The February Issue

At Camp Yavneh, a Jewish overnight camp in rural New Hampshire, the boys’ shower house was simply a spacious open room with nozzles—you couldn’t hide from who you were. One of my fellow campers with wanderlust eyes was very captivated by this shower house. So captivated was he that every summer he came out with two exclusive editions, the July and August issues, in which he went into great detail about his observations: the biggest, the smallest, the hairiest, the fattest, most improved, most lizard like, the darkest, the lightest, the best circumcision, and so on. These issues were not written, but rather discreetly spoken, much like the Torah she-be-`al peh, the Oral Torah. Unfortunately, the camp director came to understand that the architectural layout of this shower house discouraged the overweight and the lesser-endowed campers to bathe. To our dismay, the July and August issues were halted abruptly when one summer, upon our return to camp, we found that each nozzle had its very own curtain.
Being a nostalgic person, and presented with the opportunity to hit the Japanese public baths, or onsens, during my stay here in Tokyo, I decided this was the perfect time to resurrect this dead tradition and come out with a winter overseas version. I could go under cover as a westerner just trying to get his bathe on, start sneaking peeks at the Japanese family jewels, and publish my findings. This would be pure journalism. I would expose the mysterious Japanese male and rank up there with the likes of Bob Woodward.
Using my guidebook I sought out a small bathhouse in Asakusa, Tokyo called the Kannon Onsen. I approached the modest wooden structure, slipped off my shoes, and pondered which of the two doors to enter. Just then, an old woman pushed past me and entered through the door on the left; the process of elimination never fails. I entered the gender correct side and paid the attendant who directed me to the lockers. I had penetrated successfully and was now on the inside, totally home free. This would be a cinch. All I had to do was pretend to wash myself, blend in, and go sightseeing. Undercover journalism is not that difficult after all; or so I thought.

As soon as I entered the bathing area I was baffled. There were three different baths, each one on a separate side of the room and with its own unique tint of color. There were ten little washing stations, each with four nozzles. There were buckets for this, stools for that, soap for this, towels for that; and the steam, my god, the steam. At times I could scarcely see. The stress of the situation was mounting, thwarting my concentration from my ordained assignment. If I was going to have unfettered access to the Japanese genitalia, I had to be casual and remain composed. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, a trick my shrink had taught me for moments of great tension, and uncertainty. I could handle this; ‘Just do what you did in grade school, hang in there and copy the guy next to you,’ I told myself.
As soon as I opted to heed the guidance of my inner monologue, the guy I was watching, who was seated on a low stool calmly soaping himself, removed his butt from it, twisted himself into the lotus position landing on the ground, and continued soaping areas of the body I never thought reachable. It was a move I swear I saw Brian Boitano attempt and fail at the 1998 Nagano Olympic Games. This was hopeless. I can't even soap my own back. I spent my remaining time in the onsen in a paralyzing nervous panic being glared at and silently judged by a room full of old naked Japanese men. It was not my proudest moment. As for my findings for the February issue, I learned only that the Japanese penis is elusive.

My hypnotist has taught me that persistence is the key to success. Therefore, tomorrow I am headed to the southern province, Kyushu, to visit the numerous Onsens in the town of Beppu for another go at it.