My Night as a Host(ess)

You can look at Kabukicho as an example of the sociopathology of Japanese life, or you can look at it as a microcosm of relationships in general. Host and hostess clubs are probably the most misunderstood aspects of Japan’s adult entertainment industry. They’re not about sex, they’re about the illusion of intimacy and the titillating possibility of sex.

Intimacy is a commodity in Japan, and it rarely comes for free. It’s the same way in the United States. We just pay different people.

In the United States, we pay psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, and life coaches to listen to our problems, raise our self-esteem, pretend to like us, and give us good advice. Friends used to do those things for free, but friends have been known to retreat when the water gets too deep. Japanese tend to believe that going to a shrink is a sign of weakness and an admission of mental illness, so there’s still a tendency to avoid those types of paid friendships.

After covering the Kabukicho beat, I learned that when a Japanese man wants his ego—as opposed to his penis—stroked, when he wants to be fussed over or have someone listen to his problems, he doesn’t go home to his wife, he goes to a hostess club. A hostess club is not a sex club. A hostess club is not a pickup joint, a fuzokuten, or a singles bar. It is usually a small bar with several attractive women who will greet you warmly, sit down and chat with you on a sofa, sing karaoke with you, and act as if they were your lover or flirt with you as though they might want to be.

Typically, the woman running a hostess bar, the mama-san, is a former hostess with a scratchy, rough voice from years of inhaling secondhand smoke, drinking watered-down whiskey, and staying up too late. If you want to know the number of years any particular woman has been working in the industry, just listen to the timbre of her voice. If she sounds like Scatman Crothers, she’s a veteran.

It’s not unheard of for a hostess to date a customer, just rare. The problem with turning a customer into a boyfriend, for the hostess, is a loss of revenue, not to mention the potential of alienating other regular customers. The hostess has to maintain an illusion of availability to encourage a pseudocourtship that might someday culminate in sex. Along the way to that elusive goal line, which few regular customers ever reach, a man might blow $10,000 in a year courting a hostess, buying her drinks, giving her birthday presents, and occasionally taking her out to dinner.

On a nippy day in October 1999, I was hanging around the Kabukicho koban shooting the breeze with one of the officers. He said something about the vice squad raiding a “host club” that night. At first I didn’t get it. Host club?

“You mean a hostess club?”

“No. It’s like a hostess club but with guys doing the hosting.”

“You mean a gay joint?”

“No, women go to those clubs, and hosts wait on them just like a hostess would wait on guys. You know, compliment them, pour them drinks, flirt, get them to talk—get them to shell out cash. Look around; what do you think those faggy guys in expensive suits and long red hair are doing in Kabukicho at three in the morning?”

I’d always thought they were trying to pick up chicks, not herd them into a bar that serviced them. Well, compulsive observer of social phenomena that I am, I wanted part of it.

At TMPD at the end of the day, I grabbed Nojima, one of the senior vice squad guys, and suggested a beer. I didn’t have to work hard to convince him. But when, in the middle of the first round of drinks, I mentioned the raid that night, he was pissed. He didn’t want the story out before its time.

“We’ve got two more places to hit. If you sit on the story for a day, I’ll give you an exclusive.”

“Okay,” I said, being ever so cooperative, “but I want the details now.”

He wasn’t willing to tell me at first, but after a bit, here is the story he gave me:

The Shinjuku police and the TMPD Juvenile Protection Department had decided that host clubs were a breeding ground for juvenile delinquency. They had already raided four clubs for violations of the adult entertainment and sex industry laws: operating without a license and allowing juveniles into adult facilities.

“It used to be that the only women who went to host bars were hostesses, but times have changed. What we keep seeing is college girls, sometimes even high school girls with money, who start going to these host clubs. They love the personal attention, and maybe they get infatuated with the hosts, who milk them for everything they have. The girls accumulate debts, and at some point the management introduces them to a job in the sex industry so that they can pay off their debts. Sometimes the guys running the host bars are the same guys who run the sex clubs. Some girls start shoplifting and reselling merchandise to pay off their host bar tabs. We’ve seen enough to know that these aren’t isolated incidents.”

