More Curiosities From Japan's Porno Shops

[Currently Listening To: UNKLE - War Stories]


Tokyo's Akihabara neighborhood is a sort of Mecca for consumerist nerds. Anyone obsessed, as I am, with toys and gadgets, electronics and video games, robots and action figures would be hard pressed to find a greater place to whittle away their life savings. Last month, I lost myself in Akihabara's endless neon labyrinth of awesomeness for many hours, dashing around wide-eyed like a kid in a candy store. Every corner I turned in every shop was a new discovery of some wonderful thing that I desperately needed more than anything else in the world, although I hadn't known it until then. I left that shiny paradise a much poorer man than I had entered - but I didn't leave it without another trip to the legendary seven-floor adult superstore I discovered two years ago on my last trip to Japan. And since the bizarre treasures I brought home from that trip proved so popular, I figured it's time for another round of show and tell from the the dark, horny underbelly of Tokyo.

It's unfortunate that the giant porn store doesn't allow photographs, because it's hard to capture the uniquely creepy atmosphere with words alone. I think most Americans feel a bit uncomfortable browsing any sex shop, but Japan turns the Weird-O-Meter up a few notches, especially in this store. As with any shop in Tokyo, space counts, so an impressive amount of merchandise has been Tetrissed into narrow little aisles. Any amount of foot traffic in the store makes it extremely difficult to move around, forcing you to silently negotiate an awkwardly physical passage with anyone in your way as you attempt to navigate the claustrophobic walkways. This means you'll have to acknowledge the Japanese businessman carefully studying a strap-on dildo far more intimately than you'd probably prefer.

To make things worse, the store is almost dead silent, except for the bondage floor, where the unnerving soundtrack is the signature high-pitched wail of a Japanese woman crying and screaming from horrors unknown. Unknown, at least, until you notice the television in the back corner, where said Japanese woman, her naked body dripping in hot wax, is being led around someone's basement on all fours by a leash. Her endless crying would seem to be the result of the thirty or so metal clamps attached mercilessly to exactly the last parts of one's body most people would ever choose to clamp. Behind the cash register, polaroid pictures cover the wall the way a New York deli would post pictures of celebrities who had stopped in for a bite to eat. Except, instead of pictures of the cashier giving thumbs up next to Jay Leno or Regis Philbin, these are pictures of the cashier tied up and ball-gagged, bent over with a leather-clad woman sticking various objects into his hairy Japanese ass. It seemed the photos were souvenirs from some sort of bondage party held by people who work at the store. I was never more thankful for the Japanese aversion to touching hands when exchanging money.

Unfortunately, most of the weird new treasures I found this time around were too expensive to buy, and I couldn't photograph them in the store. But alas, through the magical tubes of the internets I was able to find pictures and even links for almost everything I saw, so let's begin the tour...


The Plasma Sperm



The Plasma Sperm is a home microscope kit designed especially for men to view their little testicular tadpoles up close and personal. That's right boys - next time you blow a load all over your stomach looking at celebrity nip slip galleries, don't reach for that dirty gym sock - reach for the Plasma Sperm, and see how your little swimmers are holding up.



I actually bought one of these, but it was a gag gift for a friend, so I was sadly unable to personally test out this ingenious device. However, from the looks of it there seems to be nothing to differentiate it from any other home microscope, save the spectacular packaging.



Unable to read Japanese, I can't exactly tell you what their selling points are with this thing, beyond the irresistible novelty of seeing the would-be offspring you've sentenced to death by Kleenex. This website seems to be selling the Plasma Sperm as a cost effective tool for men with potentially low sperm counts who are trying to conceive a child. But since I don't know Japanese, I'll turn to Google's trusty translator for help:

"This actualizing price low with the contents which are the high function where also the professional is surprised! [sutairiishiyu] design the near future forum the [ku] the [ri] increases the intellectual search heart of the man immediately. In present! In experiment! In investigation! The door to the micro which participates with all scenes."

Ah, that explains it!


Strange Masturbatory Devices

Last time I told you (in way too much detail) about the popular Japanese "vagina-in-a-can," or Vagican, or Cangina as it was later coined. You can see a wide variety of Vagicans on this page. The Vagican is an unapologetically economical masturbatory solution, and thus lacks some of the bells and whistles of more elaborate artificial vaginas. That's where the Vagican Vibrator comes in:



Just insert your favorite Cangina into the machine, and instantly you have a vibrating Cangina! It's kind of like an erotic paint shaker. The translation calls it the "Electric Man," and the best part is that it's not just for Canginas - it's also for rubber hands, creating an amazing vibrating handjob machine:



Or if that looks a little too vanilla, try this uncomfortable-looking ball-grabbing device - I call it "The Clapper":




Anime Love Dolls

One of the more interesting new additions at the sex shop was a section of life-sized love dolls. Love dolls are a sex toy staple around the world, but like everything else, Japan adds its own creepy twists - like favoring plush dolls that look like pubescent anime characters:



The product page for this doll details its eerie face, which will be staring blankly through you as you make love to its unique interchangeable vagina. An interchangeable vagina, you say? How does it work? Once again, Google Translator explains:

When the underpants are made to disperse, the hole for hole installing opens. Because hole hole diameter 45×30mm is small, “the love body Kumi private hole” of selling separately is agreeable.

I see... But what I want to know is how do you wash something like this? It's plush, which is fabric, so there's going to be a certain amount of absorbency when it's exposed to, say, the various excretions of a profusely sweating overweight Japanese man crushing poor Kumi under his weight as he furiously pumps his hairy little ding-dong into her "private hole." It sounds like a recipe for something that doesn't smell very good after a few uses.

If you're looking for something more realistic terrifying, you might want to try this... thing:



This lovely armless lass and her friends (seen at the top of the page) come permanently fixed in a pose that never says no, and an interchangeable face only a serial killer could love:



It also is home to the world's least sexy artificial vagina:



This comic, from the detail page, explains everything you need to know about these high-tech artificial orifices:



These dolls are highly customizable, so if you want to channel your inner psychopath by taking off the doll's limbs, reducing its breasts to undeveloped nubs, dressing it in little girl underwear and giving it a face that says "please Daddy don't touch me there" - you're in luck!



