Authors: Jake Adelstein
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?”