Undoing gender,doing intimacy: Rewriting gendered scripts through rezu fūzoku

Abstract

This article examines rezu fūzoku, a sector of Japan’s sex industry in which female providers offer sexual services exclusively to women. Drawing on an ethnographic approach based on observations and in-depth interviews with sex workers and their clients, and on the concepts of gender performativity and ‘undoing gender’, I argue that when women engage in commodified female/female intimacy, they disrupt normative gender scripts and relational expectations. These practices constitute what I define as implicit feminism: unintentional feminist action that emerges through everyday acts of self-determination and resistance against heteronormative structures. Rather than relying on ideological identification, implicit feminism manifests through the pursuit of emotional fulfilment, bodily autonomy, and alternative relational modes.

In recent years, Japan has been increasingly characterised in both public and scholarly discourse as a muen shakai (‘relationless society’; Allison, 2013) and as a ‘sexless society’. Muen shakai refers to the weakening of traditional social bonds such as those between families and communities and captures the rise of social isolation. The definition of ‘sexless’ dates back to 1994, when the Japan Society of Sexual Sciences defined a sexless relationship as one in which a healthy couple does not engage in sex for more than a month (Moriki, 2017). A November 2023 survey of 5029 adults aged 18–69 years by the Japan Family Planning Association ¹ found that 45.3% of men and 52.8% of women had not had sexual intercourse in the past year or longer, with over 60% of all respondents reporting being in a sexless relationship. However, as Takeyama (2021) noted, this does not mean that people have lost interest in sex, given the continued flourishing of Japan’s sex industry.

Kakuma (2017) estimated the market size of the sexual entertainment industry before COVID-19 at over 5.6 trillion yen, a figure comparable to that of the advertising industry, with an even higher estimate of 7.6 trillion yen reported for the same period by the economist Kadokura (2017). In the report Status of the Adult Entertainment Industry and Law Enforcement Efforts in FY2024, published by the National Police Agency on April 2025 ² , there were 33,890 registered sex-related business, of which 21,346 were ‘delivery health’ companies. Delivery health or deriheru are services via which sex workers are ‘delivered’ to the client’s location, usually a hotel or private residence (Takeoka, 2019). The service is technically not supposed to include vaginal intercourse because of Japan’s legal restrictions on prostitution (defined narrowly as vaginal penetration in exchange for money between a man and a woman who are not previously acquainted). However, oral sex and mutual masturbation are common offerings, and in practice, some deriheru providers also covertly offer full sex.

These figures indicate the existence of a wide and stable customer base that ensures a sustainable balance between supply and demand within the sex industry. This suggests that people who are single or in sexless relationships may turn to the sex industry to satisfy their physical and affective needs. Although Japan’s nightlife entertainment industry (mizu shōbai) and, more specifically, the sex industry (fūzoku) have long been framed as male domains, this assumption has been increasingly challenged, particularly since the early 2000s with the increase in services tailored to women’s needs. Discounting male hosts and host clubs (Takeyama, 2016), who may use sexual intimacy to cultivate clients’ loyalty, even if sex is not their primary offering, explicitly sex-oriented options for women have steadily developed over time.

Businesses that offer sexual entertainment for women are defined as joseimuke fūzoku (women-oriented sexual entertainment) or joseiyō fūzoku (sexual entertainment for women’s use) and provide various forms of sexual services from a provider to a female client. As Caldwell and de Wit (2018:342) observed, women who purchase sex are often portrayed as unusual or humourous, and consequently remain largely overlooked in academic research, despite attracting considerable media and public interest, featuring prominently online, in manga, and in mainstream press coverage. However, existing studies and media representations have focused primarily on heterosexual services for women, thereby reinscribing female sexual consumption within heteronormative frameworks, and leaving female/female commodified sexual intimacy underexamined.

This article addresses this gap by examining rezu fūzoku, namely sexual services provided by women to female clients. Drawing on ethnographic fieldwork, including participant observation and interviews with workers and clients, this study explores why women purchase sexual services from other women, what motivates providers and clients to enter this sector, and how participants interpret their involvement. My contribution aligns with current debates (Alexy, 2019) on how, amid significant social shifts, individuals in Japan forge meaningful relationships beyond traditional models of intimacy. However, by centring sexual and affective exchanges between women, this study reframes commodified intimacy as a context in which women emerge as desiring and agentive subjects whose practices unfold beyond heteronormative structures. In this context, the pursuit of iyashi, understood as emotional and psychological relief from everyday pressures, through commodified intimacy, offers women forms of care and recognition often unattainable otherwise. This positions rezu fūzoku not merely as sexual consumption but rather as a relational space where psychological and physical well-being, self-acceptance, and alternative modes of connection can be cultivated.

Rezu fūzoku represents a critical empirical lens through which to understand how intimacy, sexuality, and subjectivity are reconfigured through female/female encounters in contemporary Japan. In conclusion, I propose the concept of implicit feminism to describe how participants, without explicitly identifying as feminist, challenge heteronormative assumptions and craft alternative gendered and sexual subjectivities through their engagement with this service.

