The Vanishing Japanese Porn Mystery
Reader Note: I'm dipping into my collection of standalone travel stories for this one.
An example of the mysterious bed-to-bath window. Not my actual hotel.
On the first of what would become many trips to Japan I stayed in a business hotel on the outskirts of Tokyo called – seriously – Hotel Bestland.
Japanese hotel rooms are pretty unique. Mine came with a robe and slippers (in men’s size six). The tub was four feet deep, a sinkhole compared to their American brethren. The toilet had its own remote control and would do everything for you but poop.
There were also some rather features that were… unusual. For example, there was a window between the bathroom and the bedroom, giving anyone lying down clear line-of-sight to the toilet.
On my first day in country, I stumbled into my room, exhausted from jetlag and a long day. Reclining on the ridiculously short (for me) bed, I thumbed on the remote, hoping to find an English channel. I’d heard some hotels carried BBC News, but I had no luck as I cycled through the entire channel lineup with no luck.
Stymied, I studied the remote, which was entirely in Japanese. It was definitely different from ours: in addition to the dual up/down buttons for volume and channel, there was a mysterious third button for cycling through a yet-unknown feature. Not yet understanding that, in Japan, one does not press a button one cannot read, I pressed ‘up’ on the mystery wheel.
Instantly, the channel immediately switched to hardcore Japanese pornography. Oh dear.
Japanese hotel rooms are pretty unique. Mine came with a robe and slippers (in men’s size six). The tub was four feet deep, a sinkhole compared to their American brethren. The toilet had its own remote control and would do everything for you but poop.
There were also some rather features that were… unusual. For example, there was a window between the bathroom and the bedroom, giving anyone lying down clear line-of-sight to the toilet.
On my first day in country, I stumbled into my room, exhausted from jetlag and a long day. Reclining on the ridiculously short (for me) bed, I thumbed on the remote, hoping to find an English channel. I’d heard some hotels carried BBC News, but I had no luck as I cycled through the entire channel lineup with no luck.
Stymied, I studied the remote, which was entirely in Japanese. It was definitely different from ours: in addition to the dual up/down buttons for volume and channel, there was a mysterious third button for cycling through a yet-unknown feature. Not yet understanding that, in Japan, one does not press a button one cannot read, I pressed ‘up’ on the mystery wheel.
Instantly, the channel immediately switched to hardcore Japanese pornography. Oh dear.
Thank God - no one wants to see that.
I’d apparently joined the action right in the middle of a scene, and things were in full swing. For those of you who have never experienced Japanese porn, I can report that it differs substantially from American offerings. I immediately spotted the following differences:
The impropriety of the situation was what snapped me from my mental note-taking. I have no problems with porn, but I was on a business trip and did not relish the thought of explaining why Korean Coeds 18 was on my expense account. While it’s common knowledge that Japanese people can be into some freaky shit, I can assure you that it’s buried deep within their personal life and never, ever makes an appearance at work.
At any rate, it was time to end this exchange of culture. I scooped up the remote, and turned off the TV. Nothing happened. I tried another button. The TV remained unresponsive.
I suddenly sensed motion in the adjoining bathroom. I whipped around (tweaking my neck in the process) and – through the now-useful bathroom window – observed the lid of the commode being raised by a ghost. It seemed that, in my haste, I had accidentally retrieved the remote for the toilet.
At this point, the need to tune out (this could be a pay-by-minute deal and plausible deniability only lasts so long) became urgent. Stabbing another button (this time on the correct remote), the TV winked off as I found the power button. Hitting it again, the TV turned on to a nondescript nature show. I shrugged it off as a glitch and went to bed.
I kept quiet at breakfast, fruitlessly scrutinizing my co-workers for evidence of a similar experience. At work, it was impossible to not try and make sense of the incident. Near as I could tell, there were only three possibilities:
That evening I returned to my room. Very carefully, I turned on the TV and cycled through the channels again. There was no trace of anything even remotely PG-13.
- 100% more Asian dudes.
- Male (but not female) genitalia is pixelated out*.
