on a mission to break the world record for longest smooch in history. They sucked each other’s faces like oxygen masks in vacuum.

I grew hot. The cramped bodies engulfing me reeked. Disco balls dazzled while neon spotlights pranced around the dim party. It appeared as though I was the only lone wolf.

A Japanese guy took me aside, handed me a wireless earphone, and put on Nicki Minaj. We listened to her rapping as ABBA proclaimed everyone ‘dancing queens’.

I returned to my spot in the middle of the floor, hungry for a better encounter. Beefy go-go boys were dancing on the screens. Three muscular Asians with perky bangs and tank tops were making good use of their tongues in a three-way kiss.

Then a skinny guy with bubble-gum pink bangs and oversized clothes danced with me. He kept trying to touch me, yet I wasn’t feeling it.

The tallest guy in the club walked in. He wore black designer streetwear and heaps of silver jewelry, like an Asian fashion model from Berlin.

Everyone seemed to know him, or want to know him. He greeted partygoers with a gracious smile, accompanied by a guy that reminded me of Middle Easterners from back home.

The pink twink had moved on to other candidates, pecking them one after the other.

After some time, the Asian-German started dancing shirtless. Like an underwear model, he had a six pack and perfect skin.

Bodies were bumping against each other, making shots of alcohol spill. Sweat and musk were filling the air. The model’s face beamed brighter than the disco lights. The entire scene didn’t seem real.

Suddenly, I felt déjà vu. This packed nightclub made me feel ecstatic and wretched, just like a recent temple stay in Koya-san.

I enjoyed dancing and partaking in a liberated, queer atmosphere – yet felt like rotten meat. The same dejection darkened the pink twink’s face. He was ogling the crowd in a defeated pout, after his hunt had failed.

So I closed my eyes. Enough worrying about my appearance. Enough fretting over all the couples kissing.

Not knowing who was around me, how appetizing and better at dancing they seemed, and whether they were watching me, warmed my cold feet. I whirled my body. I danced. I focused on my physicality and the music blaring in my ears, the lyrics I was yelling, and the songs that uplifted me.

I let the sea of people push me, move me, relocate me, without seeing where my shoes landed. Nothing mattered at this moment: the spot I inhabited, the swaying of my hips, or my invisibility next to all the Asian Adonis. I felt déjà vu again, this time to Shodoshima, where I’d cycled up a deserted mountain a week after Koya-san, gazed at a foggy port beneath me, and screamed with bliss.

I felt free.

A nightclub was the last place I’d expected to elicit that. I’d always lied in order to skip parties and stay in my room.

Now, I cracked a smile. I stopped craving the gourmet meals around me, I quit revolting at my insipidity, and instead grinned, and chuckled, and laughed.

Was this me? Was it really happening?

Yes, I was, it was – and I found myself in seventh heaven.

As singers continued to roar and dancers to shove me, a pair of arms touched my torso.

I opened my eyes. A Japanese guy was holding my waist, chortling as if snorting laughing gas.

“Wait a second!” he yelled in Japanese, when I followed his lead and danced with him. He could barely stand from all the laughter.

I must have embarrassed myself. He excused himself and left. Disappointed, I danced with my mouth wide and eyes shut.

That was when another set of arms embraced me.

They belonged to a white guy with a skirt, emo bangs, and cat ears. We danced together, until I found myself challenging the world-record couple.

Then he led me outside.

My first breath of fresh air in four hours. My ears were ringing. I felt like I’d suffered permanent hearing damage.

We found a quiet, external staircase. I learned that he was a British student of video game music, who also preferred Japan to his country of origin.

“Are you high?” he asked. My uninhibited dancing had given him this impression.

“No,” I said. “I had one sake. This is actually my first time clubbing.”

“It is?”

I explained my lifelong avoidance of clubs, and tonight’s inconceivable fun.

“So you were high on life,” he said. A phrase I’d never heard.

“I want to use it as a title for my next post,” I said, transfixed. By now, he’d learned about my blog.

“No, that’s so cliché.”

“True. I probably embarrassed myself way too much already.”

“Yeah, that was kind of embarrassing,” he said. “But that’s why I approached you.”

The more we talked, the more we found out how much we had in common. Certain beloved anime, or running a website dedicated to our passions. Dreaming of a career in arts. He had also given himself an unorthodox nickname. Every revelation like this made way for disbelief and laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

Shivering on a building’s staircase at witching hour, we marvelled at our shared interests, to the point where it felt exhilarating.

He was six years younger than me. Yet he was already explaining the lore of ni-chome, where he’d seen men do a lot more than exchange fluids in the alleys.