Literature on sex work

Research focusing on the commodification of sexual intimacy and sex work has predominately examined women as sex workers and their male clients within a dominant heteronormative framework. One of the most common approaches to the topic is to frame women as victims of human trafficking and/or exploitation and male clients as perpetrators or exploiters. Barry (1979), MacKinnon (1987), Listerborn (2003), and Banyard (2016) argue that people in the sex industry are consistently subjected to violence and exploitation regardless of their educational background, race, or economic status. These studies assert that true consent can only exist between equals and that under patriarchal laws, women are not considered equal to men, thereby occupying a vulnerable position. The concept of sex worker exploitation, often framed within a transnational perspective of structural inequalities (Schwarz et al., 2017), was also analysed by Aoyama (2011), with particular focus on Thai women (Aoyama, 2009), and by Parreñas (2010, 2020) in relation to Filipina hostesses in Japan. However, as noted by Lerum and Brents (2016: 18) in relation to the US, often “policies on sex work and human trafficking are driven more by ideology than reliable empirical evidence”.

Several studies have investigated the concepts of agency and empowerment in sex work. As Garcia Rodriguez noted in Selling Sex in the City (2017: 5), prostitution is often seen and discussed through two antithetic models: the ‘oppression model’ and the ‘sex work’ model. In the first, women are seen as victims forced by negative socioeconomic situations and gendered power relations into prostitution. Radical feminism-inspired scholars have stressed that prostitution is a product of systemic inequalities, representing another expression of women’s subjugation to male violence and multilayered oppression, such that it is very unlikely to find true consent (Farley, 2006, 2014; MacKinnon, 2016). In contrast, the latter sees women as agentic actors who actively choose prostitution as an alternative to poorly remunerated, tough, or dangerous jobs, as discussed by Berg (2021) in her analysis of “porn work”.

A more nuanced approach was adopted by Gatrell (2010) who, while acknowledging the complexities of sex work, first explored the extent to which women sex workers may be considered agentic, as opposed to being merely disenfranchised ‘victims’ of a patriarchal system. Second, she examined agency as a gendered concept by comparing the choices available to women sex workers with those accessible to their male clients or men from comparable socioeconomic backgrounds. Gatrell suggests that viewing agency through a gendered lens can offer alternative understanding of the intersections between agency, embodiment, and women’s labour.

In Japan, the Anti-Prostitution Law, enacted in 1956 and fully enforced in 1958, defines prostitution as penile–vaginal sexual intercourse with an unspecified person in exchange for money or other material benefits. The law created a moral hierarchy, dividing women who offer (illegal) sexual intercourse from workers and establishments that abide by the law (Koch, 2021). The moralistic idea of prostitutes as ‘poor women’ and victims remains widespread and is further reinforced by academic discourse. For instance, in her keynote speech What to Think About Yoshiwara’s Culture, delivered at the University of Bergamo in 2024, Hosei University Emeritus Professor Tanaka Yuko stated that ‘buying sex is a violation of human rights’ and that ‘it would be desirable to have a law that definitively prohibits the buying and selling of sexual services in Japan’ (Tanaka, 2024). Although this is certainly true in some cases, it is an overstatement to imply that all women engaged in various forms of sex work are trafficked, exploited, or act against their will.

However, counternarratives exist. For instance, Tanaka (2013) argued for the recognition of prostitution as a legitimate occupation. He stated that women in the business exercise agency in choosing this job and that acknowledging this is crucial to improve their working environment and to reduce prejudice and stigma. He argued that legalising prostitution is a fundamental step towards ensuring sex workers’ rights and fair working conditions.

Research on female clients of prostitution, both in Japan and globally, remains underdeveloped, and the available information is scarce. Much of this scholarship stems from studies on female sex tourism, which document the experiences of women, (often Western and affluent) who engage in sex-based relationships with local men in Global South countries, such as Costa Rica, Barbados, Jamaica, and several African nations (Brennan, 2004; Cabezas, 2004; De Albuquerque, 1999; Frohlick, 2008; Kibicho, 2009; Phillips, 2008). Because these women often construct their narratives through discourses of romance, emotional involvement, and long-term commitment, Pruitt and LaFont (1995:423) argued for a definition of this phenomenon as ‘romance tourism’, in contrast to the label of ‘sex tourism’ typically associated with male travellers (Herold et al., 2001; Jacobs, 2009).

Yet, as Sanchez Taylor (2006:44) argues, this tendency stems not only from women’s inclination to conceptualise their encounters as romance rather than prostitution, but also from a dominant essentialist understanding of gender and sexuality. These prevailing paradigms, along with conventional definitions of sexual exploitation, often exclude the possibility that women can be agents of sexual exploitation of men. Women’s tendency to frame their use of commercial sex as a romantic adventure or as a form of gift-based transaction rather than an economic exchange serves, as Constable (2009:55) notes, to hide, deny, or mystify their behaviour and experience these sexual adventures as liberating. Nonetheless, scholars such as Kempadoo (1999, 2004) have argued that such distinctions are misleading and that women’s activities should also be recognised as part of the broader category of sex tourism, thus problematising the gendered double standard. Accordingly, the introduction of the concept of the female sex tourism serves to highlight not only how women’s engagement in such practices can be as exploitative as that of men, but also to suggest that prostitution is not inherently gendered (Jeffreys, 2003; Spencer and Bean, 2017).

