Travelling to Japan was a real experience—the culture, the food, the temples—a melting pot of delights. But my standout, absolute favourite discovery? The Japanese toilet.
I mean, I’d heard about them, but I always imagined a bidet with frills. It’s so much more than that.
My first night in Japan, I checked into the Intercontinental at Tokyo Bay. Swish, I know—but it was for work! I started my morning like any other: with a shit and a scroll through Instagram.
The toilet seat was heated—but hey, that don’t impress me much. I lived in a house with five other people and one toilet; I was well-acquainted with a warm seat.
Once I’d finished up, I looked away from my phone and turned my attention to the control panel, trying to find the flush. I started pressing buttons. One (I remember him well) activated a medium-pressure jet. It was like it knew me. Water came shooting up. I adjusted slightly to make sure I got a proper clean—in and around my lone haemorrhoid.
And then it found me.
There’s no better way to start the day than a shit swiftly followed by sexual release. It was surprisingly good. I had a shower and got on with my day.
Back-to-back meetings filled the morning. During a break, I popped to the office loos. This one played music as soon as you sat down—a nice new feature. And then I had my afternoon delight.
Later at dinner with my colleagues, I felt a little surge of discharge in my pants. I quietly congratulated myself. No perimenopause dry vagina here.
Backstory: Both of my kids were born vaginally.
Turns out, my vagina was parched. She was drinking up all the water from the jet wash. Then Shawshanking discharge throughout the day. Like Hansel and Gretel—except the sense I was using was smell.
Apparently, it’s a thing. It’s called vaginal entrapment.
I miss those Japanese toilets. I think about them often.
My vagina misses them more.
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