His sapphire eyes mesmerized me. His articulate voice, I could listen to for hours. A British accent that had become American, for the locals’ comprehension.

Who was this person? Was this really happening?

I fell asleep with him in my bed at 4:00, no longer a rubbish bag in a patisserie of delicacies.

Gym Twins or Gay Couple?

Sunset outside the Museum of Modern Art, Tokyo. Ben waited until Mayume arrived late in sweaty sportswear.

“Why do you run every night?” Ben asked. “You’re already skinny.”

Mayume was panting heavily. A Japanese twunk in short shorts jogged past them.

“Oh.”

A visit to the Imperial Palace in Tokyo was a dangerous act of sightseeing. Not because it was one of the only places in Japan under heavy security. Joggers darted past you every second. Daikancho-dori, the road circling the Palace, might as well be renamed Racecourse Avenue.

“You could’ve replied that you were running late,” Ben said, trying to focus on Mayume instead. “You’re so bad at texting.”

“You realize this just now?” Mayume asked.

“No, it was clear from like a week after we met.”

“Good, then it’s a reminder.” Mayume chugged from a bottle of water bigger than him. “I’m going to Mongolia. Can’t bear this scorching weather.”

“For vacation?”

“I’ll come back after a month,” he said, spelling ‘c-u-m’ out loud. “July 31 to be exact.”

“I don’t care,” Ben said. “Have fun milking goats on the mountains.”

“You never cared from the beginning.”

“True.”

They smiled at each other. Smooth legs were running wild in short shorts, as if a road lined with skyscrapers and a river was their natural habitat, more than any park in Tokyo.

“I’m fine with it,” Mayume said, beginning to walk.

“You’re dead on the inside.”

“How about the outside?”

Ben followed Mayume toward the Palace.

“Annoying on the outside.”

“C’mon, say something worse.”

“Mr Perfect saw that I moved to Japan and ignored it,” Ben said. “Nothing worse than that.”

“You said you were over him.”

“I am over him,” Ben said. “Shut up.”

“Only your cock can shut my mouth, dad.”

Ben smiled in exasperation. The sun was setting over the understated Palace gate. Tiled roofs and white walls, reconstructed to match their ancient origin, were eclipsed by cutting-edge skyscrapers and lush trees.

“Why are Cal and Ryder watching my stories again?” Ben asked, checking his phone.

“Cal is a piece of shit,” Mayume said. “Fuck that asshole.”

“I already did.”

“Ryder is waiting for you to message him,” Mayume continued. “But he’ll say something shitty, even if he wants you.”

“I will never give him the satisfaction,” Ben said. “I have self-respect now.”

“Sounds like a red herring.”

“Do you even know what a red herring is?”

A jogging bodybuilder turned Ben and Mayume’s heads.

No, wait, I love you, Ben thought.  

“I’m ovulating,” Mayume said.

They started walking in the bodybuilder’s direction, when Will and Ha-joon arrived.

“There you are,” Will said, wearing designer activewear with no signs of perspiration.

“I can’t believe none of you fuckers told me about this place,” Ha-joon said.

Ben didn’t know where to look. At the beautiful landscape, at the Imperial Palace Gardens, or at Ha-joon’s arms. Then a group of Scandinavian tourists distracted him.

“I feel like I’m wired to notice hot guys everywhere I go,” he said. “It’s like I have a radar.”

Better not to mention obsessing over their height compared to mine.

“You missed some man flesh at the club,” Ha-joon said.

“Oh yeah?” Ben asked, gauging whether his eyes were looking up or down at Ha-joon’s. The latter showed the profile of a hot new mutual from Instagram.

“There was also an influencer from Brazil,” Will said and showed a video of the club. “We got a lot of followers.”

“That’s what he was good for?” Mayume chuckled. “Maybe I should also do PR for a club.”

“They call it public relations for a reason,” Will smiled.

That should be the new code for an open relationship.

“Looks like a regular night,” Ben muttered, watching the hyper-sexual crowd at the club.

Japan was notorious for being the most polite, reserved, and respectful country on Earth. Public displays of affection glared like gunshots. Guys who hit on girls in bars often started with an apology.

A Japanese gay club was the last place I expected to host the Sexual Olympics.

Even in assertive South Korea or gay-friendly Taiwan, guys didn’t edge toward make-out competitions or make pickup so obvious. And “hunting” was an actual hookup term in Korean. The Japanese dance floor was a hunting ground for hungry prey.

In a society too fond of repression, this was the place to release your inner beast. Whether surrounded by friends or strangers, an outing became a game, a competition, to see who would score the most.

