BURLESQUE, BLACK LIGHTS, AND BOOB CAKE — A TOKYO NIGHT CLUB

Burlesque, Black lights, and Boob cake.

We were certain we would hit at least one fetish club during our trip to Tokyo, Japan (on top of the temples, go clubs, fish market, and anime district) but it was the only part of the vacation we hadn’t planned down to the address. Still, the flight came, kinky essentials were thrown into our suitcases, and we grabbed the first taxi we could get our hands on (which turned out to be a mistake because the driver took his sweet ass time getting there, and my boyfriend had to restrain me from grabbing the flogger out of my stash to whip him).

The first couple days were sightseeing, Japanese action figures, my first taste of matcha (green tea) ice cream, and enough ramen to kill a large horse. However, by the third day, we were itching for something less mainstream and more leather (or, at a minimum, grinding).

This is how Deca Bar Z got on our radar. By the magical power of Google, “fetish party” mixed with “decadence bar” brought up some cool liking pictures. We slapped on our modest club wear (which was honestly just slightly nicer street clothes) and made our way to the Shinjuku district — right in the middle of the red light district.

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“I don’t see it. The address says it’s right here,” I said, wondering if the last four people we asked had been lying.

“We gotta go up,” my boyfriend said.

“How do you know?”

Everything is up.”

The thing that threw me the most about Tokyo was how perfectly normal it is to have businesses stacked upon each other (as opposed to some western countries who avoid second-floor business like an STD).

It was honestly a constant repetition of, “Are we in the right place?” all the way up in the elevator and even down the less-than-clean hallway.

The unassuming door thankfully had their Superman-esque logo on the front and opened to a space that was equal parts dark, the brightest neon known to man, and black lights that made all the neon seeable from space. And this is not a complaint. It was awesome.

Checkered floors, pink brick walls, cupboards, drawers, and coolers behind the bar had been painted like monsters dripping with Nickelodeon goo. The bathroom was the most unnerving confined space I had ever been in. And the dance area with raised DJ booth that seemed like that ran out of colored paint and only had black left.

Employees scuttled around, make-up and costumes already on, trying to get the refreshments ready. One was a drag queen that looked like a vintage pop art girl without the dots and a bright yellow face, another wore a sheer Mumu thing trimmed in feathers, and two more looked like they slept in a tanning booth — which I would later learn is a beauty trend in Japan that isn’t called “black face” in the offensive way most of us would take it, but a rebellion against the “pure white” faces that are mainstream.

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People claimed seats or space while more and more guests showed up. The smoke also started to build (which is one of the main problems I have with certain party places), but the energy was amazing.

The attire was all over the place. Like a mish-mash of fashion colliding in one room:

  • Street clad businessmen who looked like they had stumbled into the wrong club (or universe)
  • A girl with knee-high sports socks, big-nosed theater wig, and bright pink strap-on dildo.
  • A dude in just a gold thong
  • Someone who REALLY likes the matrix
  • And a fair number in street clothes

Dancing started, bodies gyrated, and performances began. Many were the standard burlesque routines with feather fans and shaking hips, which was ok. The only thing is, if you want to watch anything, you have to give up your seat and go to the other half of the bar. Meh, they work with the space they have.

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When one set finished, another guest DJ would take the table and do their thing. Just as one performance was ending, I saw the tiniest Asian grandmother walk by in a spiked leather jacket, black fist gloves, and “don’t fuck with me” sunglasses.

“Wait … is she … going …”

My boyfriend looks over. “No … way.”

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Yep. Punk rock granny (known as DJ Dumpling) took the stand and started pumping up mixed dance beats to vintage swing. I didn’t care what happened after that. The night was the pinnacle of epic at that point…

Here’s a video we found of her (my phone was too crap to take dark footage).

As if it couldn’t get any better, the Mumu dancer strutted on stage. It started average sexy fare. Hands moving suggestively along her impressive curves.

She reaches in her sparkly bra …

And pulls out a pudding cup.

“What the …”

The dance continued with her opening it and taking a lick off the top.

Okay, I get it.

It wasn’t until she reached into her wig did I actually see the hairpin sticking out … which wasn’t a hairpin.

You guessed it … a spoon.

The rest of the number was an amazing combination of sexy dancing with sexy pudding eating and sexy feeding of said pudding to onlookers. I have never been so turned on by butterscotch in my life.

Fate also seemed to favor us that night. To our surprise, it was the club’s birthday and they pulled out a large boob cake for everyone to share … by being fed by the burlesque girls. I was dragged to the front (boyfriend got left behind, awwww :( and Mumu girl grinned and shoved a large chunk in my mouth.

Thank you, Tokyo … you are awesome!


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