Most terrifying of all is this thing, a doll that should be murdering people in a bad '80's horror movie, not being lusted after by lonely Japanese men:



This doll has, according to its translated page, an artificial hymen for you to break. They really did think of everything, didn't they?

All of the above dolls are fairly deluxe, and will run you into the hundreds of dollars. But if you're on a budget and still need something life-size you can desperately pretend is a real woman, check out the wide variety of weird blow-up dolls. Thankfully, they still retain the creepy anime face:



And, if you're on even more of a budget, you might just want specific parts - like a personal titty-fucker, or a grotesquely hairy rubber rear end vagina thing, or a pocket anus, or a curious little guy I like to call "The Pirana Plant".


Something For The Ladies

Fear not girls, Japan hasn't left you out, and it understands that your desire to masturbate can happen suddenly, where you least expect it. That's why you need to carry your vibrator discreetly - say, disguised as a zuccini, or better yet, an ear of corn:



No one will think it's weird if they see an ear of corn in your purse. Or a carrot, or a banana.

If vegetables aren't your thing, maybe fingers are. Not just any fingers - vibrating fingers molded directly from the hands of a famous Japanese actor - specifically, this guy:



Oh, and in case you were worried, Japan is still the leading producer of the world's cutest vibrators:




Capsule Figures

Toy figures definitely aren't just for kids in Japan. Like last time, I tried my luck in one of the adult-themed capsule toy machines. This time I got a tiny plastic tied-up girl, complete with a box of "accessories" (for size reference, those are laptop keyboard keys behind her):



As strange as it is, the attention to detail is impressive. The girl's box of fun includes what must be the world's smallest sex toys - several dildos, a butt plug, a speculum, anal beads, and the always useful bottle of lube:



All that's missing is a miniature butt funnel.

Well, that's all for this year. For more from Japan's dirty side, keep exploring this site, or just go here and cry yourself to sleep tonight.

P.S. - Even though it's better suited for my previous entry, I can't help but include this Japanese man wearing boobs on his nose. Because Japanese men with boob noses are always funny:

Story Time: The Best Little Whorehouse In Amsterdam (Or Not)

[Currently Listening To: Bill Hicks - Salvation]


     In addition to being solicited by one of Boy George's mantoys and watching a transvestite sex show in jaw-dropped disbelief, there were a couple other bizarre stories from Europe that I'd meant to write down at the time, but never got around to. This is one of them... (this is a long post, but I had some time on an airplane this evening and I wanted to write this down so I wouldn't forget the details - read it or don't read it, I don't give a fuck)

     At some point in the middle of our European trip, we stopped in Amsterdam for exactly one night off before we were to catch a flight to Spain the next day. We were tired from traveling but determined nonetheless to make something of the few hours we had in a city with a reputation for trouble. So myself and a couple friends set out on foot towards the famed red light district, where adventure surely awaited us. Or did it? We quickly discovered that even Amsterdam, the city of sin, is dead as balls on a sunday night. After an hour of walking, the novelty of looking at weathered hookers standing in little red fish tanks was quickly fading, and all we wanted was someplace to sit down and have a drink - but every bar seemed to be closed or closing. Only one dingy-looking tavern on the corner of a dark sidestreet showed signs of life - in fact, it was overflowing with loud, drunken European men. Even from the outside it looked filthy and cramped and potentially dangerous, but damnit, it was open, so we decided to give it a shot.

     The entrance to the bar was a tunnel of large, scarred, skinheaded British rugby thugs whose boisterous drunken conversations gave way to silent scowls when we - three pale, skinny, black-clad Americans - squeezed our way past them to get in. Clearly, we were not particularly welcome in this place, but it seemed like it was too late to turn back at that point.

     The bar's interior was truly a wretched hive of scum and villainy; a dark, narrow, rotting dump of a place which looked as old as time and smelled even older. The musty, humid air was thick with cigarette smoke which, along with the succulent aroma of stale beer, vomit, and body odor, seemed to have been collecting on every surface of the room for two hundred years, unchallenged by proper cleaning or ventilation. From somewhere in the back, a dying jukebox blasted a cacophony of Irish drinking music cranked too loud for the capabilities of the weathered speakers. All manors of unsavory characters filled every corner of the room - laughing and shouting and drinking heavily - and many of them cast their eyes suspiciously upon us as we walked in. I felt like C-3PO stepping into the Mos Eisley Cantina - I was half expecting one of the bartenders to point at us and say, "we don't serve their kind here!"

     We sat down reluctantly at the bar, still taking in the breadth of our surroundings. As I adjusted my stool, I accidently bumped gently into the back of a rather large man next to me. He spun around and glared at me with a soul-piercing look of death and said, in the thickest of consonant-free cockney accents: "watch it." I sheepishly apologized and scooted my stool so far in the other direction I was practically sitting in my friend's lap. It was definitely time for some drinks. My friend Dave got the attention of a wiry old man bartender with a big hook nose, a horseshoe of stringy white hair, and an apron so filthy it was stained in colors I didn't even know existed. He spoke no English but understood the word "vodka," and that was all we really needed. He presented us with three shots (mixers, I presumed, were a foreign concept here) which we quickly gulped down (it was the cheapest, most throat-searing vodka I've ever tasted) and asked for another round. The bartender took our dirty glasses, dunked them in a sink filled with dark brown dishwater, and set them back in the stack of clean glasses, where they were immediately picked up by the second bartender and filled anew for some other customers.

