by Guy Willard
“But still, I’ll bet you’re well reimbursed for your so-called trouble.”
“Yes, most of which goes into our wardrobe costs. Remember, we have to be well-dressed at all times. Just look at all the suits I had to buy.”
He waved at a vinyl closet in the corner crammed full of suits hanging neatly within: silver, light blue, white, pale apricot, eggshell….
“A lot of those are gifts from customers whose tastes I hate. But I have to wear them to please them.”
“Do you get any other kinds of gifts?”
“Sure: watches, bracelets, rings, necklaces, things like that. A very rich customer might even buy you a car, but my biggest gift so far is the condominium apartment I’ll be moving into next month.”
“You mean she bought it outright for you?”
“No, she just took out the initial loan for me and paid the first six months’ installments. After that, I have to keep up with the monthly payments myself. But that’s the agreement I insisted on. Otherwise, I’d be nothing more than a kept boy, and I don’t want that. As it is, I have to ‘service’ her at least twice a month. Does that sound like fun to you?”
“I guess not. But if you hate it so much, why do you do it?”
“For the money. You wouldn’t believe how much it’s possible to make at this job. A top host can be set up for life within a year. That’s why I can’t quit.”
“I see.”
“You think I’m cynical, don’t you? But that’s what it all comes down to in the end, right? Money is what decides what kind of life you lead: independent and free, or cringing and subservient. And I want to be able to do anything I want without having to worry about how much it costs. How about you?”
“I completely agree. In fact, if I had your looks, I might be asking you right now to introduce me to your club owner.”
“Well, if you did, I’d try my hardest to talk you out of it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s such a stressful job. At first it wasn’t so bad. I only worked a couple of nights a week just to pick up some extra cash. And in those days it was mostly older women who were happy just to cuddle up to you, buy you gifts, take you out to dinner…someone like Midori-san tonight. But recently the customers are getting younger and younger, and they’re mostly professional hostesses. They make a lot more money than we do, and like to spend it freely, too. In fact, they’re so lavish in their spending that they’re driving out the older women.”
“But aren’t hostesses usually attractive? Why should they have to go to a host club for male companionship?”
“Well, since they work most of the night and sleep all day, they usually don’t have much opportunity to meet men outside of work. And the customers in their clubs are, for the most part, middle-aged lechers who have only one thing on their minds. After having to put up with them all night, they want a chance to blow off some steam. So they come to us to get pampered and indulged. And because they’re professional entertainers themselves, it takes a lot to keep them amused.”
“And what does that involve?”
“Mostly drinking—a lot. They seem to enjoy watching us get drunk and make fools of ourselves, so they insist on having these drinking games, where we have to chug down expensive champagne if we lose. A boy has to have a very strong liver for this job, believe me, and I’m not that much of a drinker.”
“Do any romances develop between hosts and their customers?”
“Absolutely not. For one thing, these women don’t even want a real romance, just a play-acted one. So we go through all the motions—flirting, going out to dinner, buying birthday presents, even having sex occasionally. But both parties know that it’s all an act. From the women’s point of view, this sort of relationship has its advantages. It’s cut and dried, with nothing messy or binding about it. They have their fun and when they get tired of it, they move on.”
“Are they really so mercenary about it all?”
“Oh yes. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this job, it’s that women are much more heartless than men when it comes to the sex game.” He shook his head somewhat wistfully. “I’ve lost quite a few of my illusions about them.”
“It almost sounds as if you’re getting tired of women.”
“Well, when it becomes your job to keep them happy, it definitely loses all its fun.”
“Do you ever worry that you might not be able to fall in love anymore? I mean, with a girl you really care for?”
Tatsuya looked a bit startled at the question, and then muttered, “Please don’t worry about my love life, thank you very much. I think I can manage that by myself.”
“I—” Fumio blushed. “Sorry. I guess it was none of my business.”
“No problem.”
“I suppose I should be getting back to my room. I have classes today, so I have to get ready soon.”
“That’s right, you’re a student, aren’t you?” He suddenly looked contrite. “I’m sorry to have wakened you up at this time of night and kept you here so long.”
“No. I’ve enjoyed talking with you. It’s just too bad we couldn’t have gotten to know each other much sooner.”
“Well, if we ever meet again, let’s go out for a couple of drinks, all right? I want to repay you for all your trouble tonight.”
“No problem. And if you need any help with your moving, please let me know. I’ll be glad to lend a hand.”
“Thanks. But the movers will take care of everything. I can afford it now.”
“That’s right, isn’t it? Well, good luck with your new apartment…and your job.”
“Thanks.”
Fumio went to the door and bent down to put on his shoes. When he turned around to say goodbye, he saw that Tatsuya was already beginning to undress. He always slept in the nude, as Fumio knew very well.
They said good night to each other, and Fumio stepped outside and closed the door behind him. But before heading back to his own room, he remained standing there for a while longer, his head bowed, his eyes closed. And then, when he felt sudden tears come to his eyes, he slumped down and remained crouched there, feeling his shoulders shake as he silently cried.
