On the morning of Japan’s penis festival, I woke up from underneath a car somewhere in Ikebukuro, Tokyo. I’d gone to Roppongi the night before by myself in an attempt to get laid and became blacked out drunk. I remember sitting and having dinner with some yakuza in suits, or some other gang, in some fancy high-rise place. There was little communication because I knew little Japanese at the time, but I think they thought me amusing like an animal.
Next thing I know, I wake up looking up at an engine block. I’m underneath a small Japanese car. My camera is gone, just like what happened to me a couple years before in Poland.
Ikebukuro is not close to Roppongi. I think I got lost while trying to make it back to Phillip’s place in East Ikebukuro, and I decided to hide myself and sleep it off. I’d done it before in a bush in Roppongi hills.
I crawled out from underneath the car. It was in front of a house. Walking down the street, I saw I wasn’t far from Phillip’s place. I stopped at a 7-Eleven and bought two cans of beer to celebrate still being alive. In front of Phillips apartment, I bought two canned expresso shots from a vending machine for energy.
Phillip and his girlfriend were still sleeping. I jumped in bed between them to ecstatically tell them what happened.
After that, I got online and searched for directions to the Japan penis festival. Any girls who would go to a festival to celebrate a penis must be huge sluts, so I looked forward to it. I read the festival was first started in the 17th century when prostitutes prayed for protection from sexually transmitted infections.
I drank a beer and coffee while continuing to read. At first I thought I would have to go to the penis festival alone, because Phillip and his girlfriend didn’t seem interested. However, after excitingly yelling about how awesome it would be, I piqued Phillip’s girlfriend’s natural curiosity in penises. They got their asses out of bed and started to get ready. I slammed my second beer and coffee.
Japan’s penis festival is in Kawasaki, a bit of a commute from Ikebukuro. We had to change trains a couple of times. While waiting on one platform for the train to arrive, I told Phillip I badly had to take a piss. He told me to hurry, so I rushed up the stairs and entered the men’s room.
While pissing in the urinal I had to fart, but because a Japanese man was standing next to me, I tried to hold it in. Even so, it still escaped me.
I knew something was wrong when feeling a wetness and smelling a stench. “There’s no way I just shit my pants,” I screamed in my head. And then I recalled a coworker who everyone called “Bull,” who once played football for the Chicago Bears, and who often said: Never trust a fart.
I hobbled to a toilet stall, feeling the wetness trickle down my thighs as I shuffled my feet. It was one of those Asian floor toilets where you have to squat down low. I locked the door behind me and pulled down my jeans and boxers to assess the situation.
It was just as I feared—liquid brown shit. I started grabbing toilet paper and frantically wiping my ass and thighs, but much like finger painting, I was just smearing shit everywhere. I pulled my boxers off and threw them in the corner. Station restrooms seldom have trash bins so I didn’t feel bad about it.
The shit wasn’t coming off me fast enough. In the squatting position, looking like a squirrel on crack eating nuts, I went through an entire roll of toilet paper, ripping it off and bringing it to my mouth with two hands to wet each piece with spit. It was the first time I shit my pants. It was the first time my own spit touched my asshole. Soon there was volcano of toilet paper in the squat toilet. No way would it flush.
Phillip eventually came to the bathroom, wondering what was taking so long. “I thought you said you only had to take a piss,” he said.
“Something really bad happened, Phillip.”
“What, a herpes breakout?”
I cleaned myself up the best I could. There was a small shit stain on the inside of my jeans, but there was nothing I could do about that now. To make matters worse, there was no dispensable hand soap. I rinsed and rubbed my hands the best I could with water.
I went back down to the platform, to where Phillip and his girlfriend were still waiting. They knew I must have taken a shit, but they didn’t know I’d shit myself, and I was too embarrassed to tell them.
The train was empty. Phillip and his girlfriend sat down. “Why don’t you sit down?” he asked me.
“Because I feel like standing,” I said.
I could tell they thought I was weird for standing in front of them on an empty train while they sat. But I didn’t want the inside crotch of my pants to touch between my butt crack.
While standing up and holding on to a hanging strap handle, my nose not far away from my hand, I smelt shit on my fingers. I couldn’t see anything brown, but the smell was there. I remained standing up, keeping my hands aways from my face, and tried not to use the handles and spread my germs.
We made it to the penis festival. There was a Michael Jackson impersonator. Guys and ugly girls sucked on dick lollipops. It was weird and not fun, and I just wanted to go home and shower and change.
On the way home, we stopped at First Kitchen, a fast food joint that flavors their fries. I washed my hands with soap in the restroom. We brought our food to the second floor, where, because of the seating arrangement, I wasn’t able to sit next to Phillip and his girlfriend.
A cute girl sat next to me. I commented on her Disney character key chain. I got her number and thought if only this girl knew I I’d shit my pants and been to the Japan penis festival.
Back at Phillips, I showered and threw away my jeans. I vowed to never mix alcohol and expresso shots again. It’s been around eight years since this happened, and I haven’t shit my pants since.