Finding Pussy In Japan

I heard that palaces of pussy exist in Japan, but I had difficulty figuring out what went on inside them.

So you just go there and there are a bunch of cats? Like you are hanging out in a crazy cat lady's living room? How popular are these places? People actually go to them? I guess they must be at least somewhat popular since there are so many of them.

I decided to find out for myself.

Armed with some vague directions I head to the cafe of cats in search of pussy. Finding the place is easy. You literally just follow the cat adorned signs to your destination. I take the elevator to the third floor and the doors open to the sound of meowing. I step out of the elevator into a 4′ x 4′ space sectioned off from the rest of the room by a wooden gate reaching up to the ceiling.

Not knowing what to do I shout the magical words, “Sumimasen!” (すみません)

A woman comes rushing over speaking Japanese. I gather that it is safe to cross the threshold into the kitty domain. I have officially entered the cat cafe (after removing my shoes, of course).

My first thought? Those two other patrons (the only other people in the cafe) are undoubtedly the fattest people I have seen since arriving in Japan.

My second thought? Shit. This woman is still talking to me? I have no idea what she is saying.

My third thought? Cats. Lots of cats.

The employee asks me if I speak Japanese, and I tell her, “a little.” Unfortunately, the extent of my Japanese ended as soon as we reached the point in the conversation that I told her “a little”.

She goes on to provide me with an informational sheet (in Japanese), and a long-winded explanation of the cafe (also in Japanese). When she is finished talking I can tell that it is now my turn in the conversation to say something.

I look at the information in front of me and find the prices (thirty minutes for four dollars, and an additional dollar for every ten minutes beyond the first thirty). Supposing she wants to know how long I intended on staying and playing with the cats I tell her one hour. She notes this on a piece of paper, sets it down on my table, says something else, and again waits for my response.

Damn, I thought I was in the clear.

Okay, I think she wants a drink order? I ask for a beer. She says something else. I tell her I do not understand and she smiles, gets up, and walks away. Phew. Crisis averted.

None of the kitties are coming over to me. I guess even they can sense what a repulsive human being I am – don't people come here to feel better about themselves? This is not working. I now sit and watch (through the tears welling up in my eyes) as the cats lazily congregate around the heater. I think one of them has a tie on? Classy, cat. Classy.

Soon my beverage arrives to rescue my awkwardly idle hands. And then came the secret to the hearts of the felines. My host again vanishes into the back, and returns with a dime bag of treats – the cats take notice immediately.

I go from uninteresting and ignored to king of the kitties in a matter of seconds.

As I drink my beer and begin to run out of treats, I am worried that my time with the cats will soon be at an end. An older gentleman has now entered the cafe – armed with his own treats – I am sure he is conspiring to steal my new friends away from me.

I find what can only be described as a “cat fishing pole” and manage to distract a few of the cats from the newly arrived feeding opportunity.

As I sit and fish for kitties, one of the cats makes a mad dash from the far hallway and leaps for a six-foot high platform in the middle of the room. Only its front two paws make it.

Having dug its claws into the wood, the cat dangles with no way to pull itself onto the platform. I find it equal parts tragic and hilarious. Before anyone (I, of course, was first to spring into action) can rescue the cat from its miscalculated jump, it lets go and falls to the ground (landing on its feet, of course).

How exciting this place is.

My hour passes incredibly quick considering I've spent the entire time sitting and doing literally next to nothing. Maybe the beer is to blame.

The verdict?

Cat cafes are like strip clubs. If you love pussy, don't have any at home, and have some dollars to throw away, then you have found your happy place in Japan. But don't lie to yourself.

The sad reality? These pussies are not your friends – they are just using you for treats (no matter how different you think you are from “those other guys”).