7
A dowdy, bespectacled girl who attended a nearby art college moved into Tatsuya’s old room soon after he’d left. At first Fumio wondered if he should stop up the peephole before it got discovered, fearing the girl would falsely accuse him of spying on her. But he kept it open out of hopes that she might someday bring a handsome boyfriend home—though, with her looks, the possibility seemed rather remote.
So, with nothing to look forward to each night, he’d taken to wandering around the city after dark. Remembering his experience with the man in the park toilet, he dropped into every public restroom he came across, and was sometimes rewarded with some intriguing finds.
Occasionally he would spot the single word “homo” hidden among other graffiti on a toilet wall, as if some lonely soul was quietly asserting his own yearnings. But one time Fumio was delighted to see, at about eye level for anyone sitting at the Japanese-style toilet, a painstakingly detailed picture of a muscular male torso, with loving attention given to the smooth, hard muscles of its shoulders, chest and arms, and best of all, a fully erect penis so beautifully drawn that it literally made his mouth water.
On none of his explorations had he ever encountered another man seeking sexual intimacy—which was just as well, because in his heart he no longer desired the furtive, anonymous sort of adventure he’d previously experienced. What he really wanted was a man he could have a relationship with, and the best place to find someone like that was probably a gay bar.
From the advertisements in Barazoku, he knew that Shinjuku’s 2-chome district was full of such bars. But since he would probably feel uncomfortable about venturing into Japan’s gay Mecca, he thought it would be better to find someplace a bit removed from the heart of the city. The advertisement for a bar called Prince intrigued him: “small, comfortable,
and very friendly atmosphere.” Best of all, it was located in the far-off western fringes of Tokyo.
One evening he decided to pay it a visit.
When he got to Hachioji, he saw that the west side of the station had those familiar shopping arcades which one saw in all medium-sized cities. It reminded him very much of home.
The night was rather cold, with a chilly wind blowing from the north. Fumio had never been to this part of Tokyo before, so he scouted out the area first, making his way to the small alley where the bar was supposed to be. Prince had its lighted sign out in the street like all the neighboring drinking places, with nothing to distinguish it from the rest. Still, Fumio didn’t have the nerve to enter it right away. He continued walking until he came to a Beef Bowl where he had a light dinner along with a beer. After quickly finishing off his beer, he ordered another one.
By the time he left, he was feeling a lot more relaxed. Still, the idea of stepping through Prince’s door made his knees go weak, so he had to pass it several more times before he could work up the courage to enter. Finally, at his fifth approach, he made his move. His heart literally jumped into his throat as he pushed the door open.
The moment he stepped inside, everyone in the place—about five or six men—turned to look at him. It was as if he’d interrupted an ongoing conversation.
There was a small bar counter to the left with four stools, and lining the opposite wall were two tiny tables. It was a very cozy place indeed.
“Welcome,” said the boy behind the counter. “Please have a seat.”
Fumio sat down on the nearest bar stool, and the boy handed him a warmed-up hand towel. Fumio heard the men at the tables resume their conversations. To all outward appearances, the place seemed like an ordinary neighborhood bar. There was a poster of James Dean behind the counter and another of Alain Delon on the back wall.
“What would you like to drink, sir?” The young bartender was quite attractive, and not at all gay-looking. In fact he appeared no different from any college student working part-time at night.
“A beer, please.” He wiped his hands on the towel.
The boy set the beer before him and then returned to the other end of the counter where he resumed talking with a quiet-looking man sitting there.
As Fumio drank his beer he casually listened to the talk all around him. It seemed to be rather normal stuff, what one might expect to hear in any neighborhood bar. His impression was that most of these customers were regulars who came here almost every day after work. Was this really a gay bar? He began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.
And then a man at one of the tables spoke in a somewhat louder voice, casually dropping the word “homo” into his conversation. Fumio didn’t bat an eye. Was he being tested—or warned—that he was in a gay bar? Perhaps the patrons thought he might have come in here by accident.
A few minutes later he once again heard someone talking about gays. The man who said it glanced at Fumio, apparently to check his reaction, but Fumio merely smiled and went on drinking. This seemed to do the trick. As if he’d passed the test, the ice was immediately broken. The talk all around him resumed in a much more natural manner, and the men seemed to pick up their conversations from where they’d left off when Fumio had first stepped in.
The bartender came over to him. “My name’s Yuji,” he said. “What’s yours?”
Fumio hesitated, then decided he had nothing to lose by telling his real name. “Fumio.”
“Oh, we had another Fumi-chan who used to come here quite often, before he was transferred to a branch office in Osaka last year. Where are you from?”
“Yamagata.”
“Shima-chan over there is from Yamagata.”
The man pointed out by Yuji heard his own name, and looked over with a smile. Yuji said to him, “This is Fumi-chan from Yamagata.”
“What part of Yamagata?”
Fumio told him.
“I know it well,” said Shima-chan. “I was born just a few kilometers from there.”
Another man sitting nearby said, not unkindly, “Well, well, this is practically a family reunion, then.”
