One day, I stumbled in a place that looked like I could enjoy the company of a naked girl, judging by the flashing lights and the sexy pictures of girls that decorated the front. A little nervous because I had no idea what to expect, I entered and walked down a steep and narrow staircase that led underground. It was dark inside. An older Japanese man greeted me and asked if I wanted a girl for sex. I was a bit ashamed and not drunk so I said no.
Big regret. Instead, I said female company would be fine, and I was sat at a small booth. The man disappeared behind a red curtain. There were a few other booths against one wall, but I was the only customer I could see. The room was more of a narrow corridor than a room. The man returned with a beautiful topless girl in a miniskirt. She sat across from me.
Communication was hard. An elementary level of Japanese would have made the experience more comfortable and enjoyable for both of us. I talked to her like she was my Australian shepherd and she smiled back at me, not knowing what I was saying.
Years later, I would return to the same place. Another day, the same trip, I found myself in Kabukicho again, looking for naked girls to drink with, and possibly more. This time, though, I was scammed by a Nigerian who pretended to be my best friend. He promised me cheap drinks and bare-naked ladies. I naively trusted him. I followed him to his little shit-hole bar.
One a fat walrus. I asked for a beer. I was already there, anyway. Maybe these girls would give me a four-handed massage under the table. Instead, they kept pestering me to buy them drinks. They were the exact opposite of your normal feminine Japanese girl.
