Fleeing a Doctors' Household, Working in Yoshiwara on the Way to Keio Law: Administrative Scrivener Sumika Hori Looks Back on Life So Far

Hori does not tell this story as one of hard work. Hori repeatedly says things like "the kind people around me put up with me" and "I'm living on lucky punches," and places themself, if anything, on the side of the perpetrators.

The interview began with Hori's current work as an administrative scrivener. Drawing on the experience of working in Yoshiwara, Hori also offers support for women in the nightlife industry. One part of that is drafting criminal complaints.

According to Hori, women in nightwork are often called things like "idiot," "ugly," or "a landmine" on anonymous message boards and aggregator sites. Some even have their home addresses exposed. One remedy for this kind of harm is to request disclosure of the poster's identity, but when there are too many posts, it may not be worth the cost. It's also said that filing a civil lawsuit doesn't do much damage to the person who wrote the posts. So some choose to file a criminal complaint instead: if a complaint is drafted and the case goes all the way to indictment, the other party ends up with a criminal record. Many women want exactly that, Hori says, which is why the requests come in. Some want to pursue both civil and criminal action, while others are fine with criminal action alone.

Hori was also doxxed during university, with both stage name and real name exposed. Asked who usually identifies these women, Hori said the most common culprit is a customer they've grown close to. In many cases, Hori believes, the women say too much each time they meet, and the accumulated details let the customer piece things together.

Hori once also ran a studio in the heart of Yoshiwara that took promotional photos of the women. Now other shoots have increased — for example, video work related to regional revitalization for an advisory client — and Hori says the nightwork shoots have been put on hold for the time being.

Regarding a recent raid on a Yoshiwara establishment that made the news, Hori revealed it was a shop where Hori had previously worked. Raids come about in various ways, but Hori says they often involve the use of scouts. In this case, Hori said, the word is that it was triggered by a criminal accusation filed by a woman who used to work there.

When the interviewer confirmed that "actual intercourse itself is illegal, and the premise is that soaplands as businesses aren't involved — it's a free romance between a customer and a woman who met at a bathing facility," Hori said that was correct. As background for why things that had long been tolerated are gradually being cracked down on, Hori pointed to developments such as scout groups turning into anonymous and fluid criminal groups (tokuryu), and said the screws are being tightened in some respects. The conversation also touched on the aim of cutting off funding to organized crime, but according to Hori, Yoshiwara has a union that has pledged to exclude organized crime, serving as something like an association of Yoshiwara's bathhouses. So Yoshiwara itself doesn't feel like a place with a strong yakuza presence; in Hori's view, the problem lies in the parts involving scouts and the like.

Hori was born in northern Akita Prefecture, in what Hori calls "the deep countryside." Both parents were physicians in private practice, running two clinics between them. There was a period when Hori aimed for medical school, but the family was too much of a mess for that to be realistic. Hori says the father recently got into a dispute with the Regional Bureau of Health and Welfare, had the clinic's designation as an insurance medical institution revoked, and can no longer practice.

From Hori's earliest years, the father was "a wild one" — the kind of person who would scream even at a delivery company calling about a missed package. According to Hori, the father had bipolar disorder but didn't seek treatment, instead self-prescribing medication as a doctor and taking reckless combinations of drugs. Hori says the father was in a persistently unstable state, swinging into elation or irritability. With some Russian ancestry, the father was a big man, about 190 cm tall and around 100 kg. When the family was eating together and his footsteps approached, everyone fell silent. One day, when Hori's brother, then in junior high school, ignored the father calling him, the father yelled, "Don't screw with me, I'll kill you," and hit him. The mother stepped in, and a huge fight broke out. The parents later divorced, and according to Hori, the divorce mediation documents showed the father had no memory at all of hitting anyone. Hori, too, says there are parts of early childhood where memory simply cuts out.

When Hori was about 11, a fight at a yakiniku restaurant led the parents to separate. Hori began living with the mother and brother, but this time the brother began taking out on Hori the stress the father had put on him. "Die," "fatso," "ugly," "trash" — Hori heard these daily. When Hori asked the mother to make it stop, the reply was, "Just don't let it bother you."

