massage parlors and sex clubs, as right in front of me is an entire street seemingly dedicated to getting male Tokyoites’ rocks off. It kind of makes sense. Usually when missionaries hang out in huge cities, they tend to place themselves near the dirty and immoral goings-on in order to steer misguided souls away from sin, the possibilities for which typically loom very close by. They loiter in hopes of steering those who are about to enter a sexual healing zone towards a purer destination where the healing is focused elsewhere. I once stayed at a Christian youth hostel in Amsterdam that was right across the street from an S & M store. Yes, Miho had succeeded in pointing me in the direction of Shinjuku’s smut district. It’s all so dirty and depraved. I can’t wait to have a look.
On the other side of the intersection there’s a much wider side street exploding with revelers, club bouncers, flyer hander-outers, and drunken businessmen. I set off down this street, and before I know it, smartly dressed men-some Japanese, some African, some Middle Eastern-are approaching me, one after the other, asking me if I’m interested in any number of titillating activities available at their particular den of sin. Massages, lap dances, private scrubdowns, penetrating conversation with a gorgeous hostess: all is offered.
It’s new and exciting to be taken for a straight man. I can saunter down the dirty boulevard completely immune, not tempted in the least to take any of these generous gentlemen up on their offers. Now, were these guys offering supple young college kendo masters named Nobu, I might have been more engaged. But as it stands I can breezily decline while enjoying a pleasant tinge of moral superiority.
I walk the length of this very long strip of hilarious heterosexual filth and feel sated, if a little nauseous. You can’t behold a Hello Kitty sex toy collection in a shop window-including a vibrator, love oil, and what appeared to be French ticklers-and come away the same person, no matter how prepared you think you are for it. At the end of the day, however, I feel better knowing that if I ever do find myself in dire need of a deep tissue massage administered by a woman dressed up as a schoolgirl of fourteen (or by a girl who is actually fourteen), I know where I can find it.
At this point I’ve given up on meeting the Harajuku girl of my dreams/nightmares and decide that I will count this evening a success if I can get a good Japanese meal, grab some reading material, and find my way back to the station. I’ve pretty much gone in one direction, so I figure I’ll just go around the block and return the way I came. I do this; I end up lost. And the more I try to set myself on the righteous path back towards the station, the more tangled up in Shinjuku’s web of winding shopping streets I become.
I sit down to consult my dog-eared guidebook again, but its detailed maps and extensive explanations tell me nothing. I stand up and look down the street, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of a gigantic neon sign showing a steaming bowl of ramen accompanied by a flashing message in English exclaiming, “WE ALSO HAVE ENGLISH MAGAZINES!!! AND OREOS!!!” I walk around the corner and start thinking about just giving up when I turn my head towards a news agent and my eyes land squarely on naked male flesh.
Even better than a steaming bowl of ramen or a copy of
It’s small and incredibly cramped, but boy is it well stocked. I excitedly squeeze through the other gawkers to have a look. There’s shelf upon shelf upon shelf of magazines, books, videos, and toys. A porn-a-palooza. Many interests are catered to. Got a surfer fetish? Go straight back and have a look at the top shelf on the left. Into straight guys who are “gay for pay”? Look beneath the surfers. Got a thing for aging, fat Japanese businessmen being stripped naked, hung in a tiny net suspended from the ceiling, and probed with a lit candle? You are sick and should be ashamed of yourself. Look over to the right above the lube.
All the magazines are shrink-wrapped, so I have only the covers to go on, but I haven’t seen the stuff in a while, and since these days I’m becoming aroused at the sight of subway advertisements for energy drinks, everything looks good (up to but definitely not including the fat old businessmen). I do the waltz of shame around the shop, trying to wring myself through any tight squeezes and not send a collection of Japanese surfer videos crashing to the floor. After a few minutes of browsing and fending off the advances of an old Japanese man with whom I’m sure I have nothing in common, I make my choice, sheepishly pay my money, receive some free condoms and lotion, and get the hell out.