     After a couple rounds, we eased up a bit and began to enjoy the atmosphere, spending the next hour or so people-watching, bullshitting, having a great time. By that point the crowd was thinning out, and at 2am the bar's bright overhead lights turned on, announcing closing time in the most disorienting of ways. The question, of course, was now what? Surely there must be somewhere else to go and continue our night. My friend Jason, a couple shots drunker than Dave and myself, called for the attention of the other, English-speaking bartender. He was a large middle-aged man with an accent of undetermined Eastern European origin. He had a barrel chest, a leathery face, a buzz cut, and a bowling shirt with the name "Frankie" embroidered on the breast. He walked over to us, keeping one eye on a trouble-making drunk over in the corner, and told us "no more drink, bar is closed."
     "No," Jason explained, "we want to go to another bar. Do you know anywhere around here that's still open where we could get a drink?"
     Frankie thought about it for a minute, then nodded slowly and said, "yes, I know of good place."
     "A bar?"
     "Yes. It is sex club. But it is bar. It have drinks. It good."
     We looked at each other suspiciously. Jason asked if there were any normal bars still open.
     "No," Frankie replied, "bars all closed. Only sex club open now."
     "But it's a bar, right? I mean, they serve drinks?"
     "Yes, yes, it bar. Drinks. I call car for you. I get you there. You get there, you tell them Frankie send you." Frankie flipped open a beat-up cell phone from his pocket and disappeared to the other side of the bar, apparently making a phone call. Dave and Jason and I huddled together to discuss. Jason assured us that he'd been to one of these "sex clubs" last time he was in Europe - that it was just a bar, but with girls hanging out who you can purchase and take upstairs if you'd like.
     "If you don't want any girls," Jason told us, "you don't have to get any. We can just sit there and drink."
     "So it's a whorehouse?" I asked.
     "No, well... I mean, yeah, but it's classier than that. It'll be just like any other bar. Look, it's the only place to go right now, and it'll be an adventure."
     Dave was not convinced - rather, he was beginning to panic: "That guy is calling us a fucking car right now, and if we get in that car, we're dead. Do you see that guy's watch? That's a fucking ten thousand dollar Rolex. You think he makes that kind of money washing dishes behind a bar? No, he makes money robbing naive tourists like us. We're going to end up in fucking pieces inside Frankie's trunk."
     "Dude, I don't think he's making that much money from robbing tourists. I mean, how many tourists would even come in this place?"
     "Oh come on - 'Frankie sent us'?? That's fucking code for 'gut these witless Americans and dump them in the river'!"
     Just then, Frankie returned, and said, "I have arrange for you. Car is come to get you."
     "Actually," I said, "if you could just give us the address, we'll catch a cab there - we need to, uh, pick up a couple friends."
     Frankie shrugged and said he would get the address for us, then disappeared again.
     "There," I told Dave, "now we don't have to ride in Frankie's car."
     "I still don't trust this guy."
     Frankie came back with an address of gibberish Dutch street names scribbled on a dirty napkin. "You go here, you tell them Frankie send you." Thanks, Frankie. Then he leaned forward, and said, "Tell me - you are in band, no?"
     "Uh, yeah," I said, appeasing him. "Yeah, we're in a band." We weren't, of course, but I guess we looked the part.
     Frankie's face lit up. "I knew this! I am friend with many rock and roll band. Last week I meet Keith Richard from Rolling Stone!" He ducked down behind the bar and pulled out a photo album, then leafed through it until he found a photo of himself standing next to the corpse drummer from The Rolling Stones. "You see? Keith Richard!"
     "Oh, wow. Cool, man. Real cool."
     Frankie beamed, clearly very proud. "I have to clean up bar now. In thirty minute, I see you at club, and then we talk."
     Yeah. Sure. That'll be great. I can't wait for our talk, Frankie. We said goodbye, headed out to the street, and grabbed a cab.

     On the ride to Frankie's mysterious sex club, we grilled the cab driver for clues about our destination. He told us that there were about five of these clubs in the city, some of them more expensive than others. This one, he told us, was not one of the expensive ones. We weren't sure if that was a good or a bad thing, but what did we care - all we wanted was a fucking drink.

     The cab came to a stop on a dark, residential-looking street. "This is it," the cab driver told us.
     "Um... where?"
     "Right there." He pointed to the unmarked door of an apartment building, indistinct from a dozen other doors of a dozen other adjacent apartment buildings. There was no sign, no people outside, no lights on in the windows - no evidence at all that this was anyplace other than the residence of someone who had long since retired for bed. Still, we got out of the cab, determined to investigate. Jason knocked on the door..... Nothing.
     Dave was flipping out: "Dude, this is fucked, this is fucked, we're going to die right now for sure."
     I was beginning to agree, as Jason knocked again with no results. "Yeah, this is pretty weird. We should get out of here." Jason nodded, and we turned to walk back towards the cab.
     Just then, from somewhere above us, a voice shouted "Hey!" We stopped and looked up - a rugged-looking old black woman was leaning out of a window on what must have been the third floor, peering down at us.
     "What you want?" she yelled in a gruff, heavily accented voice.
     "Uh... is this a bar?"
     She paused. "Frankie send you?"
     "Um, yes. Frankie sent us."
     She slammed the window shutters closed. We all gave each other the same look of "what the fuck is going on here?"
     "Dude," Dave said, "let's get out of here. This is fucking weird."
     I glanced over at the cab driver, still waiting for us at the curb. "Yeah, let's go."

     And then, just as our minds were made up, the front door swung open, and there was the old black woman, standing there leering at us. She was probably sixty years old, and had frazzled black hair with streaks of gray. Deep dark circles hung under her eyes, and what few teeth she still had were crooked and yellow. She was wearing a faded silk slip - something that might have been sexy when it was worn by the woman who originally purchased it, thirty years and seven owners ago, before it was retrieved out of a dumpster by the beast who stood before us. It had stains of unknown origin scattered across it, and one of the straps was held together with a safety pin. From the bottom of the slip emerged a pair of scrawny, veiny legs, capped by the filthiest pair of slippers I'd ever seen. "Come in," she told us, in a tone used more commonly for demands than invitations.

     We exchanged glances - should we go in this creepy place? My every instinct was screaming "run for the fucking hills." But Jason, buzzed and adventurous, stepped forward. "C'mon, how bad could it be?" What we saw inside hinted at the answer.