The mother also disliked her daughter behaving like a girl. If Hori bought tinted lip balm, the mother would throw it away, saying, "Getting all flirty, are we?" If Hori wore something a little cute, the response was, "What's with those clothes?" To Hori, who is 174 cm tall, she also said things to the effect of "you poor thing, you're too tall." When Hori asked about this as an adult, the mother's reaction was "Did I say that?" followed by "What do you want me to do about it now?" Hori feels the mother is someone who doesn't consider other people's feelings and doesn't even try to understand them.

The family never went out together on weekends; the father played mahjong and the mother played video games all day. As for the brother, two years older, things have gone beyond a bad relationship — they don't exchange a single word. At the time, the one Hori opened up to most was the family cat.

Hori's grades in elementary and junior high school weren't especially good, but Hori studied furiously to get out of the house and got into a high school in Tokyo with a dormitory and a deviation score of around 70. It was a considerably more demanding school than the local ones in Akita. Hori told the parents it was because the school had facilities for things like studying abroad.

The school turned out to be a girls' school for young ladies from well-off families. It was there that Hori learned the home Hori grew up in wasn't normal. In every season, the mother's bento had somen noodles in the bottom tier and nothing but tamagoyaki in the top. The thermos held noodle dipping sauce. When Hori asked for some fruit, the bento came with a whole apple and a survival knife. Clothes were bought in bulk at Uniqlo once every six months, and spending money was meager. Hori had never thought of having physician parents as anything special, and was surprised the first time a friend said, "You must be super rich." Hori had never eaten pasta until high school, and on trying carbonara at Saizeriya, thought, "I can't believe food this good exists."

Meanwhile, Hori's classmates included the daughters of diplomats and executives of major corporations. They went to museums and movies with their mothers and tagged along to their fathers' golf every weekend. They said they were bored of traveling abroad. The gap between Hori and these classmates, showered with both money and love, came as a severe shock. Tormented by envy and jealousy, Hori stopped being able to attend school from the middle of the first year. Hating the dorm, Hori moved to a student residence for university students, but hypersomnia grew severe, and Hori ended up sleeping all the time. Around the second year, feeling at the limit, Hori passed all subjects of the high school equivalency exam and then quit high school. The parents said to come home, but Hori absolutely did not want to go back. Hori begged to stay, saying, "I'll work hard in Tokyo," and remained there, enrolling at Kawaijuku cram school but never actually attending.

Hori did intend to go to university. At 18, Hori started working part-time at a club in Ginza. Beyond the fact that it paid well, Hori reflects, it may also have been a reaction against the mother, who would say harsh things about idols and women in the nightlife business — a feeling of wanting to do exactly what the mother would hate most. Having been mocked by the mother for wearing makeup, Hori also longed for beautiful people and glamorous clothes. Hori says it made them happy when the older women in Ginza gave them cosmetics and the like. Hori thinks the parents would probably have paid tuition if asked, but wanted to cover as much of it as possible on their own.

Still, having to earn a living at 18 just to eat was hard. Classmates were enjoying campus life — so why was Hori's life like this? Driven to despair by such thoughts, Hori attempted suicide. The parents were contacted, and Hori was taken back to the family home in Akita. Hori describes this as being "forcibly deported."

Hori's distrust of the mother had an earlier chapter. In high school, someone secretly filmed up Hori's skirt at a train station. A bystander noticed and accompanied Hori to the police, but when Hori called the mother to tell her, she said, "You were wearing something weird again, weren't you?" She said she didn't understand how to deal with the police or lawyers, so Hori should handle everything alone, and she never once came to Tokyo. Hori got a lawyer and personally handled every phone call from the prosecutor's office clerk. When Hori received the settlement money, the mother said, "Well, that was profitable."

Around the time of quitting high school, Hori also went to see the father, with whom there had been almost no contact since the divorce. The father said, "I've never done anything fatherly for you, so I'll buy you anything," but when they actually went shopping, he yelled, "Why are you buying so much, you idiot? I'll kill you." Hori says the father probably doesn't remember it.

Back at the family home, the brother, who was on his sixth year of retaking medical school entrance exams and studying at home, called Hori "fatso" and "ugly" every time they crossed paths. The mother kept saying Hori's makeup was so heavy it was gross, and that Hori was fat.

