"Release Your Frustrations!" the ad screamed. "Gaijin Women (preferably tall and black) wanted for Work in Tokyo S&M Club."

I looked up from the ad to the walnut-wrinkled face of my division head. He had handed me the paper and was now waiting for my reaction. My expression was deadpan, of course. I am the only foreigner in a large Japanese company, where I work as an in-house translator. I am used to being a curiosity, and my desk is a magnet for people wanting to chat about weird and wacky things. Now the division head--a Kyoto man notorious for his senility--was suggesting light-heartedly that I become an S&M queen in my free time.

What he didn't know was that I had already seen the ad. In fact, I had torn it out and carried it in my wallet for some time.

Although it was now a bit faded, the phone number was easily legible and I was still agonizing over whether to call it.

I am tall, white, and have never cracked whips while snarling commands at cringing males. But I was curious. And I'd be lying if I said that money didn't come into it at least a little. The main reason, I guess, was my mind-set at the office. I love the insight and invaluable experience of working in another corporate culture but, to be honest, all the restraints, rules and differences had me feeling a bit strapped in. I was dying to be a rebel (or at least a little bit bad) when I clocked out.

I consulted my friends. A Canadian friend in the publishing business (who recently dealt with her own corporate pressures by dyeing her hair purple) remarked that she knew someone who had done it and that it was a breeze. My American friend Sarah, a smart, vivacious but seemingly straight-laced woman who also translates for a big corporation, not only egged me on but insisted on coming with me. After six months of dealing with a neglectful boyfriend and a suffocating office scene, Sarah clearly wanted to strap on some boots and inflict some suffering of her own.

Almost all my Western female friends were tickled by the idea of being paid good money to beat the shit out of a man. I couldn't discuss it with any of my male friends; most of them see any kind of prostitution or hostessing as a complete surrender of self to pure greed. (As if becoming a banker isn't.)

The only completely negative response was from a married couple who tsk-tsked in horror. Everyone, however, did warn me to be on my toes. I should only work on weekends for a month to see how it would work out. I should never leave my drink unattended in case someone drugged me. On the first night of actual work, I should have my strongest, biggest male friend wait for me outside. (I thought that was particularly clever. Hi, I'm Tokyo's newest, wickedest dominatrix, and this is my muscle man--in case I need help beating you up.)

By this time, I was beginning to lose sleep over my decision. So one day at the office, before my feet could get any colder, I dialed the number on the ad. The voice sounded friendly enough, though a bit manly (laryngitis, she said). I was asked if I knew what the work was all about. I said I did. She told me to meet her outside the Swedish Center in Nishi Azabu.

It was dark when I arrived. The heavy make-up and platforms had drawn an odd look from the elevator operator as I left the office. I could have saved my time. My S&M mama with laryngitis strolled up looking spring fresh in a preppy cardigan, jeans and runners, and holding a cellular phone and planner. She was a tall--taller than me, in fact--blonde, well-tanned, Caucasian-European. She had no obvious tics, no moles, all her teeth were intact. She looked 32 years old under the makeup. She looked very real.

But the work she offered me was a complete scam. There was no bar with intimidating amazons in leather and garters; no elegant salon with cowering women in collars from L'Histoire d'O. The work was to be done solo: unaccompanied visits to clients in randomly selected Roppongi love hotels. She rattled off the details of the work as if she was the personnel manager at a fast food joint: Y30,000 for 80 minutes of sadism; Y40,000 for the same amount of masochism. She, as madame, got a 50 percent cut. I, as newcomer, was to invest in a pager, a whip, rope, black negligee, handcuffs and stiletto heels (it seems that even at 179cm I wasn't tall enough). When I balked at the initial outlay, she retorted that surely I didn't expect her to buy my lingerie.

Then she changed tack, mothering me with helpful tips on how to be a sadist. Wear patent leather shoes so they can be easily cleaned later. And crotchless panties for when, well, you know. "All men are mentally sick," she said. "It's best to treat them brutally."

But when she started on the masochistic part about being subservient to a man and his rope, to verbal and physical abuse, I blurted out that I was only interested in giving. No receiving, please. She smiled reassuringly. It was a normal reaction and, after all, the final decision was mine. "The first time is always the worst," she said soothingly. "After that it's surprisingly easy. Like losing your virginity."

I said that I would get back to her and left.

But I never did. Although the husky madame left several phone messages (my roommate asked me who my new boyfriend was), the calls suddenly stopped. I found out why at a party one weekend, when a Tokyo newcomer was expounding on how dramatic life here was.

It seems her neighbor, a tall European woman, had been arrested--taken away in ropes in the middle of the night for running a foreign prostitution outfit. She and her boyfriend, who had been acting as her pimp, were eventually deported, but according to the newcomer, they claimed to have put away $3.5 million in savings for their retirement back home.

I feel a bit relieved knowing that the phone calls have ceased for good. In fact, considering how I feel now about the whole thing, I still wonder what really made me cut out the ad in the first place. Part of it, I guess, was the theme park feel that I have about so much of life in Tokyo. This is "somewhere else": where we can play out our fantasies--then pose for snapshots with Mickey, Donald and Goofy before going back to the real world. I know that I can leave a lot of my history here when I go, like abandoning a bag of already-read books when checking out of a hotel.

So why didn't I take it further? Well, I learned that my craving for adventure was more easily satisfied than I had imagined. Also, I have to admit: I was scared. I knew it was going to be shocking, but I had imagined a group effort, with crowds of giggling dominatrices sharing backstage tales of fun and games. Being stuck alone in the My Love Apple Hotel with an unstable stranger begging to be punctured by stiletto heels was something else. Until this contract is up and I bail out, I'll just have to devote more time to those tamer stress release measures: dancing till dawn on the tabletops of Roppongi bars, twirling madly in my platforms and micro mini.

So here I am back at the office on a Monday morning, staring at the top of my desk, counting to 10 after the daily attack from my boss on my "highly incompetent" English ability. The senile division head looks like he's bored already. I presume those embarrassing snorting and beeping noises he's making in the corner are an attempt to mimic the fax machine.