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About Tokyo

So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

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Then, I meet my first client at a cute little boutique on Nishikata Street. She’s super picky. Like, “I want something unique but not too unique.” What does that even mean? I’m trying to find her a dress, and she’s like, “No, too bright. No, too dull.” I’m losing my mind! I’m like, “Lady, you’re killing me here!”