Date: Tue, 31 Jul 2012 14:47:11 +1000
From: Tanuki
Subject: Erotic Japan

I have made many trips to Japan, seen some amazing things and met some of
the world's sexiest men. The following anecdotes are a true account of
events during one of those trips.


Japanese gay saunas, like most else in Japan, are complex places where
subtle protocols prevail. They begin at entry. Remove your shoes and put
them in your chosen shoe locker. Deposit ten yen, lock the shoe locker and
remove the key. Buy a sauna entry ticket from the vending machine in the
foyer. Give the shoe locker key and the entry ticket to the assistant
behind the counter. He will exchange them for a small plastic bag that
contains a bath towel, a wash towel and possibly a yukata patterned with
the sauna name and logo. After changing from your street clothes and
draping the larger towel around your waist, you are then free to roam the
dimly lit rooms and corridors. It is very quiet. Men sit at small tables
smoking or wander slowly, glancing discreetly at their quarries. Most
patrons are middle-aged but a few are older and some are in their twenties
or early thirties.


The Tokyo sauna I visit has eight floors connected by an elevator and a
flight of steep stairs. The first floor is a lobby and a locker area. The
second has more lockers, showers, steam room, dry sauna and public baths
(sento). The third floor has a long corridor and four darkened rooms. Most
of the rooms have traditional short Japanese curtains (noren) to partition
them from the adjoining hallway. The remainder of the eight floors consist
of private rooms and there is a sunroof on top of the building. It is
always evening when I visit so I have never been as far as the sunroof. I
have never been to a private room either. If gay Japanese pornography is
any guide, all manner of bondage and perversion occurs within them. Sounds
do not penetrate the lower floors and a quick look around the fourth floor
shows only closed doors and a young man cleaning a bathroom. Anyway, there
is enough of interest on the lower floors to keep patrons diverted and
entertained.


Gay sex in Japanese saunas tends to be a communal experience. There are no
private cubicles as in Western saunas. Instead the rooms accommodate large
groups. In one, a television blazes on a wall while huddled figures rest on
the floor under futons either alone or in partnered clinches. Another room
has bunk beds along each wall and a narrow corridor down the middle. There
is much writhing and whispering from the men reclining together on the thin
mattresses. It is like a school dorm after lights out. In these
circumstances, sex can become something of a spectator sport. Once your
eyes adjust to the gloom, you can witness the erotic encounters of
neighbours in the next bunk or indeed, become the subject of eager eyes
during your own performance.

One couple makes love passionately, oblivious to the watchers. The top is a
thickset man in his early 40's, the bottom a younger, lightly bearded
guy. It is like a scene from In the Realm of the Senses. They fuck in every
conceivable position, the bottom moaning in delight as his partner
penetrates him sideways, from the back, kneeling and rolling him on top. It
is a bravura exhibition of erotic thrusting that continues for at least
half an hour. I watch silently, vicariously lusting and admiring.
Eventually I leave to explore other rooms but find the same couple twenty
minutes later in a different, better-lit room. They are still fucking
ecstatically.


Early in the night I make eye contact with a young Japanese. He is
obviously keen. When I enter one of the dormitory rooms and crawl into a
lower bunk, I am not surprised to find his hairy, muscled legs beside the
bed. I reach out to gently caress his thighs and he slides in next to me. I
grasp his big uncut cock and lick his copper nipples before resting against
his smooth chest and gazing at his handsome face. He speaks some English so
we whisper our greetings. He is Yuki, twenty-two years old and a student. I
lie on top of him and slide my hands under his taut buttocks. We writhe
together, enjoying the contact of warm skin against warm skin, of hairy
against smooth. I press an index finger against his hole but he does not
want to be fucked. I whisper `Yuki, you are my bishonen (beautiful boy),'
and he laughs quietly. He sucks me for a while but the chemistry suddenly
evaporates. After a few more minutes he leaves.


Shinji approaches me in another room and leads me firmly to a top bunk. He
is a good-looking guy of about thirty-five who speaks fluent English. Being
versatile, he is willing to be fucked but my cock will not rise to the
occasion. Shinji is also having difficulty and admits to having cum
earlier. However, after much sucking, licking and verbal encouragement, he
manages to get hard and bring himself to a shuddering climax. It is
exciting and strangely satisfying for both of us.


Finally there is Arthur. I'm amused by the incongruity of that adoption
paired with his Japanese surname. A friendly, attractive and stocky man in
his mid-thirties, his English is excellent. Our bodies blend perfectly on
the bunk as we enjoy some erotic preliminaries. Soon he slips a condom over
my dick and slides down on me. I fuck him for a few minutes and he responds
enthusiastically. Whether it's the previous encounters, travel tiredness or
the insensitive latex, I subside and cannot complete the act. Arthur is
polite but disappointed. `I want to feel you inside me' he murmurs.
Later he gives me his business card and urges me to call. The rest of my
time in Tokyo is heavily booked but I email him and say that I would
welcome a call from him next time he is in Australia. `Must I wait that
long?' comes the reply. Regrettably the answer is yes.


Later ... There has been a sudden flowering of summer yukata as summer
approaches. The Tokyo metro is more colourful as ladies in spring colours
chat quietly on the trains, the rich yellows, greens and maroons of their
fabrics contrasting with pillows of darker obi, intricately knotted cords
and white collars. When I emerge from the underground, I am at a busy
intersection and the park is in front of me.


