Gravure Idol Exposes the Night She Was Nearly Offered to a TV Producer

The atmosphere completely changed at the after-party snack bar

Following the scandal that led to the retirement of former SMAP member Masahiro Nakai (52), commercial broadcasters launched internal investigations to determine whether announcers and talents were being offered to producers and high-profile entertainers.

I, the author, who refers to myself as a bottom-tier gravure idol, was also once nearly offered at a drinking party.

It was such a disgusting experience that I had erased it from my memory, but with the ongoing news coverage, I found myself recalling it—not quite a flashback, but enough to leave me feeling unpleasant. It happened about four or five years ago.

At the time, I wasn’t making enough as a writer to survive, nor was I earning enough through gravure modeling. I barely managed to get by working part-time at a bar in Kabukicho and attending paid drinking parties.

During that period, there was a girl named Y-chan who would occasionally take me to these paid drinking events. She was the type to hop from one paid drinking party to another in Minato Ward. Unlike the typical “Minato Ward girl” image, she had a rather plain appearance—one could call it demure in a positive sense or just plain dull in a negative sense. She claimed her family ran a medical practice and that she was studying for her medical license, but in reality, she was dedicating most of her time to attending paid drinking parties.

One day, she approached me, saying, “I’ll introduce you to a high-ranking producer from a major key station!” Just to clarify, it wasn’t Fuji TV. Back then, I would get the occasional appearance on a terrestrial variety show—maybe once a year—but I struggled to secure follow-up opportunities. Desperate for any chance, I eagerly replied, “I’m in!”

The drinking party was in Minato Ward. The high-ranking producer from the key station was a slightly overweight, somewhat greasy-looking man. He even wore a polo shirt with a cardigan draped over his shoulders—the classic producer look straight out of a manga. That was my first impression.

The other male participant had unnaturally tanned skin, wore a flashy cap, a flashy hoodie, and shorts. And for some reason, he carried a small bag—the kind that wealthy ladies use when walking their dogs—giving off the unmistakable vibe of a talent scout.

The group consisted of these two men, Y-chan, and myself, the so-called bottom-tier gravure idol.

First, they took us to a famous yakiniku restaurant known for being impossible to book. The food was truly delicious—perhaps the best I’d ever had. Even Y-chan, who was usually bossy, telling me what to do, was unusually kind, encouraging me to drink as much as I wanted. The two older men were also being friendly, and overall, I was enjoying myself.

We didn’t talk much about work, and after finishing the yakiniku, we moved on to a second party. The venue was a nearby snack bar.

This was where the atmosphere changed drastically.

“Maybe they’ll put me on some show.”

Y-chan and the scout-like man suddenly became persistent, urging me to “Drink, drink!” with tequila, while the producer gestured for me to “Come over here.”

He then instructed me to sit on his lap, saying, “Come on,” and started revealing secrets. Claiming to be a former producer of a hugely popular music show, he said, “That national idol, back when they were still active, kept pestering me like, ‘Let’s have sex!'” and laughed.

In my mind, I was thinking, Wait, that absolute center of a national idol group would do it with this old guy? Is that even necessary? But outwardly, I just nodded along, saying, “Oh, really?”

Then he continued, “Other center girls would suddenly call me in the middle of the night like, ‘Come to the hotel now!'” He kept going while repeatedly trying to touch my chest.

Y-chan and the scout-like man kept hyping him up, and the producer went on boasting about the idols and talents he had supposedly been with—big names that were almost impossible to believe.

“You know, Sari, maybe I could get you on a show too!”

Without a moment’s pause, another shot of tequila was pushed toward me. It was obvious they were trying to get me drunk. I pretended to drink while subtly spitting the tequila into a hand towel to avoid getting wasted.

At that point, I started wondering—was this producer even working on a show I could appear in? When I asked, he casually replied, “I’m doing a news program now.”

Neither the famous music show nor the news program had anything to do with me. I can’t sing, dance, or release CDs, so I’d never get on a music show. I also lack the fame or credentials to be on the news.

In short, there was absolutely no value in spending time entertaining this producer.

“I have to work hard, too!”

Still, the persistent producer kept saying, “Come sit on my lap,” even bringing up a well-known idol he knew. “B-chan was amazing. She sat on my lap and gave me lots of kisses,” he boasted.

The scout-like guy and Y-chan kept egging me on, saying, “Sarii, you have to try harder!” But what exactly was I supposed to be trying for?

I just wanted to go home as soon as possible. Still, I kept my resolve—”I must not get wasted on tequila”—and endured until the gathering finally ended. But just as I had feared, despite the fact that the last train had not yet left, I was forced into the producer’s taxi.

I vaguely remember that his home and mine were in opposite directions, yet he said, “I’ll take you home,” and with Y-chan and the others smiling brightly as they sent me off, I couldn’t just jump out of the car.

Inside the confined space of the taxi, he kept touching my shoulder no matter how much I resisted, kissing my ear without permission, and whispering things that made my skin crawl. Every time I pushed him away, he would say:

“Sarii, don’t you want to be on TV?”

Of course, I wanted to be on TV. But did I want it badly enough to do this? No, I didn’t.

Besides, the producers and directors who had actually put me on terrestrial TV never asked for anything in return. They cast me because I fit the show’s concept and could say things that made for good entertainment.

In reality, B-chan, whom the old man claimed had gone so far to please him, wasn’t on TV at all. That was the answer right there.

What puzzled me the most was how this producer invited me with such unwavering confidence. He wasn’t particularly handsome or well-built—just an average middle-aged man. The only reason he could be so self-assured was that he had success stories—women he had successfully coerced with the line, “I’ll get you on TV.”

“What a waste.”

As we approached my neighborhood, I thought, “I’ll get out of the taxi as soon as we’re close!” But as we reached Shinjuku Sanchome, the old man suddenly said, “I can’t hold it anymore, so I’m stopping by your place to use the restroom.”

I refused, saying, “It’s quite far, so let’s just find a convenience store,” but he insisted, “I’m a germophobe, so that’s impossible! I won’t do anything, I promise, just let me in.” He put his arm around my shoulder again and blew his breath on me. That sharp, distinct smell of a middle-aged man hit me.

The back-and-forth continued until I reached my limit. When the taxi stopped at the Isetan intersection’s traffic light, and as the car started moving again on the green light, I jumped out without warning. The old man looked shocked, but I quickly said, “Thanks for the treat!” and ran toward Ni-chome.

At a bar I used to frequent, I happened to run into a comedian I knew. I vented about the entire ordeal, saying, “I didn’t come to Tokyo to go through this,” and I couldn’t stop crying.

I wanted to be on TV. I wanted to be in variety shows. But the industry was full of filthy old men, people assigned to deliver women to them, and I was nothing more than a disposable pawn. Even though I wasn’t physically forced into anything, my spirit felt completely drained. It was the first time I had ever felt this awful at an industry-related drinking party.

A few days later, Y-chan gave me a slightly annoyed look and said, “You wasted a good opportunity.”

But I had seen it. When I was being shoved into the taxi with the producer, she received several bills from the scout-looking guy. She was probably told something like, “Bring me an aspiring entertainer who’s willing to sleep around.” I called her out on it, but she just skillfully dodged the topic.

Even for a minor gravure idol like me, stories like this are everywhere.

Actually, now that I think about it—was that middle-aged guy even really a producer?

One thing’s for sure, I’m glad I didn’t sleep with him. Whether I had or hadn’t, he was never going to give me any work anyway.