Yet I could never cook as well as weightlifters who prepped their meals.

“Watch those masc4masc guys squeal like girls when the roach starts flying,” Ha-joon said at Will’s video.

“Like when you asked me to come kill it last week?” Will asked, and unsheathed a vodka flask from his chest bag.

Masc4masc was the gay version of a modelizer. They dated only gym rats. Like cats on steroids, they evolved past the natural order of things, and dined exclusively at steakhouses.

Once this term took off and received criticism, gays got creative.

No fems.

Into muscle.

Be manly.

Like athletic.

Only into straight acting.

Who said that gym bros were airheads? They knew their way around a thesaurus. But not around other body types.

‘Cute’ didn’t cut it anymore. Why would someone hurt themselves on the shoulder blades of a scrawny nerd, when they could climb a thick hunk instead?

Ben ducked under branches as the foursome circled the river. Passersby kept glimpsing Ha-joon and Will.

“Y’all haters corny with that masc4masc mess,” Ben said.

“Next time you’re in ni-chome,” Will said, “drink when you see a couple that looks like twins.”

“I don’t have time for ni-chome,” Ben said.

“Good,” Will said, and sipped from his vodka. “You’d ruin your liver like this.”

His dark eyes seemed an inch higher than mine.

“Those guys eat me for breakfast,” Ben said.

“It’s way easier to fuck them, though, because that’s what they do all the time,” Ha-joon said. “Working out increases your testosterone and sex drive.”

“Oh, please, what hope do ordinary fags have?” Ben said. “Masc4masc are sluts for muscles. They don’t drool at mortal beings.”

“It’s not like they don’t have a personality,” Mayume said. “They had one – or at least used to. But they don’t need it anymore.”

“I can confirm,” Ha-joon said.

Will chuckled. Ben wasn’t sure if out of agreement or awkwardness.

Pretty privilege was real for both sexes. Will always gave free entry to hot influencers. Ben was sure that Will was also on the receiving end of this exchange.

But playing it cool – did it even work anymore?

I didn’t want to seem desperate. Yet muscle worship was invented by gym gays.

“It’s a fine balance between ignoring their barks and chasing their tail,” Will said. “Every time you throw them a bone, take two steps back.”

“Let them come to you,” Ha-joon said. “Beefcakes love being destroyed by a skinny dom.”

“Oh, please,” Ben said. “’Opposites attract’ is bullshit. Ask any psychologist.”

“Well,” Ha-joon said, “it’s only because they’re hung.”

So many gay couples looked and acted the same. They even sought the same ethnicity.

As a child, Ben’s parents had dressed him and his twin in identical clothing. The brothers had shared a room and afterschool activities. Now, Ben had relocated to the country on Earth that resembled his home the least. 

“All my relationships have been with guys from other continents,” Will said.

“In that case, I’d drink too,” Ha-joon said, and grabbed Will’s vodka.

“But would you date them?” Ben asked.

Ha-joon gulped before he replied.

“I’d fuck me,” he said. “I’d fuck me hard.”

“You would?” Mayume asked.

“Yeah. I jerk off in front of the mirror.”

“Do you also watch your reflection while having sex?” Ben asked, recalling Cal.

“And the video after.”

“Is that why you made out with two other Koreans at the same time during Pride?” Will laughed.

Ha-joon snickered.

“At least I kept my shirt on.”

Twilight fell on the Chiyoda district. Ben peeked at Will, recalling his naked torso, and how his boy toys tended to be shorter than him.

“So you’re not attracted to yourself?” Ben asked.

Will raised his brows.

“He prefers courtesy to abs,” Ha-joon sniggered.

“Do you, though?” Ben asked.

Will smiled in lieu of an answer.

“Does Stephen know you’re back?” he asked.

“He unfollowed me a year ago,” Ben said.

“Better than stalking,” Ha-joon said, and eyed Mayume.

“Mind your own business, sir,” Mayume said.

A Japanese guy walked by. He had black bangs with pink highlights, and two strands of hair spiked like devil horns. His white t-shirt was too small on him, his army pants were too wide, and his chunky sneakers elevated his stature. This was complemented by acne cheeks, black headphones, a lip piercing, silver rings, a rusty yellow purse, and a studded emo belt hanging loose over his pants.

I wanted to be him.

Japan was the only place on Earth where one could see lads like him. Even straight guys sported nail polish while holding hands with their girlfriend.

“They just want to be fucked, period,” Ha-joon said. “Every dude you see.”