What finally prompted Hori to leave home again was a rabbit Hori had been keeping in Tokyo. Because there were three cats at the family home, Hori kept the rabbit confined to Hori's own room. But while Hori was studying at the library, the brother let a cat into the rabbit's room. When Hori came home, the rabbit was huddled up small, trembling. When Hori confronted him, the brother replied, "It was funny." Hori teared up while telling this story. The mother and brother told the crying Hori, "It was just a joke," and went out to eat. While they were gone, Hori took some money from the mother's wallet, dumped the contents of the fridge all over the brother's room, and took the rabbit back to Tokyo on the shinkansen. The mother sent a LINE message: "The mess in your brother's room was you, wasn't it? Apologize." The mother was on the brother's side, and when Hori told the father, all he said was, "Well, your mother loves your brother."

These days, Hori talks with the mother normally. Recently, the brother, now 30, graduated from university and went on to graduate school. When Hori asked how he was doing, the mother said, "Your brother is so impressive — he found an apartment and signed the lease all by himself." Hori had done that as a teenager.

At 19, when Hori asked the father to rent a monthly apartment for them, Hori felt that "my life is over." Not delivery health, not a cabaret club — Hori decided to fall as far as it was possible to fall. Thinking about anything at all that would earn money, what came to mind was a soapland. There was also a feeling of wondering what faces the parents would make if Hori said they were going to work at a soapland.

Hori called the father and said the plan was to make money at a soapland, eventually take university entrance exams, and not cause him any trouble. The father asked, "How much can you make at a soapland?" When Hori answered that the scout had said about 2 million yen a month, the father replied, "That's all? Well, good luck." There was no objection. Hori also called the mother, but thinks she simply didn't care.

Hori explains that you have to be 20 or older to work in Yoshiwara. So Hori started at a budget shop in Kawasaki, where 19-year-olds could work. Hori's first sexual experience was also at that shop, with a man in his 40s or 50s. There was resistance, but once it was over, Hori's feeling was, "So this is all it is."

Hori was at the budget shop for only about a week. There, a gentle-mannered older customer took a liking to Hori and bought out all of Hori's booking slots for the following week. They spent more time talking than doing anything else, and he ordered in food for Hori, saying, "You're going through a lot for someone so young." With generous tips, Hori's pay came to about 150,000 yen, despite it being a budget shop. One day, while Hori was walking to work in Kawasaki, a scout called out, "Why are you at a budget shop?" and Hori moved to a high-end establishment. At first, that same man kept booking Hori.

Hori says they seem to have a knack for landing "extremely big" spenders. The high-end shop in Kawasaki charged in the 60,000-yen range, but hearing there were shops in Yoshiwara in the 80,000-yen range, Hori interviewed at one and was hired. When Hori asked that man, "Will you still come if I move shops?" he said, "I'll come," and he kept visiting in Yoshiwara too. A customer who happened to take a slot when the man couldn't come because of a business trip or the like said, "You're great," and became another big spender. Even when one big spender dropped off, the next one would appear from the opening that left. Hori says this pattern kept repeating.

Hori isn't sure whether it's luck or a trait. But the same thing has happened since becoming an administrative scrivener. Hori went to see a company president at the request of an acquaintance of an acquaintance, the president took a liking to Hori and entrusted one thing after another, introduced other people, and big jobs came in through those connections.

As one possible explanation, Hori cited their own "selfishness." After separating from the family, Hori realized that being unable to say "no" when the mother and brother said hurtful things had wounded them deeply. Since then, Hori says, they've tended to overreact when someone does something they dislike. In Yoshiwara, too, Hori would tell customers plainly, "Stop that." Customers would be taken aback and apologize, saying "Sorry," but sometimes complaining actually made them more attached.

Hori repeatedly says that both customers and shop staff in Yoshiwara were kind. At 18 or 19, customers would bring food, asking, "Are you eating properly?" When Hori had been working since morning, they'd say, "Aren't these hours long? Go ahead and sleep," and let Hori rest, and they'd bring vitamin juice, sandwiches, and delivery sushi. Never having been treated so kindly by anyone before, Hori was happy.

Hori had no interest in brand-name goods either; outside of work, Hori was either studying or sleeping, and didn't hang out with friends. Hori's relationships consisted almost entirely of customers and shop staff such as the manager and the floor staff.

