Of course, that was nothing to the filthy rich Mr. Murakami, who owned several computer companies in Tokyo. His mind was pretty filthy too, but he could act like a gentleman when required. And he knew that I required it, so he poured my wine and gave me his arm as we passed over the small, carp-filled pond that marked the restaurant's entrance. The kimono-clad waitresses looking on had to know that I was bought company for this 65-year-old man.

Once we had finished eating, we got into his chauffeured car to be driven the three miles to Akasaka, another of Tokyo's major entertainment districts, though slightly more demure than Shinjuku. As we neared my place of work we passed a woman wearing an extravagant kimono, a perfectly ornamented coiffure and the traditional white makeup. She was carrying what looked to be a shamisen, a Japanese string instrument, in a lacquered case. A geisha. I had finally caught a glimpse of one of a dying breed of painstakingly cultured, meticulously attired artist-courtesans.

Meanwhile, I was decidedly less ostentatious in my high heels and black cocktail dress. This woman, I thought to myself, should by all rights be in this limousine in my place. Instead, she was scurrying down the subway entrance. Things have changed in Tokyo in the past decade. When we arrived at my club, Midori, the owner and "mama," ushered us in with effusive bows.

"Cynthia!" Midori whispered to me in Japanese. "I called your cellphone. Mr. Mori has been waiting for you for over an hour."

"What could I do? I was out with Murakami-san." She shrugged; I sighed.

After I had passed an hour drinking and singing karaoke with Murakami, he left the club; luckily, he had an unusually early bedtime. It was now only about 10 p.m., and most other customers were just arriving. At the door, I blew him a kiss and thanked him for dinner, then ran back inside to fall in love all over again.

Private Life Romance, relationships, and the personal side of Table Talk