When I was young and poor, I sold my kiss to pay the rent.

Two years out of college, I moved to Japan for a position at a small, English-language magazine near Tokyo. Never mind that the editor of the magazine said she could not pay me. She offered me a place to sleep and claimed she would set me up with students who would pay to learn English. Best of all, she said I would have tons of time to write. I bought a ticket and went.

As I tugged my suitcase out of the train station, I spotted a tall Caucasian woman, white hair piled atop her head, my new boss. Waiting in a black Mercedes was an older Japanese man. We got into the car and she introduced him to me as her “boyfriend.” Years before, she said, they had been lovers.

“Before she became fat,” he said as he drove, and she hit him, hard, his body shuddering before he straightened and laughed low in his throat.

I shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.

He was in his 60s, she in her 50s. I would stay with her until I had saved enough money to pay for my own place. I had a return ticket and a tourist visa.