Similarly, while a substantial body of research has explored men’s motivations for purchasing commercial sex, including desire to escape an unfulfilling marriage (Sanders, 2008); engage in sex with multiple partners without pursuing a relationship (Huschke and Schubotz, 2016); seeking sexual variety, experiences, or body types unavailable in their current relationship (Monto, 2000); being unable to enter or maintain a non-commodified relationship (Jacobson, 2002); or seeking bounded authenticity (Bernstein, 2010), much less is known regarding what motivates women to purchase sex. The lack of research on women who buy sexual services reinforces a dominant, one-dimensional discourse on gender, sexuality, and power relations in the sex industry, which continues to centre male clients and female providers. Using Australia as a case study, Caldwell and De Wit (2018) found that women often purchase sex as a form of therapy to heal from physical and psychological issues such as vaginismus, intimate partner violence, or childhood sexual abuse, conditions that prevent them from enjoying sexuality in non-commodified relationships. Focusing on the UK, Kingston et al. (2020) instead highlighted women’s search for no-strings sex and bounded intimacy.

Shifting focus to the East Asian context, Tsang (2024) investigated the phenomenon of Chinese women buying commercial sex in high-end clubs in Tianjin. The article illuminates how buying sex, an act socially perceived as masculine, becomes a means for women to feel empowered and increase feelings of self-confidence, rewriting traditional gender scripts regarding femininity while negotiating with the stigma, traditional culture, and expectations toward women and femininity that Chinese society and families still hold.

In Japan, Takeyama has been central in illuminating women’s engagement with commercial sex. Building on her ethnography of host clubs (2016), she later (2021) considered more explicit sexual forms of commodified intimacy, examining how affluent women seek male escorts to rediscover their sexual subjectivity, thereby providing new insights into womanhood in a consumer society. Takeyama showed that commercial sex and commodified non-sexual intimacy function as tools enabling women in their 30s and 40s to reclaim forms of femininity often obscured by the cultural desexualization associated with marriage and motherhood. These services help women to re-experience themselves as desirable. However, gendered expectations continue to shape encounters; clients may continue to expect stereotyped male courtship behaviours and desire clear expressions of male sexual interest, despite the transactional nature of the exchanges. Women also frequently conceal their participation behind the ideals of perfect motherhood and domesticity, and not all receive the sexual satisfaction they seek, even as paying clients. These findings reveal a critical gap in our understanding of commodified sex for women. While purchasing sex can function as a gender-script rewriting by appropriating a behaviour culturally coded as masculine, it rarely fully escapes heteronormative dynamics and the power asymmetries embedded in heterosexual intimacy.

Recent scholarship has increasingly challenged the heteronormative framing of commercial sex by foregrounding queer subjectivity, labour practices, and markets. As reported by Laing et al. (2015), LGBTQ sex work exposes the limits of the dominant paradigms by demonstrating that commercial sexual exchange encompasses diverse embodiments and relational forms that cannot be reduced to heterosexuality. Scholars have also emphasised the importance of visibility and recognition. Queer sex workers have historically been marginalised both socially and analytically, resulting in a limited wider understanding of female/female sexual commerce. Contemporary research has addressed this gap by examining how lesbian and queer women engage in pornography work as a site of identity negotiation, economic survival, and self-expression. For example, Al Zayani et al. (2025) investigated online violence against queer sex workers, and Lyons et al. (2021) examined how stigma shapes queer women sex workers’ health and housing conditions, highlighting its links to broader forms of structural oppression. Pilcher (2012) study of lesbian erotic dance shows that performances for female audiences may simultaneously subvert heteronormativity while reproducing familiar ideals of femininity and desirability.

Hence, female/female commodified intimacy challenges the assumption that it primarily serves male desire, revealing how women actively seek, produce, and consume queer forms of desire, intimacy, and care. Situating rezu fūzoku within these debates highlights its significance as a site where gender, sexuality, and intimacy are negotiated through commodified yet meaningful same-sex encounters, showing that queer sex work is not peripheral to understanding the diversity of contemporary sexual economies and desire. In doing so, this study contributes to the existing literature by examining female/female-commodified intimacy, where men and masculinity are absent, and the gendered axis of inequality is removed. This study addresses two key gaps in the literature. First, it examines commodified sexual encounters between women in Japan, thereby decentring scholarship from ‘Western’ and Anglophone contexts. Second, by using iyashi (healing) as a key interpretive framework, this study advances queer sex work scholarship by demonstrating how commodified female/female intimacy in Japan can be seen as a culturally meaningful practice of emotional healing, enabling clients to renegotiate gendered expectations and reconstruct their sense of self.

In the following, I use ‘undoing gender’ (Butler, 2004) as an analytical lens through which to examine how gendered sexual roles, desires, and relational expectations are negotiated or re-signified in women’s narratives of rezu fūzoku. Building on Butler (1990) theory of gender performativity, I draw on the concept of undoing gender, which shifts analytical attention from the reiteration of gender norms to everyday practices through which gendered expectations are destabilised and reworked. Butler (2004:42) defines gender as ‘the mechanism by which notions of masculinity and femininity are produced and naturalized, but gender might well be the apparatus by which such terms are deconstructed and denaturalized’. Undoing gender highlights moments in which normative gender arrangements are unsettled through situated action, relational negotiation, and alternative forms of embodiment. This perspective is particularly useful for analysing rezu fūzoku, in which female/female commodified sex opens a space for the flexible reconfiguration of sexuality and relational roles, enabling participants to move beyond the boundaries of normative gendered scripts.