Masc and mortals. Ben wished to hide under the blanket, and never return to dating.

“I’d fuck me so hard,” Ha-joon said.

As the sky darkened, the foursome headed to the train station.

“Cake alert,” Ben said, and jerked his head at a jogger with a bouncing rear.

The School’s Closed Club

The second day of school felt endless. Not because it was boring – it involved long reading passages, and a challenging vocabulary. Sitting next to Ben, Kacie raced through the passages faster than anyone else.

Ben continued to study the students instead. Danyil was another sun-kissed, sky-eyed European, with a brow piercing and a perpetual bandana. Alain dressed like an English lit Oxbridge lad. Shin had a lot of freckles, and wore baggy jeans with a grandpa vest. He avoided conversations with everyone.

Then the classroom started to shake. The students all glanced at each other in realization, while the teacher continued talking without noticing the earthquake.

During recess, after Ben made small talk with some students, Nathan continued to be the only one to exhibit a desire for chatting. His eager speech raised a smile on Ben’s face, as opposed to other guys from school he’d been noticing, whose divine bone structure tempted him. Yet Nathan rushed home every day after class to work.

The cold lack of socializing in Ben’s class took him by surprise, until he realized: the friends he had made during his trip, and his tourist roommates from the share house, wanted to meet people. Hence, he had befriended them in an instant. In an intermediate class, however, everyone was already settled into their routine.

Maybe this explained why Japanese people barely hung out with their friends, Ben thought. They were just deep in their own world.

As an introvert, he had done the same in university. As an ambivert, he yearned to develop long-term friendships with the students.

Perhaps I should take this as a slow-burn challenge.

At the end of each day, the students wiped their desks, and went to their separate paths. Even at a school for Caucasians, Ben had to duck under passageways.

The afternoon and evening were spent in bed, looking for apartments and trying to forget that ‘sporty for sporty’ gods existed. His mind resisted this image, yet his body was ravenous.

*

The next day, Ben began to sink into the school drill. Eternal classes; frequent glancing at his watch; talking to the other students about the material and everyday life.

“I can’t sit next to Kacie again, she stresses me out,” he said and sat next to Nathan.

Based on his hair and skin, Ben had assumed Nathan was younger than him. He turned out to be a few years older.

He held a master’s degree in physics. When Ben asked him not to rest his phone on his lap, Nathan explained the safety of such radiation like a charismatic rhetorician.

His Japanese was a bit slow when they paired in class. They did a short presentation together. Everyone read their script off their iPad, while Ben freaked out, strayed from his, and blurted the topic as if to his Japanese friends.

He continued to examine his eye level when speaking to other guys. Some appeared to match his stature. Others wore shorts that revealed soccer thighs. No one seemed interested in visiting a museum exhibition with him, when he suggested this after class. So instead, he attended a party planning meeting.

For the first time since COVID, the school was throwing a summer party. It would happen the day after Ben was planning to move into a new apartment. But he was determined to meet more and more students.

The meeting was held by the American IT guy, who stood two meters tall. Ben volunteered to be the MC.

If people got to know me, I would get to know them.

Then a staff member mentioned that there were five other Israelis at school. Three guys and three girls, including Ben. Flabbergasted, he asked to be introduced to them next week.

Excited by the social prospects of the near future, he returned elated to his share house, and wolfed down natto rice with tofu and bean sprouts. Life felt good at this moment, as a student about to meet other international students in a big city.

Public Sex Gone Wrong

The morning after Stephen and I met, we attended Tokyo Pride parade. My ears were no longer ringing.

We walked alongside dozens of other participators. Bystanders cheered and applauded. I waved at them, incapable of erasing the smile on my face. It was the happiest atmosphere I’d revelled in.

“This is my first pride without any hatred,” Stephen remarked, having attended several in England.

There were security guards and police officers, yet no need for them. Everything was orderly. I’d had a feeling Japan would be the safest place to dip one’s toes into a queer celebration.

Still, most of the participators seemed straight. No doubt they meant well – but it did feel invasive.

After a short and inspiring hour, our group finished circling Shibuya and Harajuku. I was sad to return to Yoyogi Park. I felt as high as last night.

Soon enough, Stephen had to leave, and I found myself alone again in an endless crowd.

Like yesterday’s Pride festival, no one else appeared solitary. I struggled to make conversation.

So I snuck into another parading group, seeking to retaste the sugar from mere hours ago. A couple was holding a sign that read “love” in Japanese, English, and Hebrew.

They were visiting from Tel Aviv. We chatted for half an hour. Yet didn’t seem eager to go out tonight.

