that a gentleman from my side of the establishment was cozying up next to lovely Miss Five! It was here that it sunk in that being a faster reader of kanji can have its advantages. Although my heart sunk, it wasn't a few seconds later before I realized that after my second straight shot of bourbon, little Miss Nine wasn't looking too bad either. My heart began racing as I wrote her number on my pink pad. I put myself down as an alumnus of the Year of the Boar and mentioned reading as my hobbies. But I was at a total loss for the blood-type answer. Honestly, to this day, I have no idea what my blood type is although I know that it's not one of those rare ones like ABO (if there is such a thing). I do know that Japanese consider this information vital for assessing a person's personality but can't recall whether an A-blooded man is the hot blooded and off the handle type or is romantic, quiet, and a true gentleman. I did what any honest bloke would do and placed a question mark next to the blood type. The maître d' took my form over to Miss Nine, and without even glancing over at me she quickly filled out a reply. Mr. D' brought it back to me without a trace of emotion on his face (although I'm certain he snuck a peak at her answer). She had circled the "I'm sorry" reply. My heart sank again. Actually I was more embarrassed than heartbroken to have been rejected in such a fashion. But could I really blame Miss Nine? After all I was not only a foreigner of dubious repute but a human being who did not have a clue as to his blood type. This dilemma forced me to resort to what all men must do in such dire situations—I lied.
After another shot of the brown liquid, a new entrant was seated in front of the number two placard. Although by no means a raving beauty, I instantly decided to select her. After all someone else might soon choose her and I could not leave the joint totally humiliated. For Miss Two's perusal I informed her on my pink sheet that I was born in the Year of the Cock, was a Type-A blood carrier and my hobby was traveling to expensive international resorts. It worked. For the privilege of chatting up fresh Miss Two, I was required to buy her a ladies drink and a ladies snack. Ah, I was beginning to see how these places made their money. The combination of one round of food and drink quickly set me back ¥2500 and not to mention that I was now running up a time tab since my initial 45 minutes had expired. Miss Two, whose real name was Sachiko (or so she said) was 19 and living with her parents in Saitama Prefecture. It took me another hour to realize that she ventured into these types of establishment not to meet men but to seek refuge from the streets until the first train back to the countryside left Shinjuku Station. What better way to while away the time than by having strange men buy you food and drink all night long? Of course, none stuck around for very long realizing that as the meter was ticking they had no chance of getting the sweet young Miss to accompany them to a nearby love hotel. Perhaps some guys do succeed in convincing the ladies of the meet club to head out. with them, but in the couple of hours I spent there I did not see it happen.
HOSTESS BARS
Perhaps the most baffling aspect of the Tokyo pink world to the foreign greenhorn is why Japanese men go to hostess bars. After all, for about the same amount of money (even less in some cases) you can get laid or get a wonderful allover massage from a naked woman who will end the experience with at least a hand job. Another alternative for less money is the strip shows and nude theatres. So why would a fellow hand over money just to have some young woman in a cocktail dress spend the evening massaging little more than his ego?
For a long time this was an unanswered question for me too. Now after months of spending many nights in almost every kind of mizushōbai institution imaginable and meeting hundreds of men and women who frequent such establishments as patrons and employees, I think I know the answer—hostess bars are relaxing environments in a way that no soapland or nude show can match. The skeptics out there are probably thinking I've been in Tokyo too long and have turned into a paler reflection of the typical salaryman. Not so, I protest. I must confess, however, that I have come to enjoy the traditional hostess bars more and more—especially the kind where I know that there is no pressure on me or the "hostitute" girl to talk each other into a short-time date, meaning a ¥30,000 tryst at the love hotel around the corner. I can drink what I like, as long as I like, make small talk with a variety of women, banter with the inebriated salaryman across the room, and sing a few off-key karaoke songs in the language of my choice (many places nowadays feature tunes not only in Japanese and English but also in Korean, Cantonese, Thai, and Tagalog—Tagalog being my second personal favorite because all the songs seem to be in my flat key and the words are even easier to pronounce than Spanish).
Even though I've caught the hostess bar bug, I am not dying of it. I avoid the exorbitantly priced Ginza and Akasaka clubs unless I am being treated by my very wealthy Japanese friend, Mr. Y. (I still don't know exactly what he does for a living and I'm not sure I should ask. But I am curious as to where he got the money after the bubble burst to build a five-story house in Tokyo bigger than anything I've ever seen in Beverly Hills.) For those who will never get the chance to visit a ¥100,000 per visit Ginza or Akasaka hostess bar, I can assure you that it is decidedly not worth the ticket of admission unless you are on expense account or someone else is footing the bill. Sure, the young ladies are a little classier, mama-san has a very nice kimono, and there may even be a tuxedo-clad gaijm tinkling at the Steinway as you sip your Remy Martin XO cognac, but it is not that much more upscale than the places in Ikebukero where the tab is likely to only be a tenth of that of such ritzy joints.
However, the foreign fellow in Tokyo who is interested in doing the hostess bar gig or is looking for a spot to economically entertain visiting bosses or clients whose command of Japanese is nil, and would have their puritanical senses overloaded by some of the other spots detailed in this book, will be grateful to know that I have just the place for you—the Filipina hostess bars. As Japan's yen rises in value and the economy struggles to decide whether it has bottomed out, a number of hostess clubs have thrown their native talent out on the streets and replaced them with a lineup of more affordable recruits from the friendly isles of the Philippines. Unlike the predominantly Thai clubs, Filipinas in Tokyo in the nineties usually don't work in clubs that are merely fronts for prostitution but instead are friendly young ladies who are truly fond of nice men. Now some of the young ladies from the Philippines may have done their stints as "exotic dancers" in the raunchy prostitution fronts of Manila's Ermita district but many are college educated, even virgins, who have come to Japan out of economic necessity. The lucky ones find themselves working in Tokyo clubs where they hostess and nothing more. Many a gaijin fellow has found a nice girlfriend in such establishments, slowly falling in love while whiling away the evenings with a seductive young lady who speaks fluent English, can sing karaoke in several languages, and knows how to flirt while maintaining the demureness of her strict Catholic upbringing. A customer who makes himself a regular in the Filipina hostess bars can ask for a regular to sit with him (usually there's an extra ¥2000 charge for such a request) and the young woman will be flattered by the exclusive attention and the object of envy of her colleagues. The Filipina looks upon the North American and European male as a prize catch and to marry such a guy would literally be a dream come true for her. More and more are ending up getting hitched to Japanese men as economic ties and personal relationships tighten between Tokyo and Manila. But even the lowly gaijin English teacher has perhaps as much status in the beautiful eyes of the Filipina as a Japanese company president. Yes, there still is justice in this world.
A few pointers are in order for any lad who'd like to strike a more than fleeting romance with a Filipina working in Tokyo. The first thing to remember is that although the young lady may come from a relatively poor third world country she comes from a culture rich in etiquette and protocol. Unless the woman is anything other than a so-called "hostitute" you will not get anywhere on the first night. Do not be tempted to ask her home after you have just met her. She may act like she is flattered by the request but something inside of her will recoil and she may regard you from now on as nothing more than an unsophisticated rake. If you are very lucky and make a flattering impression she will ask for your phone number or may give you her name card and covertly write her home number on it. If that doesn't happen the first time you stop by, ask for hers or