     The room we walked into was dark and empty. There were no people, there was no music. There were no signs of life. In one corner, a ripped up old couch sat next to a dying plant. The other side of the room was mostly occupied by a shoddily-constructed bar with five or six almost-empty bottles of nondescript liquor sitting behind it. Another corner of the room had a pole in it - the stripper kind, not the fireman kind. The air smelled like cigarettes and death.
     "Sit down," the old woman told us.
     "Wait," Dave said, "is this a bar? Is this a club?"
     "Yes, it is club."
     "Are there... people here? Anybody?" I asked.
     "Yes, people here. Sit down. I call girls for you." She disappeared down a hallway and up some stairs.
     We sat down at the small bar and laughed nervously. "What the FUCK is going on here?"

     Then, a shorter, fatter old black woman emerged from the hallway, and walked behind the bar. Acknowledging us only with a disinterested glance, she flicked a switch that turned on an overhead light, which momentarily illuminated the dark room, then flickered, and fizzled out. She pulled out a remote from behind the bar and pointed it at a tiny television mounted high up on the wall above the bar. A fuzzy image wobbled into place on the screen - some sort of European music video was playing. It wasn't up very loud, but at least finally there was something other than dead silence in the room. The woman set glasses down in front of each of us, and then looked at us expectedly. Oh, I get it, she's the bartender. "Vodka," Jason said. Dave and I nodded.
     The woman poured our drinks from a plastic bottle with the word "vodka" written on it with a Sharpie. We toasted, "to Amsterdam," and emptied the glasses quickly. The woman filled them up again and said, "So. You know Frankie?"
     "Yes," Jason said, "we met Frankie tonight. Uh, nice guy."
     She nodded unenthusiastically. We did another shot. Dave, still nervous about the situation, sat down on the dirty couch, his eyes darting around suspiciously.

     Just then, a woman came in from the hallway, and slumped down on the stool next to me. She was probably 21 but looked 40 - rake thin and pale, with greasy unwashed hair, a wart on her cheek, and teeth so yellow they were closer to brown. An expression of disdain carved creases into her weathered face as she sucked on a cigarette like it was oxygen at the bottom of the ocean. And she just sat there, looking straight ahead, not acknowledging us. Squirming awkwardly, I turned towards Jason and Dave and joked, "back off guys, she's mine." Jason snickered. I turned back to the girl and decided I might as well make this entertaining. "Hey there," I said, in the lightest tone I could muster. She continued smoking, without looking at me. "So... uh... where you from?" She turned her head towards me, scowling, giving me the death stare.
     "Mars," she replied bitterly, in a tone you might use to speak to someone who had just killed your mother.
     I chuckled awkwardly. "Mars, huh? It's, uh, pretty hot there this time of year, isn't it?" She grunted unintelligibly and resumed her smoking. For a girl who was expecting me to solicit her for sex, she really wasn't selling herself very well.

     At that point two more girls came in from upstairs, both of them as hideous and unfriendly as the first. One sat down next to Dave, and the other next to Jason. No one said anything. The atmosphere was getting creepier and creepier. I turned to Jason and whispered, "I think we're all getting AIDS just from sitting here. We need to get the hell out of this place. At some point they're going to expect us to pay these girls for sex, and I don't think they're going to be happy when they realize we're not interested in that." Jason nodded. But just as I was getting up to tell Dave the same thing, the old black woman reappeared, and said, "You have girl now. Rooms are upstairs. More girls coming." We all glanced at each other.

     Suddenly the doorbell rang. Now what? Frankie? "I hope that's not Frankie..." Jason mumbled.
     "It is more girls," the woman said, moving towards the door, "I call more girls for you." Great, just what we need. She opened the door, and there was Frankie, wearing a clean shirt and a shiny gold necklace. He said something unintelligible to the old woman, and then the plot thickened: They embraced, and kissed sloppily and passionately. I think I threw up a little when I saw that.
     Frankie looked around and smiled. "You are here! Good! Many beautiful girl for you. Have fun with girls. Then we talk. Much to talk about. I want know about your band."
     Dave, starting to freak out, did exactly what I hoped he wouldn't do, and explained to Frankie, "Look man, we actually don't want any girls tonight. We just wanted a drink. So..."
     "What you mean no girls!" Frankie interrupted, sounding offended. "You must have girl! It is Amsterdam! This is sex club! You will take girl. This one," he gestured at the putrid troll sitting next to Dave, "she do anything for you. Beautiful girl."

     So at this point we find ourselves in a bit of situation. We're in a foreign country, in a seemingly vacant part of town miles away from our hotel, in the creepiest whorehouse in the world, without any means to call a cab, being pressured by a large Russian man to have sex with possibly the ugliest girls in Europe. How the fuck were we going to get out of this one?

     The doorbell rang again. "Ah, that is girls," the old woman said. She opened the door, and to our surprise, it was the cab driver. The cab driver! The fucking cab driver came back. To this day, I do not know why he returned, but it didn't matter. It was a Godsend. His arrival was like some sort of divine intervention. Thank the fucking Lord, I thought to myself. We're saved!

     Immediately I jumped up from my seat. "Oh, hey, Jason, there's the cab driver! Remember you forgot your jacket in the cab?" He looked at me, confused.
     "No, I di--" You could almost see the light bulb illuminate above his head. "Oh, riiiight! My jacket! Yeah, let's go look for that!" We quickly shoved our way past Frankie and the woman and ran outside to the cab. "We'll be right back, just getting something from the car!" The cab driver, confused, followed us outside and watched us leap into the back seat of the car.
     "Come on!" I yelled at the cabbie, "let's go!"
     "You... you want to leave?"
     "YES!!"
     "Fuck, where's Dave?" Jason shouted. Dave hadn't followed us outside.
     "Fuck fuck fuck!" I jumped out of the car and ran to the doorway, leaned in, and said "Dave, we need your help with something out here!" He shrugged and came towards the door. I grabbed his arm and pulled him outside. "Come on, dumbass, we're getting out of here!"

