Many urisen interviewed for the film, whose more intimate on-the-job moments are cleverly represented by often-explicit animation sequences, are uneducated, occasionally homeless young men who cite financial hardships, even crippling debts, for taking on the work. Since its release earlier this year, the documentary, directed by the singularly named Itako, has been screened in over 25 film festivals around the globe, including London’s Raindance and Los Angeles’ Outfest. The subject of urisen is at the center of a film titled “Baibai Boizu” (“Boys for Sale”), whose production was led by two foreign Japan residents. Ian Thomas Ash, executive producer of the ‘Boys for Sale’ documentary. … I can tolerate pretty much anyone - except rorikon (adults sexually attracted to children). I have no problem with gay people and don’t understand those who do. “There are guidelines as to what I’m required to do,” says Hiroshi, who entered the business partly for the money, partly in an attempt to work out his sexual orientation. While some want nothing more than a bit of company over dinner, others want a whole lot more, performing acts that in some cases could be argued verge on abuse, even rape.
Usually they are masochists who want me to be, well, you know, domineering.”įor over 35 years, men have visited the bar, one of around 400 gay establishments in Shinjuku Ni-chome - Japan’s indubitable gay hub - to purchase the services of hundreds of young men like Hiroshi. “The clients I have served are aged between around 30 and 65. “I think of myself as a kind of hedonist - I’ll do anything if it makes me feel good,” says “Hiroshi,” a strong-jawed 18-year-old “boy” from Chiba who, at 187 centimeters tall, is forced to stoop slightly as he makes his way across the floor of the cramped bar. Urisen to offer: Toshiyuki Matsuura is a manager at First Dash in Shinjuku’s Ni-chome district. They are known as urisen and their job is to “entertain” First Dash’s customers, who are almost entirely men. On this occasion, however, the stocky customer is the instructor, and the “trainee” has been put through a rigorous day-long test to see if he can perform the job at hand, work in which many of the other staffers - who are referred to in this part of Shinjuku’s Ni-chome district as “boys” - are already well-versed. “He’s here for an interview … and kenshū,” says bar manager Toshiyuki Matsuura, using a Japanese term for “training” that in everyday parlance would do little to raise any eyebrows. The customer - a portly, balding middle-aged man in a nondescript suit - shuffles over to a table followed by a slightly built teenage lad, ruffled locks partly shielding a furtive, floor-fixed stare.