In July of that year, the Shinjuku police had gotten a call from the parents of a high school dropout. Their daughter had received a bill from a host club in Kabukicho for 4 million yen (close to $38,000 then). The parents had freaked out.

The police checked out the host club and found it was operating without a license; they arrested the young owner in August. In September, they launched a broader investigation and were surprised to find seventy-one host clubs in operation. Three years earlier there had been twenty. Why the large increase? According to Nojima, in this day and age, girls just wanted to have fun, hosts just wanted to make money, and with sexual liberation and economic empowerment women had no problem buying affection just as men did.

It was a little strange to hear sociological theory coming out of the mouth of a cop, but then again, Nojima wasn’t your ordinary cop. He was a graduate of Sophia, and he had majored in psychology and was a certified counselor. But he was quick to underscore the economic motive: a good host club pocketed the equivalent of more than $300,000 a year. Nojima, playing sociologist again, suggested I write an article on host clubs, which people knew little about. He named three establishments, and I visited each of them. After being met with the usual confusion about a gaijin writing for the Yomiuri, I was pleasantly surprised to find the proprietors willing to talk to me. One even invited me to spend a night as a host. I took him up on the offer, of course.

But before that, I gathered my notes and spoke to my editor about the raids, a breaking story. Kasama, one of the few women in the shakaibu, helped me put the article together and convinced the desk to run it in the national edition. Hamaya, one of the other women in the division, gave me a few words of faint praise for my efforts and some good suggestions. It was a good feeling.

The article was published in the Yomiuri morning edition on October 6, ahead of the official announcement that afternoon. It was a nice little scoop.

A few evenings later, I picked out my best suit, trimmed the hair in my ears and my nose, and splashed on some cologne. My shirt was pressed, my tie was straight, my nails were trimmed, and I didn’t have any seaweed stuck between my teeth, so I felt fairly debonair. I didn’t look anything like a seedy private detective or a struggling English teacher—or, for that matter, like a hungry newspaper reporter. I looked like a host.

Ai was located in the back alleys of Kabukicho, near a stand-up shot bar not far from the Furinkaikan.

The storefront was garish, with neon tubing, spotlit photos of the top-selling hosts, and a gold leaf LADIES’ CLUB sign above the entrance. Two bronzelike statues of muscular men guarded the front door, on which the ideograph for ai, which means “love,” was written in red. It was a combination of expensive Art Deco and 1950s diner kitsch.

Once you go down the steps, you enter the club, which is illuminated by crystal chandeliers but is otherwise dark. Lights ripple over the dance floor as if over a pond. Plush round couches are dotted throughout the room. The effect is rather like a planetarium, as the lights are reflected from bronze statues, silver mirrors, and shiny decor, like stars on a summer night. Perhaps this is an overly poetic description of the place, but that’s the idea of it.

When I arrived for duty at six, incredibly early for a host club, Takeshi Aida, the owner and president of the chain of Ai clubs, was waiting for me. He had a punch perm—tight curls all over his head—a thin Mexican moustache, and photochromatic oval shades. He wore an expensive suit, with a fine sheen to it, and a patterned silk tie, knotted so tightly one feared insufficient oxygen was getting to his round baby face. At fifty-nine years of age, he had an undeniable, if hard-to-put-your-finger-on, charm. He was very good at making you feel comfortable.

Aida was born in Niigata Prefecture, the sixth of nine brothers. When he was twenty, he left Niigata for the big city. He went to work for a bed company, where he became a top salesman; started a crime prevention goods business, which went bankrupt; then opened up a wig business, which introduced him to the women-oriented economy.

