The Rules of the Game

Hello.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m a native English-speaking Westerner in my mid-20’s who hopped on the first plane after college for a chance to  reside in the land of sex robots covered in teriyaki sauce.  Sorry, I’m confusing food and fetishes.  Working a few years as a typical salaryman, you’ll develop that sort of humor, which in reality, pales in comparison to the perversion of most middle-aged company employees here.  The Tokyo life could be compared to a non-stop bullet train, one that took me from amusement parks to amusement clubs, dive bars to trendy dance clubs, sober to not so sober.  Work fits in there somewhere, but I never truly had my mind in it.  Physically present, but mentally mulling over what lines in Japanese I should have used the night before to coax the short-skirted spunky girl at the club to join me in a love hotel.  The experiences and stories of the Tokyo life alone deserve a few entries.  But, I left it all–the well-paying job, the sprawling city, the friends, and even the girlfriends–for something more.

I go by the name Sabin.  It may not be a real name, but it’s what customers will call me.

You see, I’m going to be a host. This wiki article explains it well: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Host_and_hostess_clubs, but you didn’t come here for an encyclopedia explanation.  What is a host?  Recently, on a trip back to my native country, I tried to explain my future part-time job to some close friends of mine, and here’s what they thought I was aspiring to be: a gigolo, manwhore, a fancy waiter.  They’re all correct in a way.  Clients who desire the tossing and turning of sheets are not rare, yet paying for the services is not part of the equation.  In a brief interview with a real number one host, I learned that it’s always the host’s decision whether or not the dirty deed will be done.  Laying prostrate and defenseless as a female sumo-wrestler uses your private parts as a sparring partner is not mandatory.

Then there’s the waiter aspect, where a well-dressed host (think suits, neckties, or flashy shirts) will wait on tables, pour drinks for clientele, sometimes directly into their mouths.  All the while, making sure not a drop is spilled, or a cigarette unlit.  A host is an entertainer, singing and dancing to speed up the tempo of the club, relaxing the client and further loosening her wallet.

These services all come at a price, for both the client and the host.  The host braves the cold, seeking out customers on the street.  Except his prey often escape, leaving him only with the taste of rejection in its every form.  Once inside his establishment, he charms the lady with his conversation, or other times he has to shut up and put up with the woes of a weepy wife.  Whatever the case, it’s not an easy profession.

Like I said, I had a normal job before, but I abandoned it for shadier pastures that are the streets of Japan at night, brightly lit by luminescent signs and the sparkling glimmer of jewelry adorned by the primped and preened hosts and hostesses.  There’s a certain allure in the thought that a man can be paid for doing what he normally wants to do, drink copious amounts of alcohol and chase after tail.  This cultural disconnect between the East and West with the idea of a woman willing to pay for a man’s time and conversation is yet another compelling reason to throw on the pimp suit and dive into the streets before the chance (read: the visa) expires, or in other words, “hell, might as well.”  To list off a few more reasons one might want to pursue this life of suits and sluttiness–practice with talking up the ladies, easy access to rubbing elbows with hostesses, free booze, excellent pay upon success, and I’m sure there’s more that will drive any man.

I don’t want to paint a one-sided picture.  It’s not all cupcakes and kitty cats.  Hosts often have to drink well past their limit, heaving up their insides in the bathroom, only to return to the table and continue work as if nothing had occurred.  They work until the sun rises, to near exhaustion, and possibly outside in the cold the entire time if they failed to “catch” a client.  Some at the end of the month, will actually earn a negative salary, if they allowed their clients to pay by IOU instead of cash.

The clients themselves deserve a mention.  Often the clientele are ladies of the sex underworld themselves, trying to forget the night’s events, events that you would not wish upon your daughter as a living.  These women are exploited by their clients, then once more as they pay a significant chunk of their earnings to the hosts, who often lie to these women to keep them emotionally attached and wanting to come back.  The number one host I interviewed, who must earn a very decent salary, after hanging out with my friends and me promptly went to satisfy a client’s request by mail to bang pelvises until the early morning.  Even he says the job is painful and tiring, one that he picked up because he dropped out of high school and was previously working jobs that violated labor laws.

In light of the above, before I descend into the darker recesses of host club alleys, I want to establish a few rules for myself.  If I stray from them, I’d like you to bring me back to reality, perhaps with a healthy kick in the nuts.

1. No sex with fat chicks.
2. Not allowing my hair to grow past my shoulders.
3. No plucking of my eyebrows.
4. No going into debt for the sake of this experiment.
5. No deceitful ploys in tricking clients or other actions that would compromise morals and make my mom cry.

I feel #1 is self-explanatory, and if it’s not, you have drank too much alcohol to even be reading this.  #2-3 have to do with my definition of manliness, and if I end up spending more time on my face and looks than an average woman, I will forfeit my right to a pair of balls.  #4 because I’m a cheap bastard who wants to have savings for other pursuits, like say, feeding myself.  #5 because I don’t want to contribute any more into this vicious circle of exploitation than I already am by participating.  If it appears that outright lying and manipulation of emotions is a necessary tactic, I will have to stop.  Of course, this doesn’t mean I won’t say white lies.  “Am I fat?”  Yes, you’re all fat and I could roll dough with your tummy lard.  Unless you’re a Japanese girl, then you need to gain about 10-20 more pounds and get back to me.
Stay tuned, the next step is the purchase of the suit and the interview stage.