Methods

Drawing on ethnographic fieldwork conducted in Tokyo and Osaka with female sex workers and female clients between January 2024 and June 2025, I explore how Japanese women from diverse economic backgrounds, sexual orientations, and marital statuses engage in rezu fūzoku to navigate and escape the gendered structures that shape both commodified and non-commodified heterosexual relationships.

This ethnographic approach was chosen to capture the lived experiences, meanings, and affective dimensions of rezu fūzoku as articulated by both providers and clients, which are not easily accessible through quantitative or document-based methods. This facilitated close attention to everyday practices and relational dynamics in a context in which participants did not necessarily frame their actions explicitly in political and feminist terms. While this limits generalisability, the trade-off is offset by the depth and contextual richness central to the article’s analytical aims.

For my fieldwork, I initially focused on long-established rezu fūzoku companies likely to offer stability and ethical standards on which I was not willing to compromise. Specifically, through preliminary visits and conversations with managers and providers, I aimed to ensure that sex workers were not being exploited, not addicted to alcohol or other substances, and not engaging in this occupation because of external coercive circumstances. I then further narrowed the scope of my fieldwork by selecting only those companies that had filed a notice under the Act on Control and Improvement of Amusement Business (Fūzoku eigyōtō no kisei oyobi gyōmu no tekiseikatō ni kansuru hōritsu, commonly known as Fūeihō). Although this is not a legal requirement for rezu fūzoku establishments, it served as confirmation that the business was not operating in the shadows and was capable of protecting both its clients and sex workers. Thus, I only selected businesses that implement good practices to safeguard the sexual health of both sex workers and clients and offer fair working conditions while protecting workers’ privacy. Specifically, the agencies in my pool do not show sex workers’ faces on their websites, and clients are not allowed to contact sex workers directly, as communication is mediated by staff at the company office. One company also has an agreement with a nearby sexual health clinic, offering discounted STD tests to all sex workers and a discount to clients who present a negative STD test when booking. These criteria reduced the number of companies I ultimately engaged with during my fieldwork to four. Semi-structured interviews were conducted with 20 sex workers and 40 clients. Research participant recruitment took place through companies’ mediation, which approached sex workers and clients for my research. Additional recruitment was performed via snowball sampling of the initial participants. All interviews were conducted in Japanese, transcribed, and examined using qualitative content analysis.

The realm of rezu fūzoku

A rezu fūzoku company provides the sexual services of a biological woman to a biological woman client. ³ Rezu fūzoku is often approximately translated into English as ‘lesbian brothel’, although this translation is misleading as there are typically no physical brothels to visit. This service is based on the most common format in Japan’s sex industry, the so-called deriheru. This means that clients can book a provider of their choice via a website or phone and then meet her at a designated location, often near a ‘love hotel’. None of the businesses analysed in this study offer the possibility for providers to visit clients’ homes.

Although the first example of this service dates to the second half of the 1990s, the business gained wider recognition in the late 2000s, peaking c. 2016 when manga author Kabi Nagata published My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness, recounting her booking of a female sex worker to cope with isolation and loneliness (Fanasca, 2024). Today, several such businesses operate, particularly in Tokyo and Osaka. Although the exact numbers are difficult to determine, I estimate 10–20 exist in Tokyo and fewer than 10 in Osaka, with figures fluctuating as agencies often operate discreetly or temporarily. Many companies offer the option of dispatching sex workers to major Japanese cities or, in some cases, anywhere in the country, provided that the client covers the expenses.

Although the term rezu (lesbian) appears in its name, the service welcomes women of all sexual orientations aged 18 years and over. According to Obō, manager of Lesbian Girls Club Osaka and a prominent industry figure, the use of rezu was primarily a SEO strategy when he launched the company in 2007, drawing on his background as a web developer.

The question of whether to use the word rezu to define the service has often emerged in interactions with clients, and indirectly, with other business owners. The term is frequently invoked by representatives from joseiyō fūzoku businesses to highlight the distinction between their services and those of rezu fūzoku. These joseiyō services often emphasise that they cater to a broader spectrum of women and that they also offer male sex workers.

In the case of Obō’s companies, the choice of terminology frequently sparks interesting discussions with clients, both online and at in-person events, regarding the meaning and potentially discriminatory implications of the word rezu. These conversations often lead to broader shared reflections on female homosexuality and issues related to LGBTQ + communities.

