I was in my mid-20s, trying to figure out who I wanted to become. Back in New York, I had just submitted my graduate thesis and my love life couldn’t get past a “You up?” text. Now I was on the other side of the world, in Tokyo to celebrate my best friend Josie’s* birthday—but that didn’t stop me from swiping on Tinder. That night, we headed to the only drag bar in Tokyo, the Black Swan. Little did Josie know, I had someone waiting to meet us there.
We were one of just two couples in the bar: Josie and me and an older Japanese man with a much younger woman. We sat in a booth and ordered drinks as the performers who would usually be on stage were simply presented to us, one by one; we had arrived too late to catch the show. Meanwhile, I had also arrived cross-faded, horny, and obsessed with meeting up with Demir*, a guy I’d matched with on Tinder earlier that day. Admittedly, I wasn’t thinking about Josie or the fact that it was her birthday—all I could think about was what came next, the spark I somehow already knew would set the whole night on fire.
Then, I saw him: a tall, dark, and handsome Turkish man entered the bar and took a seat next to me at our booth. As soon as he sat down, our knees brushing against each other, Josie excused herself to go to the bathroom.
The room around us dissolved and a shiver rang up my spine. All I could see was Demir’s face—his deep, dark eyes. He grabbed both my hands and said, “I need you right now.” I felt charmed by his intensity, sudden and silly as it was. “What if I need you too?" I said back quietly.
He grabbed my face and kissed me deeply, his lips urgent yet soft. His hands tangled in my hair as I melted under his touch. Then I heard an audible gasp behind me, and soon the waitress was lightly tapping my arm and pulling me away from Demir’s lips, ushering us out the door. I didn’t know it, but in Japan, Public Displays of Affection are a social taboo—almost as transgressive as having tattoos, of which I was also guilty. When we visited the en sen, the Japanese spa, I had to wear flesh colored band-aids all over my body. And now here I was, openly tattooed and displaying PDA in a drag bar.
But I didn’t know the implicit no-no’s. All I knew was that my night was just getting started. That this is what I had been waiting for my whole life.
Josie came back from the bathroom as Demir and I were being escorted out the door. All I said was, “I have to go. Is that okay?” I can’t remember if she replied. Years later, the guilt of ditching my best friend on her birthday in a foreign country is borderline unbearable. But at the time, I was convinced I was experiencing love at first sight.
Outside the bar, Demir kissed me on the mouth in the middle of the street, the smell of his woody cologne caressing my senses, my fingers tangled in his dark, curly hair as a nearby pack of girls squealed at us.
In Tokyo, the sidewalks have speed bumps to keep pedestrians from hitting each other as they head in opposite directions. There are no public trash cans because everyone carries and sorts their recyclables at home. And on public transit, everyone keeps to themselves quietly, waiting for the unique jingle that signifies they’ve made it to their stop. Coming from New York City, where I wouldn't be surprised to watch someone shit in one hand and ask for change with the other, the containment and orderliness was foreign. Despite my intoxication, I wanted to be a good global citizen. But after Demir pointed out the eyebrows we were raising, all I wanted was for him to kiss me again amid the squeals and jeers.
We walked the busy streets in Shinjuku, the bright neon lights shouting kanji. But soon, the streets emptied and we were in a district that felt like a sanitary, lifeless Las Vegas. Each building was its own universe: there were cartoon-like castles and extravagant ice cream palaces cast in artificial lighting, but not a soul in sight.
We walked up to a sleek, starkly lit building and entered a clean lobby full of kiosks that looked like they could have checked me into a flight at the airport. Instead, Demir attempted to book a room on one. But because his Japanese was limited, he was forced to go to a booth. The patron came to the window, their face covered by a curtain with only their lips visible as Demir spoke to them in his sparse Japanese.
“There’s only room left,” he told me. “It’s $1,400.”
Disappointment rushed over me. I didn’t have that. I couldn’t even split that—not even for a night with the love of my life. Back in our much more humble lodgings, Josie and I were sleeping on tatami mats for a reason: our budget.
But then Demir smiled, a devilish look in his eye: “I’m getting it.”
I had never felt more turned on in my life.
We got the key and headed to our room. Upon opening the door, we found a small but pristine room. To the right were tandem sinks, a hair brush and a headband to keep my hair from falling into my eyes when I washed my face (I had nothing but the clothes on my back and chunky magenta glitter on my face). To the left, a door revealed a waterfall shower and a giant whirlpool bathtub. Beyond the partition, the room hosted a meticulously made king sized bed, a giant flatscreen TV, and a dark leather couch. Karaoke mics on the coffee table waited for our use. Before the door clicked shut, Demir’s hands were on me. We were naked and on the bed before a word could be exchanged.
Instantly, I was lost in him, in the way his mouth devoured me. The way his tongue reached inside me, pulling out a version of myself I had never known. This trip was intended to celebrate Josie’s birthday, but I found myself high off the craziness of someone paying $1,400 just to get me alone. I forgot the stress of finishing grad school and the lackluster Tinder dates back home. There were so many unknowns, but at this moment, all I could think about was Demir. When he entered me, the words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them: “I love you.”
The words tumbled out of me, over and over again, like an incantation. And soon, we were both saying it to each other—a spell passed back and forth between our tongues. We couldn’t stop, our mouths moving as our bodies mingled. Both of us now high and drunk on each other, completely consumed by a desire that felt present, immediate, transformational.
Cramped as the room may have been, we made damn good use of the little space we had. We used every amenity (except for the karaoke mics). We flitted in and out of touch and conversation, forging a night that felt like it could go on for a lifetime. We smoked cigarettes in the whirlpool tub, using free hands to push hair out of faces or trace fingertips along arms and legs. I took a picture of him in the tub on my disposable camera, hoping the flash could freeze time.
Around 6 a.m., fatigue forced our eyes shut just as a call came: Check out at 7:30. We only had an hour and a half left.
This attraction, this night—this was the new beginning I’d been seeking. For the first time in a long time, my life felt wide open—not with uncertainty, but with possibility. Maybe I’d move to Japan.
We blinked and 7:30 came. We went from soundproof darkness to bright, early light. The streets bustled, days starting as our night was ending. We walked side-by-side holding hands, the light of day illuminating what we felt the night before, something powerful and rare.
…Or so I thought.
When we got to my hotel, Josie was leaving to get breakfast. She eyed Demir with skepticism, which I shook off but he could not. I gave him my phone to add himself on WhatsApp and kissed him on the cheek. “See you soon?” I asked. “Yes, yeah,” he muttered as he walked away. I stood there, hoping he’d look back. But of course he didn’t.
We have to see each other again, I thought to myself. What we felt that night was electric, a blurred line between lust and something deeper. But then I spent the rest of the trip waiting for him to respond to me on WhatsApp. The illusion had lifted: what I thought was love was just lust, the alchemy of anonymity and darkness in a Tokyo love hotel.
When I got the disposable camera developed back in New York, the picture I took of Demir in the tub came out black. Darkness cloaked him and now the memory. It was as if it never happened at all. But I will never forget the electric pull that led me to that empty, starkly lit district of hotels. The words we exchanged may not have been true; what we felt may not have been love. But whatever force flowed between us that night was real, if only for a few fleeting hours.
Maybe sometimes, lust can be enough.
*Name has been changed.