     As we piled into the cab the woman had caught on and ran out the door screaming "Where you going!! You can no leave!! I call girls for you, you have to pay!!" Like a scene from a movie, I yelled at the driver to "step on it" as the woman ran towards the cab. The car peeled out, and we laughed hysterically as we watched the woman run down the street after us, cursing and screaming, with Frankie standing behind her dumbfounded.

     On the ride home, we couldn't stop laughing, about Frankie and the creepy ugly prostitutes and the dingy bar and how, at the end, Dave had actually thought we were going to the car to fetch Jason's jacket. The driver asked us if we wanted to try a better club. No thanks, we told him. We'd had more than enough of Amsterdam.

Curiosities from Japan's porno shops.

As everyone is well aware, Japan is absolutely brimming with bizarre shit, particularly when it comes to adult material. Tentacle rape, bestiality, people shitting on each other... They've got it all. So when I stumbled upon a seven-floor adult superstore, I knew I was going to walk out with some amazingly weird stuff.

First, though, there's plenty of pervasive material available right out on the street, before you even make it into a porno store. For example, these delicious-looking treats I found at a market - "Yokohama Bust Pudding":



I like how, the way the packages are set up, the girl on the right appears to be scowling at the girl on the left, as if jealous of her younger, perkier pudding breasts.


In Japan, vending machines are EVERYWHERE. Soda, candy, porn, dairy products... You'll find it all just a button-push away (This site catalogs some of the more unusual vending machines in Japan). Thankfully, this also includes machines that dispense capsule toys, which seem to be hugely popular in Tokyo. Unlike chintzy American capsule toys (cheap digital watches, plastic rings, etc), Japan's are incredibly cool and come in endless varieties. From capsule machines alone I got Excruciatingly detailed tiny little classic Nintendo systems (here being enjoyed by Wolverine), a Spider-Man figure, 3D Mario Bros. magnets, a monster trapped inside a cube, a miniature video game table (with fully working game), glowing Star Wars light saber keychains, and robot pandas being controlled by real pandas.

But amidst all of that, side by side with Pokemon and Dragon Ball Z, are adult-themed capsule toy machines which dispense little figures of partially naked girls doing all manors of unsavory things. Of course it's random so I felt compelled to try my luck and see what the porno figures looked like. The ones I got ranged from basic assortments, like girls showing their boobs and masturbating...



...to more illicit figures, like this one:



Yes, she's tied up to a post. Yes, her tit is falling out. Yes, that's a Kabuki mask between her legs. And yes, she comes with a collection of intricately-detailed little dildos. Amazing. However, easily the most disturbing assortment of adult-themed capsule toys involved doe-eyed, childlike girls in suggestive poses. This was one of the more expensive machines - 500 yen (about five bucks) for one toy, but it was certainly worth it, as I now own my very own toy of a little girl squatting to pee:



How fucking creepy is that? As you can see from the flyer included in the capsule (note the kiddie crayon font), the other toys in the assortment include little girls spreading their legs, little girls sucking suggestively on popsicles, and little girls dry-humping their teddy bears:



Incredibly, incredibly disturbing. And let me remind you, I didn't find these in some seedy back alley - all of these machines were right on the sidewalks in busy shopping areas.

Of course, capsule machines aren't just for figures - I found a vending machine called "Men's Gold Ticket," which offered an assortment of little sex toys for men, like little rubber vaginas and anal beads.



Unfortunately, the one I got wasn't very exciting - just some sort of French Tickler thing, with a little bottle of lube:



But sometimes all the French Ticklers in the world can't stop that lonely feeling, so you could always try your luck at a capsule machine that dispenses girls' phone numbers for you to talk to - I didn't actually get one of these, but it appeared as though each capsule includes a photo of the lucky lady, and a number to get in touch with her:




So if I found all that amazingly ridiculous stuff out on the street, what awaited me in an actual porno store? Of course I had to find out. The seven story adult megaplex included a floor for sex toys, a floor for magazines, two floors for DVDs, a floor for condoms and lubes, and even a floor for costumes. Japanese men love them some role-playing, so you can buy all kinds of elaborate outfits to suit your wildest fantasies, most of which appear to be based on popular anime characters.

In the condom and lube section, I found an assortment of funny manga-inspired condom packages - like this one, called "SACK 2":



I like the numerous phalluses on that robot, and also the writing at the top: "TRY NEW TYPE CAN YOU SURVIVE? 12 TIMES" Is that challenging me to survive safe sex twelve times? What, in a row? How do I survive, by not getting her pregnant? Not getting the hiv? Whatever the case, I hope I can survive - although I have yet to put my SACK 2's to good use.


On the sex toy floor, there was a large wall with dozens and dozens of cans - all of them in different colors and sizes, and all of them with different naked cartoon girls on them. A great deal of Japanese men were perusing this wall, carefully studying and comparing the different cans before making their decision. With nothing in English, it took me a few minutes of analysis to figure out that the cans were actually fake vaginas. They were all similarly priced - suspiciously cheap at 5-600 yen - so I wasn't sure what the difference was, except the girl on the outside. I guess you were meant to pick which naked anime girl you liked the best, and fuck this plastic can while fantasizing about her. Interestingly enough, none of the cans were very long - maybe six inches at the most. I was trying to avoid the whole Asian-men-have-small-penises thing, but they kind of handed it to me on a silver platter. Anyway, this is the vagina can I bought:



Yes, I bought one, purely out of curiosity as to what might be inside. Well, this is what's inside - a smelly, pre-lubricated Styrofoam opening:



Sexy, huh? Just like the real thing. I don't know what I was expecting when I opened up the can, but it certainly wasn't that. I guess that explains the low price - they're meant to be disposable, you fuck it a couple times and then get a new can.