Regarding pricing and structure, a sexual session with a sex worker is typically referred to as a ‘wellness course’. It costs approximately 16,000 yen per hour, in addition to hotel fees. The company usually retains 50% of the payment. Clients book their preferred provider, referred to as a ‘cast member’ (more rarely a ‘therapist’, a definition adopted in joseiyō fūzoku and in male-oriented services), through the company’s website. Each cast member specifies her sexual role: tachi (top), neko (bottom), or riba (switch), and often adds an aesthetic label, creating combinations such as ‘boyish tachi’, ‘femme riba’, or ‘chūsei (androgynous) neko’, with riba tachi being the most requested (these labels are used also by the clients to describe their sexual preferences and aesthetic appearance). The websites also allow clients to select additional sexual options such as sex toys, cosplay, role-play, or photography/video. Each cast member lists in her profile the options she offers. Some options require an additional fee.

Typically, the cast member meets the client at a designated meeting point and guides her to a love hotel of her own choice, unless the client has already specified a preferred location. The client pays for the room and the session begins with payment of the cast fee. This may be settled either in advance or upon arrival. The session starts with handwashing, tooth brushing, and a mandatory shower, which promotes hygiene and relaxation and fosters intimacy. Subsequently, the couple moves to the bed for sex. Fifteen minutes before the end of the time booked, the cast member takes another shower (in this case, it is not mandatory for the client), and then the couple leaves the hotel. In addition to a ‘wellness course’, clients can book a ‘date’ course, or a combined date and wellness course. Dates involve activities such as dining, coffee, or strolling, with cast members sometimes acting flirtatiously or as a girlfriend, although physical contact beyond handholding is prohibited. Because cast faces are hidden online, dates allow clients to meet and get to know the provider face-to-face, both physically and psychologically, and ultimately decide whether she is someone with whom the client would like to have sex. This is a feature that is important to the clients, as many women do not feel comfortable having sex with someone they have never met and whose face they cannot see. Thus, intimacy is the key to reaching what, for many women, is the ultimate goal of using this service, iyashi.

Analysis

Why do clients engage in rezu fūzoku?

Iyashi, which is often translated as ‘healing’ or ‘therapeutic’, is a pervasive cultural concept in contemporary Japan, signifying emotional comfort, psychological relief, and a temporary escape from daily stress. Koch (2023) defines it as ‘healing labour’, and scholars note that iyashi is often marketed as a central benefit of both sexual (Coates 2022; Kodaka, 2023) and non-sexual intimacy services (Fanasca, 2023; Robinson, 2020).

The strong connection between the concept of iyashi and the realm of fūzoku, in its men oriented, women oriented, and rezu declination, is stressed starting from the wording used in the field. As previously mentioned, sex workers are often called ‘therapists’. The sexual course in men-oriented and joseimuke establishments is called ‘health’, while in rezu fūzoku the course is defined as ‘wellness’. The choice of a similar but different word in the rezu fūzoku establishment is linked to the wish to avoid the connection with male-oriented prostitution that might keep female clients away, while maintaining a connection with iyashi.

Iyashi is one of the main reasons clients stated for visiting a rezu fūzoku. For them, the term denotes feeling cared for and emotionally safe, even if only temporarily and through paid interactions. Yuki (27 y. o.) stated, ‘[this service] It’s iyashi, as it gives me motivation and energy for the days until I can meet again my favourite cast member’. This view was also supported by Sachi (33): ‘Rezu fūzoku heals my past and future self and brightens up my daily life. There is much uncertainty in the world, like fear of death at any moment. I don’t trust my female friends, so being treated gently by a woman helps me remove that fear’. In this sense, the feelings of wellbeing experienced in rezu fūzoku emerged from receiving care and attention that were often missing in the clients’ everyday lives.

Iyashi involves being heard without judgment, experiencing closeness without pressure, and, in some cases, receiving affirmation of one’s identity, body, and desires. This was expressed by Mika (39), ‘By talking slowly with the cast member, I realized that there are many different kinds of women, including myself, and many body types, and there is nothing wrong in me’, and even more clearly by a client who did not want to share any personal information: ‘I was sexually abused by my father, so I had a strong resistance to sexual activity with men. But somehow, I didn’t feel that resistance with women. I thought that using a sex work service where money is exchanged felt safer than suddenly having sex with a stranger. I come here to overcome my trauma.’ In this sense, cast members truly assume a therapeutic role, helping clients understand themselves from both bodily and psychological perspectives. Moemoe (29, sex worker) stressed this component of the service: ‘When a customer tells me she was really struggling but feels she can try a little harder because we met, I feel glad that I chose this job’.

Services such as rezu fūzoku are framed not simply as sexual encounters but rather as emotionally restorative experiences that allow clients to feel cared for, accepted, and understood in a non-judgmental space. Rezu fūzoku is perceived as a therapeutic space where women process and begin to heal from past sexual trauma, particularly when that trauma is associated with men. In addition, many participants shared that they felt more at ease with other women than with men, as intimacy with men scared them due to fear of pregnancy and physical power imbalance, which made them experience vulnerability. By offering emotionally safe, woman-centred encounters, rezu fūzoku allow clients to reclaim intimacy on their own terms.