Fumio laughed. The tension he’d felt ever since coming inside immediately vanished. He now felt as if he was among friends who were eager to include him in their ranks, even though this was only his first visit. One custom which probably helped give the place such a relaxed atmosphere was that everyone seemed to use diminutive nicknames when addressing each another. To Fumio’s surprise, even older men were called “Taka-chan” or “Hara-chan” by the younger ones.
“Mind if I sit with you?” Shima-chan asked him.
“Not at all.”
Shima-chan appeared to be in his mid-thirties and looked like an ordinary salaryman. As he sat down next to Fumio, he began asking him about his university, his major, his part-time job. It was light, friendly conversation which might be overheard at any normal drinking place. Fumio found himself warming up to this fellow native of Yamagata. Shima-chan hadn’t visited his hometown in over seven years and Fumio brought him up to date on many local happenings. They mentioned all the places they knew in common. Then they came around to the subject to which fellow provincials always seemed to gravitate.
“What do you think about living in Tokyo, Fumi-chan?”
“To tell you the truth, I like it very much. When I went home last New Year’s, everything seemed...well, so drab and limited. I mean, I was happy to see my mother and brother, but after about a week, I actually felt out of place and couldn’t wait to come back here.”
Shima-chan laughed. “It was the same for me the first time I went home. Many of my friends seemed to resent the fact that I was able to live and work in Tokyo. They didn’t come right out and say it, of course, only hinted around, you know, like they do.”
“Yes. But many of my high school friends openly admitted that they envied me. I guess when I told them about life here, I must have left out the parts about feeling so lonely and homesick sometimes, and about the tiny cramped apartment where I live. They probably pictured my lifestyle as something straight out of a trendy TV drama.”
“As if everyone in Tokyo lives like that, right?”
“Exactly. My relatives told me that my speech had become too Tokyo-like, and they seemed to think I was putting on airs. I resented that. I’m still very proud of my roots but people back home don’t realize that here you have to speak like everyone else, otherwise you stand out.”
“I know, I know,” laughed Shima-chan. “But you know, whenever I get a phone call from home I immediately revert to Yamagata dialect. And as soon as I hang up, I’m speaking standard speech again. It becomes like second nature.”
“When I first came here, I made an effort to use standard speech, and in my mind I thought I was pulling it off. But people would laugh and tell me they could guess where I came from, just by my intonation. So then I did an about-face and started speaking with an exaggerated Yamagata accent—one that I would never have used back home.”
“Exactly. And the thing is, the people who most make fun of your rural origins are those who’ve come from the provinces themselves, the ones who’ve managed to blend in. Most real Tokyoites could probably care less where you’re from. It’s the country people like us who have a complex, though we shouldn’t. For all I know, we probably outnumber the native Tokyoites here in the metropolis, so why should we try to hide our origins?”
“I agree.” Fumio felt a genuine liking for Shima-chan who, unlike many older men he knew, was worldly and experienced without being condescending.
As if guessing his thoughts, Shima-chan suddenly asked him: “How old would you say I am?”
Fumio looked at him. Older people often asked him this question, and he always tried to answer about two or three years younger than what he really thought. “Oh, about thirty, thirty-one?”
“I’m thirty-eight,” said Shima-chan, looking pleased.
Fumio was honestly surprised. “You look so much yo
unger.”
“Thank you. I guess living in the city keeps you looking young. Whenever I go to a high school reunion back home, my schoolmates who’ve stayed in Yamagata always look so much older.”
“Do you think you’ll ever go back for good?”
“I don’t know.” He hesitated, as if he were about to reveal something personal, but then seemed to think better of it. “How about you?”
“I have to return to Yamagata after I graduate.” The thought suddenly depressed him.
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Yeah.” A couple of customers at a nearby table got up to leave, and Fumio glanced at his watch. The time had flown by and it was almost time for him to catch the last train.
“Are you leaving so soon?” There was a hint of disappointment in Shima-chan’s voice.
Fumio wondered if he would be invited to stay until closing time. But that would mean he’d miss the last train and have to spend the night in a hotel…perhaps together with Shima-chan? The thought of it was rather exciting, but for some reason, he chose to mask his real feelings.
“Yes, I’m afraid I have to go home,” he said. “I have an early class tomorrow morning.”
“Will you be coming to Prince again?”
Fumio thought for a moment. “I suppose I could, maybe next week.”
“Good. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you, then.”
“Thank you. I really enjoyed our talk.”
“Me, too. Good night, Fumi-chan.”
“Good night.” He paid for his beer and found to his delight that it cost much less than what most drinking places charged.
Outside, the night had turned much colder. He buttoned his coat and turned up the collar, heading for the station. All in all he felt quite satisfied with his first visit to a gay bar. Prince had been much less intimidating than he’d expected. Though he’d overheard some of the other men talking candidly about sexual matters, Shima-chan hadn’t made the slightest reference to such topics, and Fumio felt grateful for his tact. Maybe that was one of the reasons why he felt so attracted to him. But of course he didn’t want his relationship with Shima-chan to remain platonic forever. He’d been a virgin much too long for that. If ever there was the perfect person to help him become an adult, surely it was Shima-chan.