This reminds me of a story I know I'm going to regret telling, but here goes: Quite a few years ago I was passing through New York for some reason or another, and one night I went out bar-hopping with a couple friends. We stumbled out of the last bar around 3am, drunk and giddy, laughing and tripping as we walked back towards our hotel. On the way we passed a porno store, which aside from the occasional pizza place was the only thing open at 3am. I'm not sure why - I think one of my friends wanted to buy a magazine - but we went in, and annoyed the shop's patrons by picking up every ridiculous sex toy and laughing about it loudly. The most absurd thing we found was a large plastic beer can - meant to look like "Coors Light," or something, but much larger - and when you unscrewed the cap at the top, there was a latex vagina inside, that you were meant to stick your dick in and fuck the can. Well, not really "fuck" the can, exactly, but masturbate with it. Same concept as the Japanese ones, but more elaborate. In fact, this is pretty much exactly what it was.

So of course we have to buy the beer can vagina, because we're drunk and it's funny, and we figure we'll find some entertaining unintended use for it. So we paid for it and continued on our merry way back to the hotel. Once there we said our goodbyes and retired to our rooms, and I realized that somehow I'd gotten stuck carrying the bag from the sex store. I set it down on the desk and didn't think much about it. That is, for a few minutes, until I found myself sitting on the bed in my hotel room, drunk and lonely and sexually frustrated, and I kept staring over at that stupid beer can vagina. "Maybe I should just try it. Just see what it feels like..." I mean, why not, right? You know. Just for kicks, right? So you know what? I fucked it. Yeah. I fucked a plastic beer can. I fucked the shit out of that can. And you know what? It felt alright. It did the trick. That is, until it was all over. Until the moment after, when I was hit by a sobering freight train of humility, looking down at my dick stuck inside a latex vagina housed in a plastic beer can. Moments like that you start to question everything - "How the hell did it come to this? Who am I? What am I doing with my life?" I probably sat there for an hour, silently with my plastic lover, pondering my existence.

The next morning, when the subject of the previous night came up and someone said, "oh, where's that funny beer can thing we got? Rob, you had it, right?" And everyone looks at me, and I just stare at them for a moment, and then say, "...I fucked it. I fucked it and I hated myself, and now it's gone." There was a slight pause, followed by uproarious laughter. The ridicule took months to subside.


Anyway, back to weird Japanese sex toys. This next one was a heavily featured product at the store, clearly a very popular item. It's a clear plastic funnel meant to be inserted into someone's ass, and it comes with a little flashlight to shine inside the ass, and, well, look around. Ya know, see what's going on in the ol' anal cavity. Here's the sign with the product itself down below:



Yes, behold the butt funnel. There was a sign next to it which said, "This is truly amazing! See the things which you have never seen before!" You know, you're right, I have seen a lot of things, but never the inside of someone's rectum. And is that really such a bad thing? Is that something I need to see? I'm not sure, but I bought the funnel, so the option is always there. That's one of those things that, if you really wanted to look inside a girl's ass via the butt funnel, how do you bring that up? "Hey, baby, so, I was thinking... Uh... You know, I just love you so much, and I want to see all sides of you.. You know, from the inside out... so, you know, I was thinking it would be really romantic if I, you know, spread your asshole open with a plastic funnel and shined a flashlight inside your gaping rectum. Would you like that, baby?"

The illustration on the package is fucking fantastic:



Look how embarrassed she is! "Oh no, don't look inside my butt! Tee hee!" Amazing.


Last, but certainly not least... There was a rack in the porno store with dozens of little packages hanging on it. Each package had a photo on the front of a cute Japanese girl, dressed like a schoolgirl or a maid or a nurse or Sailor Moon or some shit. In each photo, the girl's panties or pantyhose were clearly visible. And inside the package was the girl's (presumably dirty) actual panties or pantyhose that she wore in the picture. Okay, that's weird enough on its own, but the best part was over on the side of the rack there was one package with a sloppy polaroid of an ugly, pantyhose-wearing Japanese girl. It stood in contrast to the cute young girls professionally photographed on all the other packages, and as a result it was marked 50% off. Discount used panties, dude. Unwanted goods. I started laughing right there in the store, which earned me a scornful look from the shopkeeper, who clearly took the panty selection very seriously. I wondered if maybe the ugly girl was his girlfriend, and he'd talked her into letting him sell her panties at the store, to see if they could make some money on the side. Apparently it didn't work out too well, and she had to come down in price:



So there you have it. Now that I've purchased all this crazy shit, I'm all set for a hott night of masturbatory heaven - fucking a greasy styrofoam opening while I sniff some crack whore's crab-ridden pantyhose and examine the insides of my rectum.

Japan - I love you, man.

UPDATE: MORE Curiosities From Japan's Porno Shops!

Naked transvestites and giant gummy bears (unfortunately not at the same time)

So once again I'm in Europe, traveling on business, and I decided I should make some sort of attempt to document my adventures, trivial or otherwise. I came away from my last major trip to Europe - some five years ago - wishing I'd kept a journal that I could look back on years later. This time I'm going to do it - or, try, at least (my ambition may never make it further than this entry), and this is much more for me than it is for you, so don't bitch at me if the entries to come are less ridiculous, mean-spirited, or entertaining than what you've come to expect.

With that said, I'm somewhere in Germany today - exactly where, I'm not sure. Outside the window of the bus I can see a lot of trees, and the occasional cow. It's a cold and gray afternoon outside, which is nothing less of what I've come to expect from Europe in the summer. Walking around earlier reminded me of the that first Autumn day in New York when you have to put a sweatshirt on to go out for lunch, and on the walk back your fingers are getting a bit numb, and you realize that the beautiful warm afternoons of early Fall have come to an end and the long, cold winter is just around the corner. Except, of course, that it's June right now.

The other night I went out exploring in Hamburg with a couple friends, and after several failed attempts to find entertainment at local bars, we found ourselves wandering the sex district of Hamburg - specifically, a large street (the name of which escapes me) well known for porno shops and strip clubs. Hamburg is one of Europe's capitals for all things seedy, and is apparently the origin of all those disturbing German porn clips you've seen on the internet of girls farting on each other and the like. Naturally, then, we were in heaven perusing the German video stores, and came out with a stack of hilarious DVDs which will likely get us arrested passing through customs. There is one called "FREAKYDICKS," which features men who have mutilated their penises beyond recognition (and the women who love them). Another, "Extreme-Power-Video: Scheiss- und Fickorgie," is mostly old people taking dumps on each other.