Thus, iyashi serves as both a rationale and a marketing strategy for female-oriented sex services, framing them as legitimate responses to emotional loneliness, sexual dissatisfaction, and pressures from traditional gender expectations such as marriage and childbearing. Although commodified, this healing process addresses real physical, emotional, and affective needs that are often overlooked in heteronormative structures. While it is not my intention to advocate rezu fūzoku as an inherently successful healing practice, my data so far do not show counternarratives that explicitly challenge its effectiveness in terms of iyashi. Some clients did report dissatisfaction with specific encounters, as in Evita’s case: ‘I did not like it when one cast kept repeating that I was cute (kawaii). It felt fake, and I stopped meeting her’. Such episodes emphasise that the effectiveness of these encounters depends on interpersonal dynamics and individual expectations. However, while specific services may be experienced as unsatisfactory, the broader iyashi framework itself was not fundamentally called into question by the participants, who continued to view rezu fūzoku as a meaningful source of physical and psychological well-being.

Another frequently cited motivation among the female clients for engaging with rezu fūzoku services was the pursuit of sexual satisfaction, which was often articulated in their narratives as intrinsically linked to the experience of iyashi. Rather than being framed as purely physical gratification, sexual encounters with cast members were described as emotionally restorative. As Hachi (25) explained, ‘Just hugging, touching, or kissing a cute girl makes me feel physically and emotionally fulfilled’, while Nina (48) similarly noted, ‘I feel satisfied both mentally and physically. The cast member’s skill and technique are excellent, and I feel deeply “healed”’. In these accounts, sexual and emotional satisfaction are not distinct, but rather mutually reinforcing dimensions that together produce a profound sense of iyashi. As such, iyashi constitutes a redefinition of the idea of individual satisfaction, not as a permanent state but as a momentary, purchasable experience of feeling satisfied and whole. Additionally, many clients reported not being satisfied by heterosexual sex; hence, rezu fūzoku answered their need for a satisfactory sexuality. Vivi (42) stated: ‘Sex is better with a woman. With a man, penetration is the main thing, and I don’t really want to do a blowjob. Men do not understand women, their bodies, and their needs’, emphasising the mismatch between women’s and men’s expectations in terms of sex, especially in non-commodified settings.

A particularly significant dimension of rezu fūzoku lies in the clients’ exposure to female homosexuality and lesbian sexuality, which often facilitated a broader reimagining of their own desires and identities. For some clients, the service became a space to explore same-sex intimacy and affirm feelings that may have been previously marginalised or unarticulated. Haru (37) reflected: ‘I feel physically satisfied because I’m the submissive one in sex, and I enjoy “being taken”. I feel emotionally satisfied because I realise there are other women who also want to have sex with women, and I get to enjoy that too’. Similarly, Mari (29) emphasised the importance of emotional resonance and shared minority belonging: ‘I feel very satisfied when I am with my cast. There’s obviously the joy of sex, but also the chance to talk about things only minorities can relate to. Being able to share my troubles is very important, and I enjoy hearing about the cast’s experiences too. I feel satisfied when I sense her trust. These relationships with women are what I’ve been seeking’.

Rezu fūzoku can thus be understood not only as a site of commodified sexual exchange, but also as a space for emotional connection, self-exploration, and dialogue around shared experiences of marginality. It facilitates an expanded understanding of one’s own body, sexuality, and relational needs while also contributing to a broader awareness of minority identities. This leads women to experience increased feelings of self-awareness. Indeed, these quotes reinforce the idea that Japan is not a sexless society, but rather one in which people seek alternative relational and sexual forms to satisfy their emotional and physical needs, as also noted by the social activist Sakatsume Shingo (2017), who argues that clients of fūzoku services often look not only for sex, but also for social relationships, albeit bounded and commodified. Instead of viewing Japan as muen shakai, we should acknowledge that emotional connections exist and develop outside of an institutionalised relational framework. Moreover, ‘bounded authenticity’, which refers to ‘the sale and purchase of authentic emotional and physical connection’ (Bernstein 2007:103), is one of the most important and sought after features of commodified intimacy, substituting for what non-commodified relationships often fail to offer. Rezu fūzoku is thus one of the options available to women to engage on their own terms and with their desired degree of commitment in emotional and physical involvement with another woman, in economic, temporal, and emotional terms.

This perspective also holds true for the sex workers, who often recognised the wish to express a non-heteronormative self, underlying their choice to work in rezu fūzoku, as stated by Anais (25): ‘I am a lesbian. I would have liked to try this service as a customer because I wanted to experience lesbian sex, but there’s a rule here that if you’re a customer, you can’t be hired. So, I thought I’d rather try working here than being a client’. The same view was also endorsed by Yuri, a 15-year veteran of the business: ‘Years ago, I met a woman and had my first experience with her. Well, a lot happened (laughs). Lesbian sex was just the perfect fit for my body. So, maybe sexually, I’m more compatible with women than men. And that’s when I decided I wanted to do this job’.

Sex workers and clients not only foster intimacy and self-recognition but also invite each other to question dominant heteronormative narratives regarding desire and relationality. As women engage in erotic and affective exchanges outside of the heterosexual matrix, rezu fūzoku emerges as a site where conventional gendered scripts are unsettled, reimagined and rewritten.

Rewriting gendered scripts

Of the 40 women I interviewed, 28 had not told anyone they were or had been clients of rezu fūzoku, while seven had shared this information only with their closest friend. Those who kept the activity private cited it as a personal matter and feared judgment. Tenshi (40+) explained: ‘I would not tell anyone, and to avoid being seen as disgusting, I usually act like I’m into men. I do not want to be judged’. However, among those who disclosed their activity, friends reacted positively and expressed interest. Their only concern was the possibility of their friend falling in love with the sex worker, which could result in emotional harm.