- There is absolutely no pubic hair maintenance (male or female).
- The lovemaking is deadly serious – based on facial expressions, the actors might have been taking their university exams. I watched a petite Asian man go at his companion like a spider monkey, his visage a mask of concentration.
The impropriety of the situation was what snapped me from my mental note-taking. I have no problems with porn, but I was on a business trip and did not relish the thought of explaining why Korean Coeds 18 was on my expense account. While it’s common knowledge that Japanese people can be into some freaky shit, I can assure you that it’s buried deep within their personal life and never, ever makes an appearance at work.
At any rate, it was time to end this exchange of culture. I scooped up the remote, and turned off the TV. Nothing happened. I tried another button. The TV remained unresponsive.
I suddenly sensed motion in the adjoining bathroom. I whipped around (tweaking my neck in the process) and – through the now-useful bathroom window – observed the lid of the commode being raised by a ghost. It seemed that, in my haste, I had accidentally retrieved the remote for the toilet.
At this point, the need to tune out (this could be a pay-by-minute deal and plausible deniability only lasts so long) became urgent. Stabbing another button (this time on the correct remote), the TV winked off as I found the power button. Hitting it again, the TV turned on to a nondescript nature show. I shrugged it off as a glitch and went to bed.
I kept quiet at breakfast, fruitlessly scrutinizing my co-workers for evidence of a similar experience. At work, it was impossible to not try and make sense of the incident. Near as I could tell, there were only three possibilities:
- Japanese cable includes hardcore porn channels.
- I’d hit a particularly juicy (and I mean that literally) moment in an HBO-type movie.
- I’d inadvertently ordered a pay-per-view porn film on a business trip.
That evening I returned to my room. Very carefully, I turned on the TV and cycled through the channels again. There was no trace of anything even remotely PG-13.
You work this thing. Even the numbers are crazy - what's up with the keypad going up to 12?
It was time for another experiment. Guided by the belief that no remote would have TWO buttons that summoned porn, I poked a smallish button that I was certain hadn’t been checked out the previous evening.
It didn’t seem to make a difference what button I pressed; I was – pun intended – thrust back into a skin flick. This was a different video from the previous evening, some sort of workplace lovemaking scenario from the looks of things.
Deep down, I was certain I had just inadvertently ordered another adult movie. One was an accident, two was a pattern.
Good luck explaining this to the bosses.
I studied the symbols on the remote, pondering which Japanese character(s?) meant ‘porno.’ As I squinted at the scratched plastic, the muffled grunts of efforts suddenly died out and were replaced by officious voices. Startled, I looked up to see a trim woman in business attire sitting next to a man in a blazer on a screen where, only moments earlier, an overly serious Japanese dude had been going raw dog on his boss/secretary/naughty co-worker.
The only scenario that would explain the sudden change of pace was that the previous video had reached its climactic ending (how long can you really sustain the plot in these things?) and this was the start of the next one.
At this point, I was frustrated and confused by the television’s apparent insistence to, unbidden, intermittently stream porn at me. I needed to get to the bottom of this, if for nothing else, then to confirm my new theory. So I kept watching. And watching. For the next fifteen minutes, I watched an indecipherable Japanese news program, waiting for the hosts to get naked and go at it. I finally accepted the fact that was, in fact, a legitimate broadcast when they cut to a cheerful septuagenarian weatherman wearing a bolo tie.
At breakfast the next morning, I decided to take things to a higher power. “Hey guys,” I asked as nonchalantly as possible. “Has either of you been getting… weird snippets of porn on your TV?”
My co-worker Ralph stopped moving and turned bright red. His eyes flickered to mine and shared the truth – the man had dipped his wick in forbidden footage. My boss – the only bona fide Japanese member of our group – chuckled at my question and finally provided the answer to the mystery.
This was his explanation: Since Japanese companies regularly monitor their employees’ computer activity, porn channels are still a thriving moneymaker at business hotels. To entice stressed-out salarymen, most establishments offered a free preview of their porn channel(s?), which I had twice now stumbled into. Each preview is only ninety seconds or so, long enough to get you hooked but short enough so you can’t… well, you know. These free preview windows reset every 24 hours, explaining why they would play only once an evening. For those with larger appetites, my boss explained, they sold porno access cards in the vending machines.