That led to a job as a host. A year later he was hired away by another host club and then hired away again a couple years later by the largest host club in the city. Obviously Aida had something going for him. Recognizing his calling, he started Ai, which soon established itself as the gold standard of host clubs. In the years after that, Aida created a small empire of host clubs, pubs, and bars. Ai was such a fixture of Kabukicho nightlife that at some point it was included on a bus tour for middle-aged women from the countryside. When Aida hired me for a night, he had about three hundred men in five clubs in his employ. He had also written a book on business management (and his wife had written a book about the joys and perils of being married to a professional host).

Aida was more than willing to talk about the host club business.

“Host clubs used to be places where women came to dance with attractive young men. Now many women come here because they’re lonely. They can’t meet a nice guy at work. They want someone who will talk to them, listen to them. They want a shoulder to cry on, someone to sympathize with them. They want the human touch. Some will even ask for advice about how to handle their boorish boyfriends. But some just want a guy to dance with—they like ballroom dancing. Women like hosts who can make them laugh, who can say witty things about what’s going on or talk about the latest television shows. The most popular hosts are not necessarily the best-looking guys. A good host is a good listener, entertainer, and counselor and knows when to pour a lady’s drink.”

Now, the fact that in these clubs men pour drinks for women is noteworthy. In Japanese society, when socially boozing, you never pour your own drinks. Inferiors or younger people are expected to pour drinks for their superiors and elders. The unspoken rule is when women are present, they are always expected to serve the men. So if you are a Japanese woman, having men serve you and look after your needs is a thrill.

“But part of being a good host is knowing how much your client can afford to spend. You can’t bankrupt the customer. You can’t push her into financial difficulties. That would create a lot of trouble—for everybody. The new host clubs, they use young, cute guys to lure the customers into the clubs. They set the bar low, promising the customer drinks for as cheap as five thousand yen [about $50]. They let anyone into the clubs, even women who are drunk. Easy marks. The women end up owing. That’s when loan sharks come in. The really bad clubs are basically a front for organized crime.

“Ai has been in business a long time. We keep accurate accounts, we pay our taxes, and we are registered with the police so the yakuza can’t extort anything out of us. The new host clubs, even if they don’t start out as scams, because they are unlicensed, they are vulnerable. They’re easily blackmailed and can quickly be turned into moneymakers for the yakuza. The host clubs run by the yakuza, they’re not host clubs at all; they’re pimp clubs. Their goal is to make customers into hookers or debt slaves.

“Why are host clubs so popular? Because of the men—handsome, charming men who know what women want. They’re the reason. Some of the women fancy themselves rich playboys—playgirls, I guess. They want to sleep with the host, and they’ll pay to keep that fantasy alive. They’re no different from the men who go to hostess clubs and drop a load of cash; they have a dream that they’re going to have sex with this object of everybody’s desires.

“But for most women, we offer them the perfect date. They can spend an evening being fussed over by a good-looking guy without any of the hassle of a relationship. The host is available whenever she wants; she’s never stood up. It’s a simulated romance, which some women like. Sort of like virtual love.”

A very elegant woman in her late forties, wearing a black dress, came over to sit next to Aida while we were talking. She removed a cigarette from her purse quietly, and no sooner had the cigarette grazed her lip than Aida was lighting it for her with a bright red chrome Zippo. He introduced me to her, and she offered me her hand, which I, not knowing what to do, kissed. Aida gave me a broad smile of approval.

We made small talk while Aida retrieved drinks for us from the bar. I was surprised he didn’t order one of the unoccupied hosts to do it; maybe he was trying to impress upon me the importance of being a good host.

I will be honest. I envisioned myself walking into the host club and beautiful women gathering around me while I lit their cigarettes and made them feel desirable. I figured they’d be fascinated by my gaijin charm and my mastery of the nuances of the Japanese language. I’d entertain them with stories of my career, and they’d listen, fascinated, begging for my business card and secretly desiring my body. In reality, I was more or less ignored. Obviously, the women coming to a host club are looking for an attractive Japanese man, not a goofy Jewish-American in an expensive suit.

I did pour drinks for a Filipino hostess, I did listen to a housewife complain about her husband while I kept lighting her cigarettes, which she smoked in rapid succession, and I did have a hostly encounter. But I ended up spending more time chatting with other hosts while on their coffee break.

