WTF is a Hostess Club.

A love letter to late-night ramen, lost translations, and the wild beauty of not knowing what the hell you’re doing.

Tokyo. On the Ground

Japan. Or more specifically, Tokyo. It was the first place in my entire life where I felt at home. Comfortable. Which, yeah, is a weird thing to hear from a white guy from Wisconsin who grew up about as Wonder Bread as you can get. But still. Something clicked.

I can remember two specific moments that really defined that feeling of peace I found in Tokyo. The first one is easy to explain.

It was a fall night. A little mist in the air, just enough to make the neon lights look like they were melting softly into the sidewalk. I was walking to this international bookstore in Roppongi, the kind of place that felt like a portal to a cooler, more creative world. The magazine collection was out of this world. They had the usual collection of Dazed, Fader, Vice, NME, The Face. Then an entire sections of European and asian magazines I had never seen before that melted my brain and were super inspiring. All these beautifully printed gems full of photography, articles, and music recommendations that felt like secret codes to a better life. I always loved music.

This was before the infinite playlists of today. Back when you listened to an album start to finish. Back when you carried your music like it was sacred. I had my trusty Sony CD Walkman with me, a few discs stashed in my bag. At the time I was listening to a lot of Ninja Tune and Warp artists. Chemical Brothers, DJ Krush, Coldcut, Underworld, Nigo and that gritty electronic duo from Las Vegas……………. Yes. The Crystal Method!!!!!

So there I was. Walking to this bookstore after inhaling a bowl of ramen with a vending ticket shop. One of those places where you punch a button, hope for the best, and somehow always end up with something incredible. Once I figured out the kanji for pork, miso, and gyoza, I thought I was a local legend. Full belly, headphones in, music up, walking through a misty Tokyo night, and I had this moment. This absolute stillness.

“This is the first time in my life the voices in my head are quiet,” I thought. “I feel at peace.”

And I meant it.

It hit me hard. I had never felt like I belonged anywhere. Growing up in Wisconsin was miserable. I was counting the seconds until I could leave. Even later in Santa Barbara, I didn’t feel at ease. Beautiful? Sure. But not mine. It wasn’t my world.

And yet there I was. Mid-twenties white boy, walking down the street in Tokyo with absolutely no idea what I was doing. I knew maybe three people. Couldn’t speak the language. Couldn’t read the signs. And still, I was the happiest and most content I had ever been.

So let’s rewind a bit. Grab your pencil, spin it into that U2 WAR cassette tape, and let’s back this story up to how I even got to that moment in Tokyo in the first place.

Remember One Eyed Jacks? That was the hostess club. My friend P had worked there and told me I could probably get a job as a waiter. Some of her friends were still working there, and apparently they were hiring.

But before we jump in too fast, before the fishnets and bottles of Crown Royale with names scrawled across the labels that hung from the neck of the bottles, we need to talk about what a hostess club actually is. Because unless you’ve lived in Japan or have an oddly specific niche in your streaming history, you might be asking:

Wait. What is a hostess club?

Let’s clear it up. First off, it is not a strip club. No one is officially swinging on poles or having dollar bills flung at them. Although, if memory serves, there was a stage for a choreographed dance show. Twice a night, I think.

On paper, it sounds kind of innocent. You go to a bar, you sit down, and you talk to someone attractive. That’s it. But that’s not it. Not even close.

A hostess club is a very Japanese flavor of nightlife. It is a cocktail of tradition, business etiquette, and emotional labor, shaken cold and poured over ice with a wedge of flattery on the rim. Think of it like modern day geisha culture, but instead of tea ceremonies, you have jack and cokes, techno music, and a rotating lineup of girls trying to remember which client is into golf and which has roaming hands.

The structure is pretty simple. Men, mostly, come in, pay a cover, and get paired up with a hostess. Her job is to make him feel like the most interesting man in the world without ever offering anything more than good conversation, charm, and maybe a light touch on the arm. She pours drinks, lights cigarettes, giggles at bad jokes, and nods intently while the client explains the difference between sushi and sashimi, japanese baseball and blended scotch like it is the Rosetta Stone.

And yes, she drinks with him. Which is important. He pays for her drinks, and the more she drinks, within reason, the higher the bill climbs. It is a delicate little con. Keep things lively, but do not get sloppy. You have to stay charming, remember who likes what, and never forget to pour the next round.

There is a hierarchy too. Hostesses compete to be requested. More requests means more money. Some girls have regulars who show up weekly, even nightly, just to sit with them, sip overpriced whiskey, and pour out their sad little corporate hearts. The club scene is a soap opera. Add some cocaine, a sprinkle of resentment, and a manager who has definitely seen some things, and you have a reality show happening in real time.

Then there are the dohans, basically dinner dates. A customer takes a hostess out, again on his tab, and then she brings him back to the club for drinks. It is the most politely orchestrated return to spending loop ever designed. Brilliant and brutal. I went on one of these with a few Japanese Hostess that I became good friends with. It was insane, the night got wild and in the end we always end up back at One Eyed Jacks.

Foreign girls play a big role in this world, especially in neighborhoods like Roppongi. Russian, Brazilian, Canadian, American. Travelers who stop in Tokyo to make some quick cash before heading off to Thailand, India, or wherever the cheap flights flow. I am not sure if it is still as lucrative as it once was. I doubt it. I recently checked the website and seems like a bunch of weird want to be IG influencers.

As for the hostesses, it is a hustle. A beautiful, exhausting hustle built on heels, fake laughter, and Jedi-level emotional intelligence. You learn how to scan a room, steer a conversation, keep a man interested, and always seem like you are having the best night of your life. You become The Fantasy. But it is a fantasy with rules. No touching. No dating outside of dohans. No funny business. At least, “not officially.”

This is companionship, not companionship, if you know what I mean.

It is a strange little ecosystem of capitalism, charm, and dim lighting. And in that glowing neon world, I was about to become a very small, very underqualified fish.

Now, I was not starting off behind the bar or waiting tables. When I first joined, they did not have a spot open inside. So what did they do?

They put me on the street as a scout.

Yeah. We will get into that soon. The main characters, the chaos, the surprisingly philosophical moments that came from it. But for now, just know this story is just getting started.

I’m going to throw a few videos up there of some of the music I was listening to while traveling through Tokyo on the train or subway, living as if I was in the future.

Love & Light

MM

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