“So that’s what the slot on the TV is for,” I replied. In fact, I’d seen the access cards during a snack run, but had mistaken them for prepaid phone cards. I may have been alone in that regard - Ralph was staring into his miso soup so intently I thought he might drown.
My boss nodded in the affirmative. “You like it?” he asked.
At no point in my upbringing had I been instructed on the proper way to respond when your foreign boss asks you whether you like his country’s brand of porn. Knowing the man as I did, though, the answer seemed clear enough. I looked him directly in the eye and nodded.
“Me too,” my boss confirmed, as he drove his chopsticks into his shumai with an air of satisfaction.
This moment may have factored into my promotion one month later.
*This is, honestly, not such a bad idea. (Additional side note: I just learned I have been misspelling ‘genitalia’ for past thirty years.)
It didn’t seem to make a difference what button I pressed; I was – pun intended – thrust back into a skin flick. This was a different video from the previous evening, some sort of workplace lovemaking scenario from the looks of things.
Deep down, I was certain I had just inadvertently ordered another adult movie. One was an accident, two was a pattern.
Good luck explaining this to the bosses.
I studied the symbols on the remote, pondering which Japanese character(s?) meant ‘porno.’ As I squinted at the scratched plastic, the muffled grunts of efforts suddenly died out and were replaced by officious voices. Startled, I looked up to see a trim woman in business attire sitting next to a man in a blazer on a screen where, only moments earlier, an overly serious Japanese dude had been going raw dog on his boss/secretary/naughty co-worker.
The only scenario that would explain the sudden change of pace was that the previous video had reached its climactic ending (how long can you really sustain the plot in these things?) and this was the start of the next one.
At this point, I was frustrated and confused by the television’s apparent insistence to, unbidden, intermittently stream porn at me. I needed to get to the bottom of this, if for nothing else, then to confirm my new theory. So I kept watching. And watching. For the next fifteen minutes, I watched an indecipherable Japanese news program, waiting for the hosts to get naked and go at it. I finally accepted the fact that was, in fact, a legitimate broadcast when they cut to a cheerful septuagenarian weatherman wearing a bolo tie.
At breakfast the next morning, I decided to take things to a higher power. “Hey guys,” I asked as nonchalantly as possible. “Has either of you been getting… weird snippets of porn on your TV?”
My co-worker Ralph stopped moving and turned bright red. His eyes flickered to mine and shared the truth – the man had dipped his wick in forbidden footage. My boss – the only bona fide Japanese member of our group – chuckled at my question and finally provided the answer to the mystery.
This was his explanation: Since Japanese companies regularly monitor their employees’ computer activity, porn channels are still a thriving moneymaker at business hotels. To entice stressed-out salarymen, most establishments offered a free preview of their porn channel(s?), which I had twice now stumbled into. Each preview is only ninety seconds or so, long enough to get you hooked but short enough so you can’t… well, you know. These free preview windows reset every 24 hours, explaining why they would play only once an evening. For those with larger appetites, my boss explained, they sold porno access cards in the vending machines.
“So that’s what the slot on the TV is for,” I replied. In fact, I’d seen the access cards during a snack run, but had mistaken them for prepaid phone cards. I may have been alone in that regard - Ralph was staring into his miso soup so intently I thought he might drown.
My boss nodded in the affirmative. “You like it?” he asked.
At no point in my upbringing had I been instructed on the proper way to respond when your foreign boss asks you whether you like his country’s brand of porn. Knowing the man as I did, though, the answer seemed clear enough. I looked him directly in the eye and nodded.
“Me too,” my boss confirmed, as he drove his chopsticks into his shumai with an air of satisfaction.
This moment may have factored into my promotion one month later.
*This is, honestly, not such a bad idea. (Additional side note: I just learned I have been misspelling ‘genitalia’ for past thirty years.)