Vampire Hours


I’m being offered to go take some cocaine by a gay yakuza who is stroking my ass. I’m sitting at a restaurant at 9am having a beer, defending an Eastern European prostitute to an angry Iranian in Japanese. I’m leaving the apartment this morning and a fat Turkish guy is shouting at me to go find a woman and bring her back for group sex, because he ‘loves group sex’. I close the door, ‘what happened to my life?’ I think.

I slept 17 hours yesterday, awaking at 6 this morning. The world is a different place today. I cycled down the street to go to the gym and watched all the normal people going to their normal jobs. The normal people in their normal clothes who had woken up at a normal time. I too have probably woken up round when they have, and I feel like one of them for once. I saw the sun this morning, and it was gentle, warm and friendly. It was the sun that is everybody else’s sun again, that morning sun that wakes you up and says ‘hey buddy, it’s the sun here, time to get up and go get ’em tiger’, not my sun, the cruel one, the judgemental one, the one who asks me why I still haven’t slept yet, why I’m now going for another drink, who these Russian prostitutes are, all these questions to which I don’t have any good answers. But now the sun is glinting in through a window of this cafeteria, and a single ray is gently warming one of my hands which types this message. The sun is watching me live again with the normal people, doing constructive things which better me, such as going to the gym, such as writing. The sun is proud of me today, and I’m happy to be back in its favour.

‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery, and today is a gift, that’s why it’s called the present.’ Whoever came up with that gay shit got it wrong. Yesterday was being made very afraid by Yakuza, tomorrow is going back to work and listening to Nicki Minaj again for 12 hours, and today is my day off, and that’s why it’s called the present. The first lines of this post somewhat glamourise my lifestyle I’m sure, for the reality – as that last sentence states – is just lots of standing in a dark, mostly empty, seedy club, and listening to a shitload of Nicki Minaj songs, occasionally interrupted by Fat Man Scoop shouting ‘shots! shots! shots! shots! shots! EVERYBODY! shots! shots! shots! shots! shots!’, which in turn is usually accompanied by a circle of drunk Japanese people singing along; ‘EBEREEBOWIE!!’.

My Turkish roommate (who works as a chef at my bar) has made his own adaptation of the Fat Man Scoop classic, where he has cleverly changed the words ‘shots’ to ‘sex’, and he pretty much sings this all day. He is perhaps the most sex obsessed person I have ever met in my life. In fact sex obsession is the wrong word, and ‘sex robot’ actually seems more fitting. For me, for someone to be sex obsessed, they would have to have some kind of brain that was capable of focusing and free-thinking, but one in which all the thoughts and focus had been captured by one ideal, and hence the obsession; in this case sex. The Turkish differs as I believe his DNA actually just completely lacks all the genes that are geared towards giving you thoughts and making you some kind of sociable or vaguely considered person. The only genes that he has are the ones that tell you to have sex, and then also the ones that make an abundance of hair grow on every inch of your body. There are no thoughts. Given the procreative nature of such a DNA set, my theory is that despite all its setbacks, it’s one-trackedness allows successful replication and further generations of sex-robots to be born, and hence its existence continues. My hypothesis is further evidenced by the fact that when he wakes up in the morning, the very first thing he does is sit up, and say ‘sex, sex, sex, sex, sex’ and then walks off to the shower. Though to put the theory aside for a moment, he is perhaps the most disgusting man I have ever met in my life*. He has been in the country for 5 years and speaks essentially no Japanese, just the words; ‘ok/good’, ‘no/not good’, and ‘please’, where the latter is usually following the word ‘sex’. He also speaks no English. At the bar we speak in Japanese or English, and I will inform you now that there is no-one who speaks Turkish. So that is 5 years in an environment in which NOBODY speaks your native language, and you still cannot speak any other language. But he is simply a vehicle of sex genes, and given that his seduction technique solely consists of grabbing women and saying ‘sex please’, which seems to a work on a selection of fat japanese women, a need for languages does not exist, and so in turn he (and the next generation of sex robots) then can continue to.

I’ve heard stories of him just pouncing on women from the DJ. I have been warned not to bring any women back while he is still at the apartment. I’m taking this warning truly to heart, though also have no women to bring back so it’s not such an important warning. I think this is the worst part of working at this bar, especially in Japan, where a good looking young western bartender should be ‘knee deep in clunge’ as a welsh patron put it to me. But no… here I am, all alone. The reason? Well I have only been working two weeks, but mainly the thing is that no-one comes in here, and then every girl that does come in here is working or has just finished working, where that work was either sex work or listening to men complain/treat them like girlfriends/touch/talk to them inappropriately, general hostess stuff. Anthony my boss tells me that I should be cleaning up here, and says ‘hey Sam, this is a bar, not a school (referencing to my previous job) just go up to these girls start touching them and say hey I want to fuck you’. That’s what he has been doing for 28 years, and to be honest I imagine it’s probably what he’d do if he worked at school as well. It’s also what he has been doing at this bar since it opened, and I hear is pretty much the reason for why no-one comes here anymore. He then complains about being a nice guy, having done nothing wrong in his life, and now having no customers.

Fuck I’ve had enough of this job. The work is easy, but I can’t live my life by these hours anymore. The sun is an old, dear friend of mine, and our natural encounter today has made me all the more aware of what I have been missing.

The club music is stuck in my head, Fat Man Scoop is shouting ‘If you ain’t here to party then get the F— out the club!!’ over and over again.

I think I’m ready to concede to his ultimatum.

About Sam

Hi I'm Sam and I write here exclusively at Samuel's Travels. Exclusively as by and large no-one wants me writing anywhere else. Please enjoy yourself while reading.
This entry was posted in Reflective Musings (essentially ramblings as well), Shit I got up to working in sex districts in Japan. Bookmark the permalink.

18 Responses to Vampire Hours

  1. Tim says:

    You are in with some rough customers buddy

  2. Jeff Chung says:

    You’re like a modern day Bret Hart.

  3. Olivia says:

    You should leave… but what would you write about? But still, leave. x

  4. Mike Mike Mike says:

    hahaha.. hilarious writing man.. good experience but now it seems time to leave fo sho. Must be more opportunities around?

    • Sam says:

      Nah not really when you are here for a month, this job is kind of growing on me too, we’re are like this big weird family now. It’s difficult to explain, it’s like who kidnapped people start falling in love with the person keeping them hostage or something.

  5. luke ingledew says:

    I think you should stay – way too funny for me for you to leave

  6. luke ingledew says:

    The turkish guy’s cleaver adaption to the fat man scoop classic – too funny

    • Sam says:

      haha, yea, I was just standing on the corner speaking to the DJ (American) the other day and we just suddenly heard ‘sex, sex, sex, sex!’ and it was the fat Turkish guy just cycling past us, he was just liek a complete parody of himself, just delivering a fly-by rendition of his catchphrase while riding past on this old grandmas bike with a basket at the front full of groceries. Me and the DJ just looked at each other, and then burst into hysterics.

  7. Thea says:

    Fear no more the heat of the sun Sambo, nor, the furious winter’s rages… XXXX

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