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Once, I was befriended by a Japanese ex-boxer. He was about fifty years old and attending the English school at which I worked. He couldn’t speak a lick of English despite the fact that he had lived in Los Angeles for two years. Nevertheless, he was a friendly fellow and said that he had been treated so well in the United States that he wanted to extend similar hospitality to foreigners in his country. Hence, I ended up on a night out with him.
Yoshi met me after work and over dinner we both got quite pissed. Then he announced that we would be going to a place with “nice ladies”! He sort of puckered up his lips and made little kissy kissy noises.and I assumed we were off to see a strip show or some such. When he said it was a place called Mini Manila I expected to at least spend some time with attractive Filipinas. It was somewhat disappointing, then, to be greeted upon entering the bar by what I can only describe as a Japanese Fred Flintstone in a dress! Motioning for us to sit down was quite the most unconvincing transvestite I have ever seen. They call a transvestite a Mr. Lady in Japan and this one was certainly far more of the former and less of the latter.
He was a burly, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting woman’s wig, a pearl necklace with matching earrings, and a blue dress of the style favoured by menopausal women. He was a chap going for the frumpy housewife transvestite look. He hadn’t even bothered to shave, for goodness sake! It became clear that Yoshi and he already knew each other, but nonetheless I wasn’t sure how to react when Yoshi pointed straight at the poor man and burst out laughing. I mean, he did look a state, but you have to think that laughing blatantly at a hopelessly poor transvestite can’t be good manners, don’t you? Especially, when you are in his bar. Yoshi didn’t seem too bothered, though, and was having a right jolly chuckle. Then he blew him a kiss and received some coy laughter hidden behind a manly hand by way of return.
We took a couple of seats at the bar and a tall, elegant woman appeared from somewhere round the back carrying two plates with unidentifiable appetizers on them, two hot towels with which to wipe our hands, and two bottles of beer. As she filled our glasses from the bottles, Yoshi laughed again and said, “Boy”.
She certainly didn’t look like a boy. She had quite a cleavage for one thing, and after some prodding by Yoshi pulled down her dress to reveal a pair of extremely normal looking breasts. All the while Yoshi was laughing and saying, “Boy! Boy! Very pretty boy!” Over a few more drinks I discovered that this woman had indeed once been a man but had saved up some money and had a full sex change. She was pleasant and chatty and asked if we would like a “show”. I had no idea what she meant but Yoshi had agreed in an instant and Fred Flintstone had quickly disappeared.
The pretty woman changed the music so that a fast disco tune was belting out of the speakers. Then the ugly one came back into the bar, still in his wig, still with his five o’clock shadow, but now kitted out in an extravagantly bouffant wedding dress and high heels! He climbed atop the bar itself and, hands on hips, proceeded to parade mincily along its length as though he were the most beautiful girl in the world. He sang along to the track on the stereo - words I couldn’t understand - and all the while his companion clapped her hands and whooped with joy in encouragement. The man did a couple of full lengths of the bar counter and then on his third, and, it has to be said, admirably managing to keep with the beat, he paused right in front of me, hitched up his dress to reveal stockings and suspenders and a rather obvious lack of pants! Then, still in time with the music, he thrust his pelvis towards my face. He had attached a small bell on a string to the end of his willy so that as he thrust, the bell flew to within about an inch of my nose, made a slight ding and retreated back to its rightful position dangling between his legs. The entire motion was fluidly incorporated into his parade and was repeated several times during the course of his show! The ding seemed to fit in perfectly with the music and it was hard to be offended with such impressive rhythm!
When the music stopped he sat back down behind the counter and poured us a couple more beers as if nothing unusual had just happened. Then Yoshi vomited all over himself and we had to go home.
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