I feel flushed as one usually does when walking from a porn shop out into public view, and then it hits me. Not only did I “go to tempting,” as Miho had so poetically put it, but I’d completely given myself over to tempting- swallowed it whole-and come away with the brown paper bag with the free “love oil” inside that I am now clutching tightly to my side. I think of the flyer Miho had given me with its friendly, approachable God wrapped in white. Then I think of Mr. 666 and wonder if he’s a top or a bottom. Is this wrong?
By way of divine punishment, on my way back to the station, I find myself back in the Straight Greaseball District, where the pack of young, sharp-dressed hoods are still gathered. One of them is quickly walking alongside an office lady on her way home with groceries, who wants none of his foolishness and wastes no time in outpacing him. Realizing he’s been outrun by a woman in heels, he stops, swishes his hair back into place, and, attempting to save face by opening his phone and pretending to take a call, swaggers back to his fellow navel-baring delinquents. Bada-bing.
As I skirt through the street towards what I can now see is the east entrance of the train station, one excitable Japanese guy chases me down and, his English obviously failing him, simply points to a flyer he’s holding in front of my face and says, “SEX!” Can’t really disagree, but I politely decline and move on, after which I am chased down by an African guy saying, “Come, man, come on! Hot ladies for you! You come to my bar!” I tell him no thanks, but he continues with his sales pitch. “HOT WOMEN, MAN!! HOT WOMEN!! ALL FOR YOU, MAN!! COME ON!” I speed up and wave him away, at which point he stops, stomps his feet, and yells in mortal frustration, “WHY NOT, MAN??!!” I want to turn around, stomp my foot, and bellow self-righteously, “Because I have too much respect for women!!” But this isn’t why.
I take the Yamanote train to Shinagawa Station, where I will transfer to the Tokaido Line and ride all the way to back down to Fujisawa. At Shinagawa the platform is a sea of people. The train soon comes, and as people pile in, two uniformed attendants standing by each pair of doors push, nay cram, the people in, forcing everyone on board to assume positions normally reserved for doctor visits. The carriage is a piece of modern art, each arm, newspaper, briefcase, set of headphones, chin, book, and elbow squeezing into each other like blood cells in a particularly narrow capillary. And just when you think no other living soul can possibly fit into the carriage, a stiff looking businessman leaps in and, as the doors shut, slowly morphs into whatever position the carriage allows (broken cigarette, leather slingback, praying mantis).
The train is so packed that every part of my body is being touched (not an altogether horrible sensation). When the train stops at Yokohama Station the people start flooding out, and I’m nearly strangled to death by my own bag (carrying my precious porn-an irony Miss Miho would have appreciated) because, though the strap is still over my shoulder, the bag and I are apparently separated by a few dozen people; those people, unfortunately for me, live in Yokohama. Thankfully, I’m able to pull it back to me without slicing anyone in half, and the rest of the ride isn’t nearly as intimate.
Arriving back at my apartment, I go immediately to my tiny room, flop onto the futon, open my bag, take out the magazine (an imported American one), tear off the shrink-wrap, open it, and gasp.
I gasp not with lust, amazement, or even amusement. It is with disillusionment and disgust that I turn the pages of this very expensive magazine and move my eyes over the glossy, full-color content. Every crotch shot, every hint of man-meat, every flash or flicker of cock and/or balls is scratched out. It is unthinkable. Yes, yes, a very lucky man at some porn importer has the dream job of thumbing through all the magazines coming into the country and taking a big, thick black marker, or sometimes a pencil eraser, to each and every hard, throbbing penis contained within. Such blatant disregard for art and those who buy it I have never witnessed. All those gorgeous photographs laid to waste because of some weird Japanese law against showing the crotch area to those who wish to pay good money to see it.
You can still make out some of the goods, but really, the whole point of porn is that it makes absolutely no demands on your imagination. It puts everything you want to see right in front of you so you can enjoy it briefly before getting on with your life.
I set the magazine down and, lying on my bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, let out a frustrated laugh. I lean over and pull the flyer that Miss Miho had given me out of my back pocket and look at the illustrations on the front. There’s God again, smiling widely in his pristine white robe. When I’d looked at it before, he seemed like a benevolent, soft-featured God with a voice like Morgan Freeman’s. Now, it seems, he is smiling knowingly, like he’s just told a great joke about a Jew, a priest, and a homosexual and is waiting for me to get it. Did he just wink at