Home to homeless men and stray cats, the park is a large public garden with
flowerbeds, meandering paths and ornamental ponds. The stray cats share the
park seats with newspaper reading retirees and black suited office workers
smoking cigarettes. Do they have offices to go to I wonder or are they
among the unemployed who maintain a workaday charade to fool their wives
and families? I sit on a park seat overlooking a pond fringed with water
irises and bonsai pine. Tortoises doze on the rocks; a white heron stalks
small fish and koi the size of small crocodiles glide close to the surface
of the water.


Research on the Internet reveals that this park is a well-known pick up
place with some popular beats. Sure enough, as I stroll along a shady path,
I see a man standing at a urinal. Many Japanese public toilets are fairly
open and it is possible to see patrons inside. He stands for a long time so
I take the chance to enter and stand next to him. His medium sized dick is
hard and he is fondling it gently. We share a meaningful glance but nothing
comes of this encounter. It is solely a visual thrill.


Further exploration leads to a larger, red brick lavatory on the perimeter
of the park. It is fully enclosed but stands just twenty metres from the
koban (police station) and is separated from it only by an entrance to the
metro. Surely this is impossible I think, but I am wrong. The place is
packed. There are about twelve urinals and most of them are occupied. The
clientele by and large do not appeal to me. Most are old men leering
lasciviously and waving their pinky-sized penises at one another. There is
a lot of furtive groping and occasionally a mouth makes quick contact with
a proffered organ.


There are two basic types of gay Japanese men: waifs and wrestlers. The
waifs are young, very slim and wear their shaggy hair so long that it falls
over their ears and foreheads. The wrestlers are usually older, much fatter
and look as though a long walk would kill them. Of course there are many
men who fall between these two broad categories. Beautiful features are
uncommon (although there are some striking exceptions) and all Japanese men
seem to have flat arses. Lovers of bubble butts will have a long search.
Men drift in and out this establishment and most avoid standing next to
me. Some have no choice though because there are few vacant positions. For
good reason they are cautious and wary of a gaijin who might have simply
wandered in for a piss. They soon realise there is no need to worry. A few
strain their necks to get a better view of my cock. Bolder ones even drop
their free hand to attempt a sly contact. I leave to cruise the park and
but make multiple visits to the red brick beat. It is something I have not
done in years but I am interested in the scene and maybe will have no other
opportunity for this experience.


Suddenly a well-built young man stands next to me. He is about six inches
shorter than me and has a buzz cut. He could be a young monk on a day's
outing from a temple. He shows me his thick, meaty dick and I manage to
give it a quick squeeze. It is totally erect and as hard as rock. He gives
me a Zen smile and we stand together admiring one another. With some
difficulty, he stuffs his cock back in his pants and leaves unhurriedly.
When I follow outside, he is waiting for me. He makes a slight signal for
me to follow then turns into the adjacent metro entrance. We descend from
the quiet precincts of the park into the subterranean swarm.  I trail him
as he enters another toilet. We pretend to piss until the last patron
leaves, then stand together for more mutual fondling. Unusually, he is
wearing tight briefs but I manage to extract his solid hairless balls and
roll them in my palm. He is still as hard as rock, his dick standing almost
at ninety degrees. Footsteps warn us to stop and he leaves again. He knows
this subway very well. We repeat our groping in three different toilets and
I gaze at his beautiful monk's face while I feel his cock and firm
buttocks. In the last quiet place, he bends and gives my hard dick a loving
suck. It is a dangerous move but that seems to heighten our excitement. He
leaves again. I wait a few seconds and follow expectantly. He has vanished.


I return aboveground and go back to the red brick. This exploration has now
lasted several hours and I'm conscious that my old beat addiction is
making a comeback. A solidly built guy with black-rimmed glasses is still
here. He appears to be in his mid thirties and he looks my way many
times. We do not touch but I notice that his medium-sized dick is dripping
a syrupy ribbon of pre-cum that reaches from his cock to the base of the
urinal. The stream seems never ending.


Another shy young man in a blue check shirt earlier shielded his cock from
me. Now he stands next to me with an open display. He is very cute. Only
about five foot three inches tall and with a tight, muscular body. He
allows me to feel his small dick and to cradle his soft balls in my
hand. Although he is obviously of age, I feel like a pedophile.


It is time for some fresh air so I emerge from the red brick, climb a short
flight of stone steps and sit on a park seat atop the ramparts of an old
castle. From here I can look down on the ornamental pond. In front of me is
a low iron railing and to my right, about twenty metres away, other park
seats. People are strolling on the narrow path behind me or sitting in
little groups talking. The well-built guy in a black tracksuit, who I
noticed outside the red brick a little earlier, comes to lean on the
railing close to me. He might be forty-five or so but looks very fit. He
wears glasses and his face is a little lined. Without making any eye
contact, he moves a couple of paces to sit next to me. After a while he
leans forward slightly and starts rubbing his cock through the fabric of
the tracksuit. I can see the outline of his hard, medium-sized prick. After
a couple of minutes, he glances about to make sure no-one is looking our
way, picks up my hand and places it in his groin. I massage him briefly but
this is ridiculous. People are everywhere. He never makes eye contact or
says a single word but repeats the performance several more times, each
time placing my hand against his growing cock. Eventually I lose my nerve,
stand up and go.


I decide that I adore the Japanese sense of the erotic. It is subtle and
nuanced but may quickly turn to the outrageous and bizarre. The public
encounters I've described are all true and you may be disappointed to
see that I do not climax in any of them. However, there were certainly more
intimate and private occasions where my contacts with Japanese men were
orgasmic and deeply satisfying. If there's enough interest, I may tell
you about some of them too.