Despite apparent acceptance, fear of judgment, slut-shaming, or accusations of homosexuality lead many women to remain silent, reflecting internalised shame and gendered stereotypes regarding female sexuality. In contrast, prostitution for men is widely accepted and seen in Japan as socially functional (Koch, 2023), as many of my research participants also reported, as exemplified in the two following quotes: ‘I think society is more tolerant when it comes to men, [prostitution] it’s seen as part of being a “man of means”. Women are judged much more harshly’ (Maria, 32) and ‘Men can use these services without being criticized, and there are many establishments nationwide. It’s even seen as a way to prevent crime. For women, it’s still something many find hard to accept’ (Yoshie, 53). That a practice normalised for men is judged negatively when women engage in it points to the persistence of a strong gender binary that shapes how femininity and masculinity are understood and performed, particularly in relation to sexuality. Many women internalise gendered stereotypes that naturalise male sexual desire, while framing female sexuality as passive or deviant when expressed outside normative bounds. As Gloria (47) explained, ‘I understand men using sex services because if they don’t ejaculate, it builds up and it is not good for their health. In fact, I believe that the system where men can release their sexual desires by paying helps prevent sex crimes. I even feel grateful to men who properly use these services’. Such internalised beliefs make it especially difficult for women to break from dominant gender norms and binary expectations. For example, Mana (35) commented, ‘I think general gender norms assume that men and women meet in everyday life and form relationships to have children. That’s the norm. But when I use rezu fūzoku, it’s a relationship between two women and out of the ordinary context, where sex is exchanged for money. So, I think having a relationship with a female cast member is the exact opposite of traditional gender norms’.

These excerpts reveal a tension between individual behaviour and societal expectations. For many women, such as Tenshi, presenting as heterosexual is a coping strategy to avoid being seen as ‘disgusting’, reflecting internalised heteronormativity and stigma regarding female same-sex desire. This often involves consciously performing heterosexuality to maintain social acceptance, showing how fear of transgressing gender norms shapes women’s engagement with rezu fūzoku. Gloria’s view that male sexual urges require an outlet to prevent harm illustrates internalisation of a sexual double-standard. In contrast, Mana consciously recognised her actions as subversive, seeing her participation in rezu fūzoku as challenging norms centred on heterosexual reproduction. However, she framed this as exceptional, highlighting how commodified female–female intimacy destabilises conventional narratives without fully embracing transgression.

Comments regarding how the use of fūzoku is differently perceived if the user is a man or woman highlight how gender binaries and stereotypes continue to constrain women’s sexual agency, even within spaces meant to provide freedom and pleasure. Commodified intimacy, while offering temporary escape, still operates within a broader system in which surveillance, shame, and normative control play pivotal roles and require negotiation.

However, a different perception was shared by Haru: ‘If “traditional gender norms” means that men and women have sex and bear children to contribute to the continuation of the species, then yes, rezu fūzoku clearly goes against that. But personally, I don’t value those traditional gender norms and I pursue my own happiness in my own way’. Even though Haru was aware of conventional gender norms, she clearly presented the idea of ignoring stereotyped behaviours to reach her satisfaction and actualisation, also by appropriating a perceived masculine practice and stepping out ‘traditional gender norms’. Rewriting gendered scripts is a practice that many women, in a more or less conscious way, engage with when using rezu fūzoku services, in what I argue is a way to ‘undo gender’.

For Butler (2004:42), undoing gender focuses on moments in which normative gender arrangements are disrupted through situated practices, relational negotiations, and alternative modes of embodiment. Leveraging Butler’s reflections is it possible to state that women who engage in rezu fūzoku are not simply exercising preexisting desire but rather are constituted as subjects through their very participation in a gendered and regulated sexual economy. Indeed, as Butler reminds us, ‘regulatory power not only acts upon a preexisting subject, but also shapes and forms that subject; moreover, every juridical form of power has a productive effect’ (Butler, 2004:41). This means that power not only represses, but also produces regulatory norms that shape the subject, and to become subject to regulation is to become subjectivized by it. Butler (1990) argues that gender is not a stable identity but rather the performative effect of repeated acts governed by regulatory norms. In this context, women who adopt the traditionally masculine-coded role of the sex client destabilise their normative femininity and heterosexuality. Their actions express not only identity but also gender differently, and in doing so, they counteract intelligibility and legitimacy within dominant frameworks.

According to Kelan (2010), doing gender refers to performing gender in ways that align with normative expectations, whereas undoing gender involves expressing gender in ways that challenge or deviate from norms. Women engaging in rezu fūzoku are thus expressing counter-normative performances of femininity through the appropriation of a series of practices (i.e. buying sex, engaging in sex outside an institutionalised relationship) socially conceived as belonging to men, undoing their perceived social conception of femininity. In particular, buying lesbian sex to obtain sexual and emotional satisfaction outside institutionalised, heteronormative relationships is a powerful expression of undoing gender in contemporary Japan. Nonetheless, as Butler notes, to ‘undo’ gender can provoke anxiety (2004:35) or punishment (2004:55), especially when one inhabits a position deemed culturally incoherent. The stigma that women engaging in rezu fūzoku may face, ranging from moral judgment to self-censorship, thus reflects a deeper struggle over the limits of intelligible subjectivity. Yet, through the practice of female/female sex work or by paying for commodified sexual intimacy provided by another woman, they also enact alternative scripts of desire, intimacy, and agency, opening up new ways of being gendered subjects within and against the structures that constrain them.

