There are some things you expect to find on the streets of Japan—impeccably timed public transport, vending machines for everything, and a level of politeness that puts the rest of the world to shame. But this morning, during my usual scout through the day’s news, I stumbled across something I had never heard of before—an unusual curiosity, even by Japan’s high standards for public order. Enter the shiroposuto, or porn disposal boxes. Yes, rub your eyes and check again – I really did write that sentence. Check the calendar – it is Valentine’s Day, not April 1st.
Yes, for decades, discreet white post boxes dotted across Japan have been quietly collecting unwanted magazines and DVDs from individuals who, for one reason or another, no longer wish to store their adult collections at home. But now, like so many relics of the analogue age, these humble bins are fading into history—casualties of the digital revolution and a changing society.
Why Did These Boxes Exist in the First Place?
To understand the rise (and fall) of the porn postbox, you have to rewind to the 1960s. Japan, experiencing a post-war boom, was also seeing an explosion in adult publications. The problem? Once men (and let’s be honest, it was mostly men) were done with their risqué reading material, they needed somewhere to dispose of it. And rather than risk the shame of putting it in their household bin—where unsuspecting family members or neighbours might stumble upon it—some opted for the chuck-it-into-the-street-and-walk-away-whistling approach.
This, understandably, did not sit well with concerned parents, particularly very vocal groups of Japanese mothers who campaigned for a solution. Thus, the shiroposuto was born—an anonymous drop-off point for unwanted adult material, placed conveniently near railway stations where no one would notice if you “accidentally” dropped a suspiciously heavy bundle of magazines while on your way home from work.
For years, these boxes were a public service in the truest sense. Like the milkman or the town crier, they quietly did their job, protecting the innocent eyes of passing children from abandoned gentlemen’s reading material.
The Digital Revolution Kills Another Industry
As with so many things—paper maps, CD collections, Blockbuster Video—the rise of the internet rendered physical adult media increasingly obsolete. Why purchase, store, and then discreetly dispose of magazines and DVDs when an entire world of content is available at the click of a button?
As a result, the need for shiroposuto has steadily declined. At their peak, Tokyo alone boasted an estimated 500 of these boxes. Now, only a handful remain. Some, such as those in Nagasaki, have been decommissioned due to dwindling usage, while others still see periodic deposits from an older generation reluctant to embrace the convenience of modern entertainment options.
In some cities, collection workers report emptying the boxes only once every three months—a stark contrast to earlier years, when the bins required frequent clearing due to an avalanche of discarded material. And while a few die-hard fans of print media continue to use them, it seems only a matter of time before the last of these peculiar little receptacles vanishes from Japan’s cityscapes.
Japan’s Strange Relationship with Old Tech
In many ways, the slow disappearance of shiroposuto is symbolic of a broader contradiction in Japan—a country often associated with cutting-edge technology, yet somehow still reliant on decades-old systems. This is, after all, a nation where robots serve ramen, bullet trains glide effortlessly across the country, and toilets offer more settings than the average smartphone. And yet, in government offices, businesses, and even hospitals, fax machines remain stubbornly in use. Some police departments still rely on floppy disks. Official documents are frequently required to be stamped with a personal seal (hanko), a practice dating back to the 8th century.
And so, it’s not entirely surprising that a system of physical disposal bins for adult media survived well into the digital age. Japan, for all its modernity, has a habit of clinging onto old technology long after the rest of the world has moved on. The shiroposuto might have been unusual, but in a country where government memos are still faxed in 2025, perhaps it made perfect sense.
A Cultural Curiosity on the Way Out
Despite their decline, shiroposuto remain a fascinating insight into Japan’s approach to public order. In a country with almost no litter bins (thanks to post-1995 anti-terrorism measures), the fact that these very specific bins have endured as long as they have is a testament to the nation’s quiet but effective ways of maintaining social decorum.
But now, with a rapidly ageing population and fewer people buying magazines full stop—let alone those magazines—the days of the white postbox seem numbered. They are becoming, much like the adult magazine vending machines of the 1970s, a footnote in Japan’s long and curious history of managing delicate social issues with unflappable efficiency.
So, if you ever come across one of these mysterious boxes on a street in Fukuoka or Mitaka, take a moment to appreciate its place in history. A monument to a time when disposing of your private collection required an actual physical effort—one last lingering reminder that, once upon a time, some things in life weren’t just one incognito tab away.
Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.
With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.
Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.
A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.
Discover more from untypicable
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.