Kazu, age twenty-nine, formerly worked for a pharmaceutical company. “In one sense,” he told me, “you’re appealing to their motherly instinct. You treat them like a queen, and if they like you, they make you their favorite, their number one host.

“I love this job. I’m raking in six hundred thousand yen [about $6,000] a month, and that doesn’t include the presents I get. One woman bought me this gold-plated Rolex on my wrist. I think the wife of a banker, who is totally into me, is going to buy me a car for my birthday. You want to let the customers know your birthday way in advance because it’s like bonus time if you work at a company. I prefer cash, but usually they give you expensive designer gifts. I pawn some stuff, but things like clothes and watches, well, they expect you to wear them.

“This woman, Mariko, is the president of a firm that makes men’s underwear—funny if you think about it because most of her clients are gay and she’s paying me to pour her drinks. She gave me a Patek Philippe for my birthday. Expensive as hell but a horribly gaudy diamond-studded thing. She doesn’t know anything about watches, only how much they cost. I bought a rip-off in Hong Kong and pawned the original. If she shows up, I slip on the fake watch.

“But I don’t feel like I’m exploiting her—or any of these women. I’m fulfilling their fantasy. It’s like having an affair with me, even if we’re not sleeping together. They feel happy if I’m happy. If everyone is happy, no one is exploited. There’s no pretense. They understand that I’m their friend only until their money runs out.”

Hikaru, twenty-five, born in Kobe, had been a host since he was eighteen. At six feet three, he was very tall for a Japanese man. He was quite a specimen: he had the glow of someone who’d just come out of a tanning salon, his nails were manicured, his teeth were perfect and white, and his suit probably cost my monthly salary.

Maybe he was getting bored with the job, because he wanted to know all about my life as a reporter, even asking if one could be a journalist without a college education. But obviously he wasn’t suffering as a host, where looks were important and he looked good. “Sometimes,” he said, “the thing to do is to find an actor you resemble and then basically do an impression of the guy. You make the customer feel like she is with a celebrity.

“But most of the time I say that I’m a graduate student in law at Tokyo University and I’m just hosting to pay the tuition. It makes the customer feel like she’s contributing to society, not just to my wallet. Maybe she fantasizes about someday being able to tell her friends about a famous lawyer who used to be a host and she was his favorite customer.

“You have to compliment women skillfully. You can’t just throw around generic lines. You don’t want to say things that make them feel old. You tell a woman that her skin is flawless. The back of her neck is so erotic. You love the way her face dimples up when she smiles. If she has freckles, you ask her if she’s part Caucasian. Some women like to be thought of as looking international. If you make the compliments unique to them, their eyes light up. I think that all women have their charms; you just have to look for them and recognize them.

“I prefer women in their thirties. You can have a conversation with them. If you have someone who is very funny and cracks a lot of jokes, it’s good to talk about something serious. And vice versa. It shows you appreciate her hidden, other side.

“You have to be able to talk to customers about almost anything, even where they should send their kids to school. So I subscribe to four women’s magazines to make sure I know what kinds of concerns they have. They also like to talk about television programs, but since I don’t have time to watch TV I stay current by reading TV guides.

“In this business, though, looks are the main thing. I know I have to look desirable. I go to the gym four times a week. I do weight training and aerobics, and I swim to keep myself slim and fit. Women don’t like muscle-bound men. They like a tennis player physique. I use skin care products and a warm towel before shaving to make sure my skin looks smooth. Some men look good with a little stubble; I’m not one of them. Women compliment me on my skin and my looks all the time.

“I make about a million yen [roughly $10,000] a month. That’s a lot, but there are a lot of costs. You have to live in a nice apartment, you always have to dress stylishly, you have to buy gifts for the clients. That’s all out of your pocket, and you can’t be cheap about the gifts either. Sometimes it feels like the more clients you have, the less money you make. Still, I manage to save about four hundred thousand yen [$4,000] a month, which is more than a lot of people earn, so I can’t complain.