Still, it was the theatre that proved the most entertaining. After popping our heads into a couple of very underwhelming table-dancing clubs, a doorman persuaded us to enter his theatre, which he guaranteed would give us a show we would not soon forget. He told us that the boring table-dancing places we had been "are kiddy familyshow! Not even vagina in those place! Mine show is German sexyshow! It is everything! Vampire! Dildoshow! You will not disappoint!" Wait a minute... Vampires? Dildos? Curiosity got the best of us, and we went in. The place was small and dark inside, with a little cabaret stage and a seemingly inappropriate audience of mostly businessmen and middle-aged Asian couples. On the stage, a woman with short, dyke-ish hair dressed in lingerie was doing an uninspired lip-synced performance of "All That Jazz" from Chicago. We took a seat in a dark corner on the left side of the stage, and a grumpy old lady came over to take our drink orders. "What to drink!" she shouted at me. "Diet Coke?" I requested. She just looked at me, and said "Beer?" "No, DIET COKE." "Beer?" "No... COCA. COLA." She just looked at me angrily. "Okay, fine. Beer."

Meanwhile, the woman on stage was slowly removing her lingerie in a fashion one might describe as "teasing," were she even mildly attractive. It was typical burlesque crap, nothing bizarre or exciting as we had hoped to see in a seedy theatre in Hamburg. She reached full nakedness at the end of the song and the curtains closed to a gentle applause, with no sign of vampires or dildos. Perhaps we'd been ripped off. We contemplated leaving, but decided to give it one more chance. After a few minutes, the lights dimmed, the curtain opened, and a mediocre German girl with bad teeth stepped out, wearing a sort of stylized school girl costume, again performing a song by way of lip-syncing to a tape. I recognized the tune as one of Janet's songs from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and sure enough, out came Dr. Frank-N-Furter (Tim Curry's famous drag queen character from the film, for those unaware) to join in the performance. Oh, and what a sight he was. He was a hideous, fat, 40-something German drag queen with shaved eyebrows, a bad wig, and a DIY make-up job not worlds away from that fat secretary's on the Drew Carey Show. He was wearing a tiny speed-o, a garter belt, high-heeled shoes, and half of a corset which his flabby man-tits spilled out of. His entire body appeared to be freshly shaved, giving his lumpy skin an odd sheen under the stage lights. The speed-o, at least two sizes too small, wrapped like tightly-stretched cellophane around his manpackage, displaying with perfect clarity an oddly-shaped lump which protruded awkwardly from beneath his corset-restrained belly. It looked as if he was either stuffing his speed-o or had a bloated, lumpy penis worthy of a scene in "FREAKYDICKS." His only real resemblance to Dr. Frank-N-Furter was that he was a drag queen, but he performed the character's titular song from the film nonetheless, prancing around the stage as he did so, and then stepping into the audience, where he lap-danced a couple of German businessmen and even kissed a bewildered Chinese guy (whose wife laughed and clapped with delight) before returning to the stage to finish his performance. It was like watching a trainwreck, this fat old German dude with his mysterious penis bulge, his wig occasionally falling off to reveal a shiny bald head. But it got even weirder.

"Janet" re-appeared on stage, and the two of them did a duet - another song from the film. By the time they reached "Creature Of The Night," Janet had been stripped naked, and it became painfully clear what was about to happen. Frank-N-Furter laid her down on a prop couch which decorated the shoddy stage, and then he fell to his knees and buried his face between her legs. She, looking as bored as you might imagine, continued to lip-sync "t-t-t-t-t-t-tooouuuch meeee" as the fat bald transvestite lapped away at her beef curtains with the tenacity of a thirsty dog at a water bowl on a summer day. This went on far longer than it should have, and then Janet sat up, and Frank-N-Furter took position in front of her, his lumpy speed-o at eye level to her. The music blended out of Broadway cabaret and into bad German techno as Janet reached her fingers around the elastic of Frank-N-Furter's speed-o, and slowly pulled it down. What emerged from beneath the black spandex was a horrifying monster of a penis. It was not particularly long, but it was fat and lumpy at the base - probably as wide as a fist. It looked as if a thousand bees had stung it, or elaphantitis had just set in. Oddly, though, it tapered off significantly towards the end of the shaft, ending in a floppy, uncircumcised nozzle of squishy pink. All I could think about were the giant sand worms from the movie Dune, burrowing out of the ground to attack their prey, much as Dr. Frank-N-Furter's underpants worm had now burrowed out of its sweaty home to feast upon its own prey. The girl took the flaccid flesh lump in her hand and awkwardly stuffed it in her mouth. She bobbed back and forth, attempting to lure it into an upright position - and, like an unholy demon awakening from slumber, it began to rise. Frank-N-Furter, meanwhile, held his head back, making forced grunts and moans of pleasure.

Throughout all of this I sat in jaw-dropped horror, occasionally exchanging glances with my equally horrified friends. I had seen a show similar to this, years ago in Amsterdam, although it lacked the Broadway pizzaz and was kept at a fuzzy distance by virtue of my being incredibly high on mushrooms. This time, however, I was stone sober and a mere seven or eight feet away from the action, incredibly disturbed and yet utterly transfixed. By now Frank-N-Furter had mustered up a crooked boner, his little purple helmet peeking out from behind a blanket of puffy foreskin. He laid his victim down on the couch, climbed on top of her, and began thrusting away clumsily, while Janet feigned interest, holding on to his flabby sides.

So at this point I'm thinking: I've been in Europe for half a day, I'm jet-lagged and delirious, and suddenly I'm watching a skanky girl and a very ugly transvestite have awkward sex on stage in front of me to bad techno music, while middle-aged Asian couples watch with great interest. How is this my life?

