Black Passenger, Yellow Cabs (Part 1)

January 13, 2024
6 mins read

By Stefhen Bryan
Saturday/Sunday, January 31-February 1, 2009.
Editor’s note: This is an extract from the  newly-published book, Black Passenger, Yellow Cabs.  You can get a copy of the book at
Wednesday, April 18, 2001.  Unlike many of my Western contemporaries in Japan, I conducted no research about my future home prior to my arrival and engaged in no preparations.   However, upon arrival I discovered that nothing could have prepared me for this Fantasy Island. Immediately besotted by its physical beauty, Japan struck me as an infinitely more beautiful version of my native Jamaica, meets England where I had spent some time.  
Fukushiyama, a very rural town in the Kansai region, was my introduction to the island and its inhabitants, where immediately I was encircled by the women of my fetish. It was surreal. That unforgettable Wednesday of my arrival, coincided with a weekly house party held by one of the teachers from the school where I was to commence teaching. In attendance were many of the local students, mostly women who numbered about fifteen, in the presence of about five or six men.
I was the first person of African decent to descend on this small town and the very first that many of the natives were beholding in the flesh. Months later one of the girls told me in glee, she was beside herself when I walked in the room, as she had been a hip hop fan in this hickville for many years; constantly wondering what it would be like to meet an African American. She later became my first stalker in Japan.
Ayumi was what I later labeled an untouchable in Japan; twenty-six years old, about a hundred and twenty pounds, overweight by Japanese standards and divorced with two children. Though we had not been intimate, not even a kiss. Many mornings I found her in her car, dictionary in hand waiting for me to emerge from my apartment in order to negotiate with me to be her boyfriend, occasionally even soliciting the assistance of perhaps her only friend with marginal English skills.  
Before long I realized that being African American or Jamaican in these parts was akin to being some kind of  film star, and having been born in Jamaica and lived in America, I had a double advantage, which I milked to the hilt.
For the Japanese girls who idolized and fetishized Beenie Man and Bob Marley, I was Jamaican and for those who worshipped Jay Z, I was an African American, though the latter sometimes created discomfort as hip hopper I was not. And when told by Japanese girls that I bore a strong resemblance to the soul crooner Joe, they were dismayed at my ignorance about the artiste.   The only Jo(e) I knew was my favourite uncle Joe who died when I was eight.  
Present at the party was one of the managers of the language school which had sponsored me to Japan. With her otherworldly beauty, barely opened upturned eyes, small dainty concave nose and creamy tofu skin, she was unerringly my type. It was love and lust at first site and unbeknownst to me, the feeling was mutual. I came to learn that my specialized attraction is to Manchurian women. Small concave noses with a low nose bridge, small upturned eyes with the epicanthic fold and milky skin. That really rang my bell, ever since I was a child. Her general responsibilities were to ensure my smooth transition to this small town, so we spent much time together as she introduced me to Japanese culture.
To her I became an accessory she flaunted, in addition to her Luis Vuitton handbag and other name brand items on her person. Though twenty-three years old, Miyuki bubbled with the innocence of a juvenile, a trait which, having been new to Japan, I found quite sexy and arousing.   Little did I know that in a few short years, I would become sickened by that general characteristic among Japanese women. 
Within two weeks we were all over each other, necking and fondling her baldness in her car and when she finally visited my apartment, her milky shaven beauty was a sight to behold. Her shoulders were ever so slightly wider than her hips but, her petite frame and shaven heaven mesmerized me. As to her shaven venus mound, that I found a bit uncomfortable, as it reminded me of my prepubescent days when I would try it on with little prepubescent girls.
Their baldness and absence of breasts disgusted me and since my introduction to sex at seven, until my mid twenties, I had always preferred older women. However things changed and I found myself, not only being attracted to younger women, but also attracting them the older I got.
Miyuki reminded me of the high school girls I frequently saw riding their bicycles in their ultra mini uniforms, and as I tasted her and fondled her small but perfect breasts, my imagination would momentarily place her on a bicycle in school uniform.
“I don’t want to have sex as yet. I want to get to know you first,” she said, to which I was respectful. After releasing my tension all over her pearly skin, she would shower me with profuse apologies for having caused me to resort to what she thought was such a shameful act. Instantly madly in love, I refrained from consummating the relationship and suspended my predacious tendencies, which I later lived to regret.
This sudden immersion in Eden was unbelievable, making out and receiving fellatio from my superior, the manager of the school where I would be teaching was nothing short of fantasy. But my room-mate who had arrived a year earlier, assured me:
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, in Japan, nothing is off limits.”
Shortly after, another manager from a different location was introduced to me, butt ugly with apple catchers for teeth, which were the norm in the countryside. However, hers was a curvaceous physique of amazement and in only a month after my arrival she introduced me to the love hotel scene and gave me my first piece along with my first venereal disease in Japan: the ubiquitous Chlamydia.
One thing I quickly realized in that rural town, was that my limitation to women who spoke only English, was a fairly small pool, but no hindrance to regular action. However, more disturbing than that was my observation that it was the less attractive women who spoke English. The super babes, my type, couldn’t even recite the alphabet. Especially in the countryside, there was an inverse relation between their English abilities and their level of unattractiveness.
This second manager was near fluent, with teeth of varying shades of yellow brown, which seemed like rusted barbed wire protruding from her crooked, asymmetrical face. But man, that bod! I later discovered that she had given my roommate, other teachers and at least one American manager the same welcoming treatment, minus the Chlamydia because they went in strapped. Three or four times a week as soon as the last student vacated, she and I transformed the school she managed into our own love hotel, going buck wild leaving body fluids everywhere, like dogs urinating to mark territory. I couldn’t help but pity her, as it was clear her self confidence was on the soles of her feet, a trait of promiscuous women in the west and indeed a common trait of many Japanese women. 
“I was born in a car,” she revealed. “My mother was on the way to the hospital,” solving the mystery to why her face was so asymmetrical and twisted.
Shortly after my arrival, the weekly school party was relocated to my apartment owing to the departure of the previous host, and every Wednesday night an onslaught of eligible female students descended on my living room.
Rapidly the collection of sex partners grew and soon it became impossible to conceal my whoring character in this small town. Inevitably, the first manger discovered this and decided that she wanted nothing more to do with me intimately, a painful decision magnified by conflicting forces within. 
On one hand I loved her though on the other, I was a sex addict with a yellow fetish in yellow land with a bottomless supply of yellow pleasure. Especially difficult was the fact that we had to continue working together for a year, which required daily preparedness for pain.
Though my whoring soared to new heights, she was one who got away, the one I really wanted. My fragile male ego was trampled. She would’ve been hooked, unable to let go, like the mass of fans, which were accumulating. They say once you go black, you never go back. But more accurately, once you go black, you always, go back…..for more.   But I was new to Japan, not knowing then what I now know about the psyche of Japanese women.
Word got around fast in that small town and pretty soon it was clear that I had to expand beyond the immediate community. The community harem was growing and within three months, I had a steady rotation of seven women, each with their allotted time and a predictable attrition rate, most of them my students. I was living my fantasy, I was living everyman’s fantasy, at least every sex addict with a yellow fetish’s fantasy, totally immersed in my fetish.
To be continued next week.
Stefhen Bryan can be reached at
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