Japan Report 3
The most awkward 30 minutes of my life
In we went to the strip club, and up a winding flight of stairs to the third or fourth floor. Loud, pulsating electronic music greeted us as we entered the room.
It was OK looking. Blue wallpaper everwhere, and everything bathed in blue light, except for the stage which had red spot lights on it. I saw a few girls dancing on it as we all stood around near the doorway for a few minutes. Mr. M and Mr. T stood together talking for a bit, ignoring John, Paul and myself as we gave each other weird looks.
I don't want to give the impression that I'm a prude, or that I think people who go to strip clubs are all dirty perverts. It's just that this was our first night out in a strange and far-off land. We could have gone to a strip club back in San Francisco.
Finally M turned to John and asked him what we thought.
"I don't think any of us want to stay here," John told him.
"Don't want to stay?" M repeated, as though he had a hard time believing it. Then he turned to T and relayed the message to him (it was quite loud, and T's english wasn't as good as M's).
We walked back out to the street, and continued down the alley. Again, Mr. M seemed to know exactly where he was going.
We stopped in front of another place. Whereas at the first place we had to walk up the stairs to get in, at this place we had to walk down a flight. Outside the door were some lifelike statues of men in chef's hats, holding up food. I was glad to see we were apparently going into a restaurant, possibly one with a lounge.
A lounge it had indeed. A very classy lounge. Not a strip club, but when we went in there was, by the door, a very large aquarium with a bikini-clad girl swimming around in it. Looking around, the room was full of sharp looking men in business suits and glamorous ladies in sparkling evening gowns. I felt like I was in a James Bond movie.
It was right about the time that I was wondering what so many of these girls could do to afford such nice clothes at such a young age that I realized: There certainly are a lot of these girls.
We took a seat, and one of the bald-headed british gentlemen that staffed the place (the entire staff seemed to be made up of bald british guys) approached us.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said in his classy british accent. "Would any of you like something from the bar?"
We all placed orders, and then he said "Would any of you care for the company of some girls tonight?"
John, Paul and me said that that was OK, we'd just have some drinks.
"OK then," baldy said. "You just going to chill out then? Well let me tell you the rules: If you want to talk to a girl, all you do is buy her a drink."
We thanked him, and in a few minutes our drinks came. It wasn't long after that that Mr. M started insisting we each pick a girl.
I realized about then that in Japan, there is Japanese culture, and then there is Japanese businessman culture, which is like Japanese culture only sleazier. Almost every male in this place was Japanese and in a business suit, and drinking heavily with a non-Japanese girl. Walking around after dark on the following nights, I'd see men in suits passed out on the sidewalks after a hard night of drinking.
None of the girls were Japanese. Later I was to learn that this is not an uncommon thing: hostess bars. Bars where you go and pay a girl to sit and converse with you. I wondered if all the girls would have been Japanese if we'd gone to a place more popular with foreigners.
We assured him that it was OK, he didn't need to buy us any female company. But he insisted.
I went to the restroom. One, because I honestly had to pee, and two, because I was hoping that it'd show how uninterested I was in him buying me a girl to talk to. When I returned, however, everyone in the party was seated next to a girl. And there was one sitting on the arm of my chair.
"This is Sean!" Paul said to the girl who'd been assigned to me upon my return. "This is his first time in this kind of place," he said.
Oh yeah. This was my first time in a hostess bar. A few minutes ago had been my first time in a strip club. Did I mention that?
"Oh," the girl perched uncomfortably on the arm of my chair said. "We'll have to be nice to him then."
She introduced herself as Sharon, which she pronounced as "Shay-rohn" being that she was from Colombia. Our conversation went something like this:
"So... Colombia, what's that like?"
She shrugged her shoulders, still smiling and being very happy to sit on the arm of my chair, not because she was being paid to or anything.
"What brought you here?"