“The bad thing is that my parents hate that I do this, even if I don’t plan on doing it forever. You don’t have a personal life. Every day is like summer vacation, except that you really don’t have the freedom. You spend most of your free time waiting on customers in one way or another; sometimes you go shopping with a customer, sometimes you go to a resort with her.

“It’s hard to have a girlfriend, too. Girls don’t like to date a guy who works as a host. I think I can understand that. How is she going to know if what I say is for real or an act? Sometimes I don’t know the difference. Even if I’m with a girl I really like, I sometimes find myself trying to play the angles, trying to manipulate her.”

Our conversation was interrupted as a client of Hikaru’s entered the club. He rose to greet her, a dazzling, genuine smile on his face. Michiko, who was wearing a green dress, had her hair pulled back and secured with a black velvet hair band. She was elegant and composed.

Hikaru introduced me to her, and after we exchanged the usual greetings and she determined that I appeared to have some command of Japanese, she asked if I had a cigarette. I offered her what I had and then, a little shakily, lit it for her. She inhaled and closed her eyes, leaning back in the sofa. She was quiet for about ten seconds. Hikaru winked at me.

As Michiko opened her eyes, she exclaimed, “The taste is so sweet. The smell is almost like incense. Where are they from?”

“Indonesia,” I replied. “They’re Indonesian clove cigarettes.”

“I like them. Are you Indonesian?”

“American. I have a face that’s hard to place.”

“It’s a nice face.”

“Nowhere near as nice as yours.”

This shameless compliment caused Michiko to giggle and Hikaru to raise an eyebrow at me and smile.

As Michiko brought the cigarette to her lips again, I went on. “You have lovely hands. Your fingers are so long and lithe. They look delicate but strong. Do you play the piano?”

At this, Michiko burst into laughter and slapped Hikaru on the knees. “Your friend is very perceptive. Did you tell him?” she asked.

Hikaru shook his head and made comical denials.

The ice broken, Michiko, Hikaru, and I chatted for a while (Hikaru really was good at his job), and then Michiko left for the evening. It was almost four in the morning, and the place was filling up. The new crowd seemed to be mostly hostesses who had just gotten off work; all were dressed to the nines, many were fairly inebriated, a few were loud. I wouldn’t think that this would be where a hostess would want to head after hours, but then again, if you thought about it, it made sense.

I should have stayed for the after-five crowd, but I had a day job. As I was gathering my things, Hikaru asked if I wouldn’t mind leaving the rest of my cigarettes. “Of course,” I said, then asked, “How’d I do?”

His response: “You have a charm, but you really are a geek. You want to talk more about yourself than you want to listen to others, but you tell interesting stories, so I’m not sure that’s a minus. You’re also memorable and mildly amusing, and that’s a plus. The clove cigarettes are a nice touch. They smell good and they’re different, and they are one more thing that makes you memorable. I may start smoking them myself.”

He added that if I ever got tired of journalism I might have a fallback as a host. I laughed and thanked him and looked around to say sayonara to Aida.

Aida handed me a couple of coupons and urged me to come back anytime with some female colleagues. I myself didn’t return, but my colleagues apparently had a fine time.

•    •    •

Almost ten years later, Kabukicho isn’t quite like it used to be, but it is still a pretty shady place. The promise of encounters, danger, adventure, and erotic fulfillment is readily available if you just know which door on which floor in which building to knock on. Underneath all that, however, is the stink of isolation.

Tokyo is one of the most densely populated cities in the world, yet—or maybe because of it—there are so many people who have no one to confide in, no one to trust or burden with their secrets, worries, or disappointments.

There is, admittedly, the underlying game that’s the lure (but where is it not?): is this evening of sympathy and champagne going to lead to sexual intercourse? Be that as it may, what the clubs are really fueled by is alienation, boredom, and loneliness.

The rates are not unreasonable, but the costs in human terms are incredibly high.