The on-stage fornication continued for an ungodly amount of time, changing positions occasionally, until "Let's Do The Time Warp Again" crept up out of the thumping techno beats, and both cast members resumed lip-syncing, this time in the midst of their uninspired love-making. It had transcended from gratuitous to absurd, and I couldn't help laughing. As the song came to an end, Frank-N-Furter removed his creature from its den, helped Janet to stand up, and both of them took a naked bow to a golfing round of applause from the delighted crowd. The curtains closed, and I could do nothing but look at my friends in disbelief, and we all just started laughing. There was clearly another show on the way, but we decided one was probably enough for a night. On our way out, the overzealous doorman stopped us, asking "why you leave so soon? It was not good?" No, no, we assured him, it was very good, but we're tired, and need to go home. "But you cannot miss vampireshow! It is next! It is the star!" He pointed to a photo on the outside window of the theatre, which showed a pony-tailed man in a ridiculous vampire costume, fake blood running down his chin, his wide eyes peering at us. As tempting as it was, we told the doorman we needed to save something for our next trip to Hamburg. Whenever, if ever, that might be.

The next morning was far more mundane. I spent some time walking around the city, and quickly remembered that metropolitan areas in Germany are about as interesting and exotic as Cleveland, Ohio. Most of Europe is like a bootleg version of America, anyway. It's the same shit, but not as good. Nothing works quite right, or tastes quite right. CD's cost too much, movies come out months too late, the power outlets are cumbersome, Coke is always warm and flat, television is shitty, phones are weird. Nevermind that Americans are arrogant, fat, lazy, white trash pigs - at least we've figured out that warm soda tastes like wet balls, and you have to put more than two ice cubes in there to keep it fucking cold. Europeans can bitch about America all they want, but when you come over to Germany and everything is McDonald's and Burger King, the latest Brad Pitt movie is playing, CSI is on TV, 50 Cent is topping the charts, on and on down the line... it makes this place feel irrelevant. Make your own movies, and cook your own fucking hamburgers, or shut the fuck up about how much you hate us and continue to happily mooch off of our pop culture.

I did, however, come upon at least one fantastic thing that you don't see in America: An entire store devoted to gummy candy. They had every kind of gummy you could imagine, and in massive quantities. They even had my new prized possession - THE WORLD'S BIGGEST GUMMY BEAR!!! Behold its glory:



Okay, so maybe it isn't the biggest in the world, but it's the biggest one I've ever seen, and I'm happy enough with that. I also got several gallon-sized bags of fruit-shaped gummies for only a couple bucks each:



Or, at least I think they were only a couple bucks. No one really gave me a solid answer on what the conversion is over here, so I either spent twenty bucks or two hundred bucks at the gummy store... Either way, it was worth it.

Time to bundle up for another 45 degree summer evening in Germany!

My Grandmother, and her unhealthy obsession with my testicles.

My Grandmother, who I have previously discussed, appears to have a new mission: To save my testicles.

Last time I saw her, at Christmas, she sat me down and told me with great concern about something she'd seen on the news: "Robbie," she said (she calls me Robbie), "I know you have one of those lap computers." "Laptops?" "Yes, lap tops. I know you have one of those, and I saw on the news the other day that those things can break your testicles!" I couldn't help but laugh, awkwardly. Why on earth is my Grandmother talking to me about my testicles? This should not be occuring, in any context, ever. She continued: "You know I love your testicles because they are going to bring me Grandbabies! I want you to be very careful with that lap top, because if you have it on your lap all the time it can make you so you can't have babies! And you know Grandma is looking forward to some little ones in the family! And Heaven knows I don't think we can count on anyone else in the family, at this point... So don't you be using that lap top on your lap! I hope you don't already..." Anxious for this conversation to end immediately, I assured her that I actually very rarely use my laptop on my lap, so there's nothing to worry about. But apparently that wasn't enough reassurance.

What has followed in the several months since then has been a relentless mail and e-mail assault, as she continues to hammer home the significance of my testicular safety. I have received numerous web links, newspaper clippings, and general words of concern relating to the subject of laptop computers and sterility. Especially after she found a web article which rated the Powerbook G4 - the laptop I use - as "the hottest laptop on the market." Which is true, but the particular article she sent me was making reference to its popularity, not its temperature. Senility is fun.

Most recently I received this letter as part of a St. Patrick's Day card she sent me, which arrived much closer to Easter:

Hi Robbie: You are the only Irishman in the family so have a good time but stay away from Green beer. There is a legend that Leprechauns will give you green babies, if you drink a lot of green beer. Ugh I don't want Green Grandbabies.

Enclosed is another article on keeping your lap top off your lap unless you put a pillow or something between the computer and your legs. You should by now catch on, that I am looking forward to a few grandbabies.

Mom keeps me informed of your travels. Be careful, the whole world is going nuts. I want you safe.

Grandpa keeps asking for you, his mind is really going.
The weather has been super here, better than summer.

Take care and hurry home!

LOVE GRANDMA

I enjoyed this letter so much I put it up on my fridge. It more or less follows the general structure of letters from my Grandmother, which is as follows: Introduction, general update about the family, plea to be careful and hurry home, nonchalant remark about my Grandfather's deteriorating health, and an update on the weather back home. The Grandpa thing is always the best, because, at its most ludicrous it goes something like this: "We all miss you very much, hope to see you very soon. Be sure to be careful in your travels. Grandpa had another accident at church on sunday, and had to go to the doctors for another check on his bad heart. His brain gets worse and worse every day. The weather has been pretty good here but it rained yesterday. Take care! LOVE GRANDMA." At the most, the letter comes as part of a hilarious care package, which always includes random food items she clearly was just trying to get rid of. Last time I got a box of Tuna Helper® which had expired in 2002, and a half-eaten bag of Hershey's Kisses. The time before that I got a can of pitted prunes, petrified cookies in a zip lock bag, and a pack of sanitary wipes. Sometimes there's a five dollar bill with a note attached instructing me how to use it: "Buy an ice cream cone," or "Go out to the movies."

Well, it's the thought that counts, right? I just wish her thoughts weren't so focused on my testicles, lately. It's a bit creepy.

I'm so not looking forward to getting old.