"I don't know," she said. She apparently didn't like talking about herself. I think she caught on rather quickly that it wasn't me that'd requested her presence here, and that in fact I felt strange about carrying on a flirtatious conversation with a girl who'd been paid to sit there and pretend like she gave a rat's ass about me. She quickly dropped the cutesy girl act and looked sort of bored. I overheard John telling his girl about his fiancée back home. A few minutes of silence went by before, possibly out of a sense of obligation, she asked me, "Why are you here?"
"In Tokyo?" I said.
"Yes."
"Uh, I'm here for work."
"What do you do?"
"Programming...." I said, suddenly wondering which of us was more embarrassed about our profession.
"Ah."
In a few minutes, she asked me if she could have another drink.
"Uh... sure, you can have another drink. It's OK with me."
I didn't understand why she was OK'ing this with me. She wasn't drinking alcohol, so it's not like she was worried about getting disorderly. Only after she ordered an orange juice did I realize that what she was really asking was whether it was OK if she hung out on the side of my chair for another 15 minutes.
A few minutes into round two, it was announced by Mr. M that there would be a dance. Apparently, for an extra sum of money, your hostess would provide a table dance. It was decided that it'd occur during the next song.
The next song started. Shah-rohn stood up off the arm of my chair, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and then started dancing to in front of my chair. All the other hostesses in the party were dancing as well, if you could call it dancing. It was more like slowly writhing, as though they were trying to work out a charlie horse. Toward the end of the song, they started pulling up their dresses until they were completely off, and they were standing there in their underpants and -- the moment you've all been waiting for -- the breasts were exposed.
Yeah, I saw your comments yesterday, you dirty dirty readers. Breasts. That's what there was, plain as day.
I spent most of the table dance talking to John. He told me how his hostess had been telling him how she makes about $4,000 a month. That ended any confusion on my part as to who should be embarrassed about their career. Mr. T and Mr. M, however, were grossly involved in their dances, staring at their hostesses without blinking. How people can share in this kind of experience, I just don't know.
"Hello, co-workers. What do you say after work we go downtown, have us a few drinks, and pay some girls to let us stare at them writhing around in front of us in their panties?"
"Sure, Bob, that sounds like a lot of fun. But you'll have to promise to pretend not to notice the huge erection I'm sure to be sporting, since my full attention will be dedicated to staring at the breasts I've paid to see."
"Not a problem, Jim. I'll be too busy trying to hide my own arousal when I stand up to use the bathroom -- for urination only, I assure you -- so it won't be a problem if you're biologically ready for intercourse as we sit there enjoying drinks together."
I mean Jesus. There are just some things that don't seem like group activities.
The girls said goodnight, and left us stags alone. In a few minutes, Mr. M asked if we were ready to leave. I guess he had no intention of sitting around and conversing. Get in, show the Americans some boobies, get out. At least he's efficient.
I told him that we were ready to go whenever he was. We all got up (I didn't look, I just didn't want to know) and headed for the door. John and I were the first ones up the stairs, and as we made for the exit one of the British men said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Would you like to settle your bill?"
"Oh, uh...." I stammered. Everyone else seemed to have disappeared. "What happened to the rest of our party?"
I asked if it was OK for us to wait there for them, and the English bloke said it was fine. I went off to use the bathroom (or the "toilet" as they called it in the land of the rising sun), and when I emerged Mr. M was paying the bill. 83,000 yen.
For those of you not familiar with the conversion rates, that's almost $700. Those table dances don't come cheap, apparently. Formality made him take us, some fellow businessmen, out to a hostess bar to have a good time. And formality made us, guests in his charge, too polite to say firmly and definitely that we'd rather do something else.
Combined with the price of dinner and the gifts, Mr. M probably spent well over a thousand dollars that night. It'd be nice to think that no matter what country you're from, what color your skin is, or how many arms your idol has, we could all come together in harmony by paying to stare at breasts together. But to tell the truth, I'd have been happier to've blown the money on drinks and join the other businessmen passed out on the sidewalks. That's something you can't do in San Francisco. Not without getting your wallet stolen anyway.