When Hori mentioned studying for university entrance exams, the staff recommended the outing system, under which a customer who buys slots can go outside the shop with the woman. It was during the COVID-19 pandemic and hotels were cheap, so Hori studied in hotels while the customer slept or worked. Because it was an expensive shop in the 80,000-yen range, Hori says there may have been an especially large number of customers who wanted to support a young woman rather than satisfy their sexual urges. Six slots at 80,000 yen for 120 minutes came to 480,000 yen. When Hori came in to work, the shop staff would leave out tea and onigiri, and they even installed Wi-Fi in the shop for Hori's exam studies. Hori took breaks several times over the six years, but says there was nothing to do and it was boring, so Hori ended up coming back.

At 20 or 21, Hori entered Keio University's Faculty of Law. Hori lived in Ueno, close to Yoshiwara. Because classes were almost entirely remote due to the pandemic, there was little worry about being recognized, and Hori had almost no friends among classmates. Hori says they sometimes joined remote classes from a hotel during an outing. From age 19 on, Hori paid all of their own tuition.

At university, Hori was aiming for the bar exam. When Hori began writing about the law they had studied that day in the photo diary blog, which Hori had barely written in before, the type of customer changed. Lawyers and other "important people" from the legal profession came, launched into legal discussions — "So about this issue…" — and assigned homework: "Study this up before next time." When Hori listed thick, expensive books such as Ashibe's Constitutional Law and Shiono's Administrative Law as wish-list items in the diary, customers would always buy them. As Hori asked questions about the parts they didn't understand, the sessions turned into something more like a law class than anything else. One slot wasn't enough, so bookings stretched to two, then three slots.

Asked about the highest monthly income during the Yoshiwara years, Hori answered it was about 7.8 million yen, adding that taxes were paid. Of the 88,000 yen the customer paid, 60,000 yen was Hori's share, and because Hori's schedule was filled with their own regulars, the cut was high. A hundred and twenty slots would come to 7.2 million yen. When traveling with a customer, the customer would buy 12 slots per 24 hours, or 36 slots for three days, which alone exceeds 2 million yen. Hori's explanation was that if you have one customer like that a month, you can reach the figure by steadily working the rest.

Hori chose the law faculty because of the voyeurism incident in high school. When Hori went alone to a law firm in Toranomon, the male lawyer asked about Hori's parents. Without emotion, Hori explained as a matter of fact that the mother had said, "Your skirt was probably too short anyway," and told Hori to go alone. The lawyer then said that whether or not someone wears a short skirt, that is no reason for them to be secretly filmed. It was the first time anyone had told Hori, "It's not your fault." That's when Hori began vaguely aspiring to become a lawyer.

The attachment to professional licenses came from watching the parents. Hori sometimes thought of the parents as people who were a complete mess. Hori felt the reason such messed-up people could survive in society was that they had licenses. Hori was also aware of having started out in Yoshiwara, a place slightly out of step with mainstream society, and thought that was precisely why life would be hard without a license. Being the type who lands one big client at a time would probably stay the same no matter what work Hori did, so Hori wanted something they could make a living with by their own hands.

On the preliminary bar exam, Hori passed the short-answer section on the first attempt, then failed the essay section on the second. Around that time, Hori switched ADHD medication to Concerta, which Hori says greatly increased their drive. Hori had always tended toward hypersomnia, but that decreased too. Suddenly wanting to run a company, Hori started a photo studio in Yoshiwara, and the bar exam fell by the wayside; Hori abandoned studying.

The studio didn't go very well, and Hori's savings were nearly wiped out. Being about to turn 26 with nothing to show for it was frightening. Wanting a license, Hori took the administrative scrivener exam around age 25. Partly because the content was somewhat similar to the preliminary bar exam's short-answer section, Hori passed without much difficulty.

Hori had no practical experience at all, but going to a business networking event immediately landed a big client. People said things like "You're working so hard for someone so young" and "I'll leave all of this work to you," and the number of advisory clients grew. As Hori desperately worked through the jobs they received, they were introduced to others, and before Hori knew it, the income from administrative scrivener work exceeded that from Yoshiwara.

When leaving Yoshiwara, Hori thought that without the kindness of the people there, Hori would probably have died, and wondered whether there was some way to repay them. Applications for permits under the Adult Entertainment Businesses Act are administrative scrivener work, but those are for the shops and have little to do with the women who work there. Searching for something useful to women currently working in the industry, Hori arrived at drafting criminal complaints over online defamation. Hori is often called "the criminal complaint person," but that work makes up only about 20% of revenue, and the fees are low. Hori's main income, Hori says, comes from work for big clients such as presidents of small and medium-sized companies.

