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.