It was OK looking. Blue wallpaper everwhere, and everything bathed in blue light, except for the stage which had red spot lights on it. I saw a few girls dancing on it as we all stood around near the doorway for a few minutes. Mr. M and Mr. T stood together talking for a bit, ignoring John, Paul and myself as we gave each other weird looks.
I don't want to give the impression that I'm a prude, or that I think people who go to strip clubs are all dirty perverts. It's just that this was our first night out in a strange and far-off land. We could have gone to a strip club back in San Francisco.
Finally M turned to John and asked him what we thought.
"I don't think any of us want to stay here," John told him.
"Don't want to stay?" M repeated, as though he had a hard time believing it. Then he turned to T and relayed the message to him (it was quite loud, and T's english wasn't as good as M's).
We walked back out to the street, and continued down the alley. Again, Mr. M seemed to know exactly where he was going.
We stopped in front of another place. Whereas at the first place we had to walk up the stairs to get in, at this place we had to walk down a flight. Outside the door were some lifelike statues of men in chef's hats, holding up food. I was glad to see we were apparently going into a restaurant, possibly one with a lounge.
A lounge it had indeed. A very classy lounge. Not a strip club, but when we went in there was, by the door, a very large aquarium with a bikini-clad girl swimming around in it. Looking around, the room was full of sharp looking men in business suits and glamorous ladies in sparkling evening gowns. I felt like I was in a James Bond movie.
It was right about the time that I was wondering what so many of these girls could do to afford such nice clothes at such a young age that I realized: There certainly are a lot of these girls.
We took a seat, and one of the bald-headed british gentlemen that staffed the place (the entire staff seemed to be made up of bald british guys) approached us.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said in his classy british accent. "Would any of you like something from the bar?"
We all placed orders, and then he said "Would any of you care for the company of some girls tonight?"
John, Paul and me said that that was OK, we'd just have some drinks.
"OK then," baldy said. "You just going to chill out then? Well let me tell you the rules: If you want to talk to a girl, all you do is buy her a drink."
We thanked him, and in a few minutes our drinks came. It wasn't long after that that Mr. M started insisting we each pick a girl.
I realized about then that in Japan, there is Japanese culture, and then there is Japanese businessman culture, which is like Japanese culture only sleazier. Almost every male in this place was Japanese and in a business suit, and drinking heavily with a non-Japanese girl. Walking around after dark on the following nights, I'd see men in suits passed out on the sidewalks after a hard night of drinking.
None of the girls were Japanese. Later I was to learn that this is not an uncommon thing: hostess bars. Bars where you go and pay a girl to sit and converse with you. I wondered if all the girls would have been Japanese if we'd gone to a place more popular with foreigners.
We assured him that it was OK, he didn't need to buy us any female company. But he insisted.
I went to the restroom. One, because I honestly had to pee, and two, because I was hoping that it'd show how uninterested I was in him buying me a girl to talk to. When I returned, however, everyone in the party was seated next to a girl. And there was one sitting on the arm of my chair.
"This is Sean!" Paul said to the girl who'd been assigned to me upon my return. "This is his first time in this kind of place," he said.
Oh yeah. This was my first time in a hostess bar. A few minutes ago had been my first time in a strip club. Did I mention that?
"Oh," the girl perched uncomfortably on the arm of my chair said. "We'll have to be nice to him then."
She introduced herself as Sharon, which she pronounced as "Shay-rohn" being that she was from Colombia. Our conversation went something like this:
"So... Colombia, what's that like?"
She shrugged her shoulders, still smiling and being very happy to sit on the arm of my chair, not because she was being paid to or anything.
"What brought you here?"