Hori's current partner is a lawyer. Hori jokingly calls him a "kept man." Hearing about his earnings, Hori honestly thinks Hori's way of working pays better. Even compared with lawyers who bring in large revenues, weighing Hori's own effort against the stress lawyers face, Hori has started to think becoming a lawyer might not be worth it. Hori's current view is that studying furiously from now on and devoting time to it for the sake of money would be a bad deal.

The office currently has about 10 people in total, roughly half of them administrative scriveners and half other staff. Hori can't yet fully delegate and is busy, but says that once things settle down, Hori would like to try the bar exam again someday. Even so, asked whether Hori would become a lawyer, Hori answered that the current income is a far better deal.

Hori is often asked whether administrative scriveners really make that much, but says it probably depends on the person. Perhaps the same thing happens in both Yoshiwara and administrative scrivener work because both are customer service jobs. That said, Hori doesn't feel they're doing anything special at all.

Hori has been diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder, and has been seeing a psychiatrist ever since the suicide attempt. Hori says they now manage the conditions with medication.

Hori is "about to be divorced three times." Hori first married at 20 and split up at 25, remarried at 26 and split up after three months, and married a third time at 27. Hori is now in divorce mediation with that husband. All of the husbands earned 30 million yen or more a year, and Hori met them in private life, not as customers.

Hori says they've forgotten how they met the first husband. While they were dating, he liked Hori's apartment building so much that he moved into a unit on an upper floor. Even after marrying, they lived in separate apartments, so throughout the five years of marriage, he never found out Hori was working in Yoshiwara. Hori went to work in sweats, so he apparently assumed Hori was going to university or heading out for a change of pace. Hori explained the rent by saying "both my parents are doctors with their own practices." When he was transferred overseas and Hori would have needed to go along, Hori didn't want to go, and combined with the excitement of having just started a company, Hori chose divorce.

The second husband was a partner at a foreign consulting firm whom Hori met through a sugar-dating app. He hired a private investigator, learned about Hori's past in the sex industry, and they split up after three months. Hori met the third husband through a dating app.

Hori began dating the current partner about three months after the third husband moved out. Hori contends the marriage had already broken down, but says that by ordinary standards it's indefensible, and Hori is prepared for the consequences. In the mediation, the husband is seeking a divorce and Hori has not agreed. The reason, Hori says, is a stubborn refusal to "just do whatever you say" on matters like consolation money. A weekly magazine article came out the previous day, and Hori expects that will end the mediation. Hori and the partner have already filled out a marriage registration form. Every time Hori marries, it's with the thought, "I'm never getting divorced again."

Asked whether people ever point out something like attachment disorder, Hori answered, "All the time." Recently, Hori got angry at the partner and broke a computer monitor, but has forgotten why. When the interviewer remarked that Hori was a hybrid of both parents, Hori replied that they think the parents produced "a hybrid monster."

Comments on articles about Hori include remarks like "This person really worked hard." But Hori sees it not as Hori having worked hard, but as the kind people around them having put up with them. Hori even says they aren't someone who deserves praise, and that it wouldn't be strange for people to think, "The world would be better off without this person." Assuming not all staff would stay, given that they know Hori's unpleasant side and intensity, Hori hired extra people for the office. So far, everyone has stayed, and Hori marvels that they can work under a boss like this.

To comments like "I wouldn't want to hire an administrative scrivener with such a chaotic life," Hori agrees: "That's only natural." Clients, on the other hand, don't seem to mind; when Hori appeared in online news, the most anyone said was, "That's you, Sensei! What a surprise (lol)."

Hori says they don't think their way of doing things is right, nor do they think of themself as a victim. If anything, Hori considers themself on the perpetrators' side. Critical comments seem to be written on the assumption that Hori thinks they're a decent person. But Hori says they always remind themself, "You're only alive because you got lucky." People who love Hori's extreme, unbalanced side keep appearing at regular intervals — that, Hori said, is the luck they have.

Hori wants children. But being a "monster" makes the prospect frightening. For now, Hori lavishes affection on the cat. Asked about the fear of raising a child the way the mother did, Hori answered that, if anything, they'd probably spoil the child rotten. If it's a girl, Hori would like to choose cosmetics together and go look at pretty clothes. Hori said this as if picturing the things the mother never did for them.