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The Bishop Has a Headache

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Yelli lives with her husband and toddler son in suburban Berlin.  Life is pleasant,  safe and rewarding.   Her blog paints a rich picture of days filled with children's birthday parties, choral music, trying out new recipies, personal scholarship, and moments of reflection.

So imgine her surprise—and delight, no doubt, since cookies and choir practice can amuse one only so far—to find a flyer on her windscreen which promised hot steamy raunch.  That was just from the neighbourhood beauty parlor.  Hair and nail salon, and Salon Kitty salon

Beside it, she found a piece from her local sex club.  The two ads are pictured to your left.  A certain similarity, wouldn't you agree?

The latter promised table dancing and all-you-can-eat pizza.  Not sure how that would work.

Yelli read about the forty feminine artistes who would beguile the visitor, and the large discounts which men (and certain hardy women) could enjoy if they stayed for breakfast.  So intrigued was she, that she tastefully airbrushed out the gooby bits, shared it with her blog readers, and invited them to post photos in response.

Yelli was unfazed by this flyer under the wiper.   Many of her countrymen (she is American) may not have been.

One of the things which can unsettle Americans who live or travel abroad, is the matter-of-fact way in which sexual occupations ply their trade.  Pretty much all sex-work is a legit job in Australia, Europe, and US states such as Nevada, where the industry's legal staus affords some safeguards. 

Sexual occupations hold inherent risks—as this recent post from As Long as There's Sidewalks, I'll Have a Job reminds us—and the law can't eliminate every hazard.  But if our Berlin table-dancer breaks her leg after treading on a slippery bit of pepperoni, at least she'll get workers comp.

The Honourable Husband is a man-of-the-world, who has thoroughly acclimatised to a more liberal environment after spending a large part of his life abroad, right?    Our recent trip to Barcelona proved otherwise.  On being approached by prostitutes, I disappointed myself with white-bread hangups.  Hubby's white-rice hangups were even worse.  My reaction was quite disrespectful of the working men and women I have come to know over the years.

For the moment, let's leave aside the manner in which such occupations, under some circumstances, may exploit workers.  (If you need a refresher course on the topic, consult Spinster Aunt Twisty at I Blame the Patriarchy.  In fact, consult her anyway; she's brilliant.)

But I digress.  On to Yelli's challenge.

Though Americans are among the most prolific pornographers on the planet, we are the most coy.  By contrast, the Japanese display adult material in abundance, almost everywhere, some of it quite violently sexualised.  The only concession to good taste is that actual genitalia are "mosaiced" electronically. 

Early this decade, we lived not far from Shimbashi, in central Tokyo.  It's quite an important transport hub, where bored salarymen linger after a hard day, enjoying gentlemen's entertainments of every kind. 

Adult section at my local vid store 3

Stars of adult stage and screen would often make promo visits to the local Tsutaya Culture Convenience Club, otherwise known as a video library.  I'm not entirely sure what their autographed photos say.  My guess is that they send a greeting to fans or the management, since we find "san-he" after the kanji

To my eye, one or two of the letters look a bit Korean.  In a perverse way, one shouldn't be surprised.  

I once heard a (female)  Japanese client  make a remark about "those hot-blooded Koreans".   I pressed her on it, and asked if that were meant to be disparaging.  "A little," she admitted, "It's rather like you Americans talking about a hot-blooded Latina. Koreans have a license to be emotional in a way that we don't.   You may notice that our most popular soap operas are Korean."   It seems many Japanese look on Koreans the way some Americans look on Mexicans.  

So, Yelli, that's my contribution to Funny Photo Freitag.  Um, probably not what you were expecting!

On a lamp-post in Roppongi, 2001

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