"I don't know," she said. She apparently didn't like talking about herself. I think she caught on rather quickly that it wasn't me that'd requested her presence here, and that in fact I felt strange about carrying on a flirtatious conversation with a girl who'd been paid to sit there and pretend like she gave a rat's ass about me. She quickly dropped the cutesy girl act and looked sort of bored. I overheard John telling his girl about his fiancée back home. A few minutes of silence went by before, possibly out of a sense of obligation, she asked me, "Why are you here?"
"In Tokyo?" I said.
"Yes."
"Uh, I'm here for work."
"What do you do?"
"Programming...." I said, suddenly wondering which of us was more embarrassed about our profession.
"Ah."
In a few minutes, she asked me if she could have another drink.
"Uh... sure, you can have another drink. It's OK with me."
I didn't understand why she was OK'ing this with me. She wasn't drinking alcohol, so it's not like she was worried about getting disorderly. Only after she ordered an orange juice did I realize that what she was really asking was whether it was OK if she hung out on the side of my chair for another 15 minutes.
A few minutes into round two, it was announced by Mr. M that there would be a dance. Apparently, for an extra sum of money, your hostess would provide a table dance. It was decided that it'd occur during the next song.
The next song started. Shah-rohn stood up off the arm of my chair, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and then started dancing to in front of my chair. All the other hostesses in the party were dancing as well, if you could call it dancing. It was more like slowly writhing, as though they were trying to work out a charlie horse. Toward the end of the song, they started pulling up their dresses until they were completely off, and they were standing there in their underpants and -- the moment you've all been waiting for -- the breasts were exposed.
Yeah, I saw your comments yesterday, you dirty dirty readers. Breasts. That's what there was, plain as day.
I spent most of the table dance talking to John. He told me how his hostess had been telling him how she makes about $4,000 a month. That ended any confusion on my part as to who should be embarrassed about their career. Mr. T and Mr. M, however, were grossly involved in their dances, staring at their hostesses without blinking. How people can share in this kind of experience, I just don't know.
"Hello, co-workers. What do you say after work we go downtown, have us a few drinks, and pay some girls to let us stare at them writhing around in front of us in their panties?"
"Sure, Bob, that sounds like a lot of fun. But you'll have to promise to pretend not to notice the huge erection I'm sure to be sporting, since my full attention will be dedicated to staring at the breasts I've paid to see."
"Not a problem, Jim. I'll be too busy trying to hide my own arousal when I stand up to use the bathroom -- for urination only, I assure you -- so it won't be a problem if you're biologically ready for intercourse as we sit there enjoying drinks together."
I mean Jesus. There are just some things that don't seem like group activities.
The girls said goodnight, and left us stags alone. In a few minutes, Mr. M asked if we were ready to leave. I guess he had no intention of sitting around and conversing. Get in, show the Americans some boobies, get out. At least he's efficient.
I told him that we were ready to go whenever he was. We all got up (I didn't look, I just didn't want to know) and headed for the door. John and I were the first ones up the stairs, and as we made for the exit one of the British men said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Would you like to settle your bill?"
"Oh, uh...." I stammered. Everyone else seemed to have disappeared. "What happened to the rest of our party?"
I asked if it was OK for us to wait there for them, and the English bloke said it was fine. I went off to use the bathroom (or the "toilet" as they called it in the land of the rising sun), and when I emerged Mr. M was paying the bill. 83,000 yen.
For those of you not familiar with the conversion rates, that's almost $700. Those table dances don't come cheap, apparently. Formality made him take us, some fellow businessmen, out to a hostess bar to have a good time. And formality made us, guests in his charge, too polite to say firmly and definitely that we'd rather do something else.
Combined with the price of dinner and the gifts, Mr. M probably spent well over a thousand dollars that night. It'd be nice to think that no matter what country you're from, what color your skin is, or how many arms your idol has, we could all come together in harmony by paying to stare at breasts together. But to tell the truth, I'd have been happier to've blown the money on drinks and join the other businessmen passed out on the sidewalks. That's something you can't do in San Francisco. Not without getting your wallet stolen anyway.