Glitz and Glamour at a Japanese Hostess Bar in Los Angeles

At eighteen, I was dying for a job - any job, and one as a red-light special hostess presented itself in the form of a seedy karaoke bar. "Turning Point," they called it. And boy did the patrons there turn my stomach. I'd hide out in the bathroom trying to catch my breath amidst putrefied air and piss stains on cracked tile. There were two sweeties there, Kaori and Samori, who also attended the JC I went to. Who knows if that really was their names. They would appear every other weekend. One day a fellow came in whom Samori seemed quite chummy with. When she moved to the next table, I asked him if they knew each other long. "Oh, I met her a few weeks ago at Crystal," he said, covering his mouth with a fist.

That was the first I heard of a gentleman's club over in Torrance, a suburb chock full of ex-pats and industrial workers. I kept the name handy until I met my roommate Maki, an international student from Japan. She found a notice in the Lighthouse -- a local Japanese publication -- that Crystal Lounge was hiring. Lucky for me, we interviewed together and seamlessly walked into the underworld of mizu shobai. My first night there, my third, fourth, and fifth even, I couldn't match up the setting with its claim. Crystal vases with long stemmed roses gleamed in every corner. Women wearing elegant gowns clinked glasses with well-dressed men who didn't seem the slightest bit drunk. Were these men really here for sex? Because the only exchange I ever saw was that of business cards deftly handed over glasses of scotch. Even the two under-covers I was assigned to "host" looked stumped. Imagine their bewilderment when the tab for two beers came to $100 at closing.

A month into my tenure, loose tongues wagged, and I was able to fish out working women from faux pas. Which led me to a choice: to be or not to be, one fine evening sitting on Chiro, a stout businessman who graduated from Cal Tech. "How much do you want?" he grunted while sniffing whisky.

"What?" I was under the impression that he didn't speak English.

He slips his hand under my shirt. "Come to my place tonight."

I nervously giggle. "Do you even know where I live? I'm nowhere by here."

"Where do you live?"

"In Santa Monica."

"I stay at the Wilshire Towers."

That got me. Wilshire was a mere 10 minutes from my condo. 10 minutes for $10,000 -- more food for thought. "I'm not sure. I'm not crazy about going to strangers' houses."

"We go to your place."

Somehow that sounded more sound. I scribble my address on a cocktail nap. Sure enough, Chiro's at my door an hour later. "Hello, sweetie," I run my hands through his hair.

"You have anything to drink?" classic Japanese form.

Would it kill you if I told you we ended up sleeping together on the couch? Seriously, just sleeping on the couch. I never saw him again. He only came to the bar during convention week, and I had already quit by the next one. My dance with the dark side was oh-so-brief; then again I still have his number saved in my Blackberry...