As my spirit fell, my phone beeped.

“Are you at pride?” a Dutch friend texted. “I’m on my way!”

We met in Yoyogi. I filled her in on last night: how I had dipped my toes into dancing, felt awkward, closed my eyes, and let go, so much that people had thought I was on drugs.

“Wait, so, you weren’t high?” she asked.

“No! I was just having fun.”

“You were high on life, then.”

I did not expect to hear this phrase again, let alone to describe me.

We continued to a standing bar in Shibuya. At night, we ran around the Scramble, revelling in the world’s busiest pedestrian crossing. The moon was shining in-between skyscrapers.

Longing to return to the dance floor, however, I prepared for round two in ni-chome.  

This time, I danced in three different clubs. Sunday proved less crowded than Saturday.

The first guy I hit on was a shy Egyptian student who was standing in a corner. He had a great smile, despite his desire to “fix” his teeth.

After dancing and flirting for quite some time, he started pointing at all the guys he fancied. His type – hyper-masculine Middle Eastern – made me pale like vanilla next to zaatar.

“I miss my fuck buddies from Egypt,” he said.

He couldn’t bring himself to approach any zaatar. I encouraged him to try. Yet his attempt did not bear fruit.

“Oh well, he just lost twenty-one centimetres,” he grinned and shuffled through the crowd.

“What?” I exclaimed. Yet he was gone.

Alone at the heart of a throng, I tried to dance and move on. Alcohol, music, PDA, and gloom – no more ingredients were necessary to make leftover food. Especially in a culture whose locals never partied on their own.

I went through the same process of feeling self-conscious, peeping at couples, loosening up, and closing my eyes. Once again, I let go.

Music was pulsating in my ears. Heat condensed on my neck and warmed my body all the way to my bones. I felt like I was in another world: not on Earth, where things were complicated, but on a planet teeming with dim bodies and pop songs.

The next venue, less busy but featuring poles, cooked more of the same. A blond guy, seemingly in his thirties, hit on me. Uninterested, I returned to the former club, exchanged a few bland words with the student, and continued dancing.

My throat started to hurt from screaming lyrics. My stomach became sore from hip movements. Yet even pain mattered little as I jumped to the beat of the song. I kept imagining myself from above, squashed inside a dark club with eyes shut, dancing and laughing. Nothing about this felt emblematic of my existence.

But the night led me nowhere. No one appeared to enjoy my company. Only a mixed-gender group, which I crashed into.

Too bad Stephen couldn’t come.

I watched a go-go boy show for the first time. A Japanese girl next to me kept giggling in embarrassment. We ran jokes throughout the deafening songs.

Finally, I left the third and final club, solitary and doleful. As I ambled through the quiet alleys of ni-chome in the dead of night, I couldn’t help but wonder. Was this real life? Could it really feel this high and low?

The streets grew empty, and so did my heart, after feeling on top of the world.

Facing multiple rejections, my self-esteem had sagged like a cheese cake. No matter how highly I thought of myself, one glance at Grindr spat on that. One night at a gay club threw it to the trash.

Was I really that ugly? They guys I wanted never even glanced at me.

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

Then someone called me. The blond guy, who turned out to be Australian. He was wobbling and slurring, until he started to touch me.

We found a deserted spot. He kneeled. I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself that this was pleasuring. Then I noticed a police officer move out of the corner of my eye.

I shut it again. Better to live on the fun planet.

The recipe ended as fast as it began. A bittersweet sauce, and a walk of shame. I didn’t even want to know the Australian’s name or age.

I lumbered in exhaustion back to my hotel, when three police officers on bikes ambushed me out of nowhere.

“Did you drink?” they asked in English.

I was so worried about getting into trouble, that I grew wide awake.

“I apologize sincerely,” I bowed and repeated in formal Japanese.

They searched my body for drugs, examining every pocket, the inside of my socks, my bag, and my wallet. It was one of the only times when I was out and about in Japan without my passport.

The officers rebuked me – the law forced tourists to carry passports with them at all times – but my ID and hotel card sufficed. They released me without punishment or warning.

I couldn’t recall seeing them patrol the area last night.

It was ironic how vapid my life had used to be. Israel had plunged me to rock bottom in a close-minded society; Japan offered me unique and tolerant feasts. I was embarking on adventures I’d never dared to pursue. Not even as a teenager and a university student had I felt such a kick.

Yet even here, one thing stayed universal. No matter the cuisine, taste buds salivated for only one kind of meal.

I love dessert, I thought in bed, dreaming about lollipops and peaches. But ultimately, I missed the main dish.