One may argue that categories such as tachi, neko, and riba, associated with active and passive sexual roles, suggest that same-sex commercial intimacy is still partially inscribed within gendered sexual discourse. However, the data indicate that these categories function as situational roles negotiated between participants. For Kaasan (60+): ‘When I am with the cast, I do not think about imitating a heterosexual couple. Instead, I would like us as same-sex people to be able to give each other pleasure’. Rather than reproducing heteronormative binaries, rezu fūzoku enables a reworking of sexual positioning that decouples sexual roles from fixed gendered subjectivities, opening space for undoing gender by destabilising normative links between gender, embodiment, and desire. What emerges here is a fluid and reflexive engagement with sexuality through which women experiment with desire and agency beyond the constraints of gendered scripts. These categories also ease potential tension for clients and providers who may feel uncomfortable performing, receiving, or negotiating specific sexual acts. They function as flexible mechanisms for navigating consent in a safe space, are not bound to stable gender identities, and can change according to individual comfort. This further illustrates how sexuality may be experienced as a means of undoing one’s gender.

Implicit feminism

Despite actively engaging in the practice of undoing gender, Japanese women perceive that much work remains to achieve equality. Many of the participants noted persistent disadvantages: ‘I can’t get rid of the idea that women are still supposed to support and stand behind men’ (Anais) or ‘If you choose a life of marriage, pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing, life becomes a thorny path. Have you ever heard the expression “child-rearing penalty” (kosodate batsu)? It’s obvious that women are at a disadvantage!’ (Choco). Men are also prioritised in workplaces: ‘I think we are in a disadvantaged position. In school entrance exams and job hunting, men are prioritized. Women’s wages are lower. Even in dual-income marriages, women are still made to do most of the housework, childcare, and elder care’. (Mana).

These perspectives, along with the contrast in how male versus female engagement in prostitution is perceived, suggest that undoing gender does not necessarily disrupt existing power structures. However, it can foster reflection, as Moemoe observed: ‘I think this work has a positive impact against the prejudices in society. Recently, there has been a rise in rezu fūzoku, but there is still the strong image that fūzoku is something where men go to. The fact that there is a sex industry where women are providers and clients gives the idea that men and women’s sexual desire is the same, and I think this could be a good opportunity to increase gender equality’. Yuri echoed this, highlighting the transformative potential of her work: ‘Through this job I came to accept and acknowledge my sexuality, and also the customers, they accept me but also themselves. We may still be a minority, but within these relationships, same-sex love and sexuality become natural. This could help non-heterosexual people be more accepted’. These reflections suggest that rezu fūzoku may have a broader social impact, promoting new understanding of sexuality and gender. Together with women’s engagement in masculinity-coded practices and processes of undoing gender, this prompted me to ask whether the women in my sample identified as feminists or shared feminist views. Surprisingly, none of the participants stated that they had any connection to feminism.

Feminism is still perceived by many Japanese women as an overly confrontational form of activism and is often associated with man-hating, a misconception that echoes longstanding prejudice (Ueno et al., 1994: 2). Yet, how women involved in rezu fūzoku challenge gender norms, through both their behaviours and statements, suggest a form of agency that, while not explicitly feminist, resonates with feminist goals. I term this implicit feminism. In my definition, implicit feminism describes actions and attitudes that contribute to feminist goals or challenge traditional gender norms, and inadvertently promote feminist principles and empower women, even if those women do not identify as feminists or explicitly endorse feminist ideology. This form of feminism is not necessarily ideological but perhaps situational, emerging from everyday acts of self-determination that produce feminist effects; however, its range is no less meaningful.

Conclusion

Rezu fūzoku reveals how commodified female/female intimacy can function as a critical site for the reconfiguration of gender, sexuality, and subjectivity. Through the pursuit of iyashi and sexual pleasure in non-heteronormative, non-marital, and commodified contexts, women actively claim authority to define the terms of their own emotional and sexual lives. By decoupling intimacy from marriage and reproductive sexuality and by engaging in practices culturally coded as masculine, participants undo gender: they destabilise normative alignments between gender, embodiment, and desire and expand the range of possible feminine subjectivities. While these practices may coexist with stigma and contradictions, such tensions do not negate their transformative potential; rather, they highlight the contingent and negotiated characteristics of gender.

These practices express what I call implicit feminism: forms of gendered resistance that emerge not through explicit political identification, but through everyday practices that unsettle heteronormative assumptions. Within rezu fūzoku, relational labour and commodified intimacy become vehicles through which women rework power, agency, and sexual legitimacy.

More broadly, these findings challenge dominant narratives of contemporary Japan as a ‘sexless’ and ‘relationless’ society (muen shakai). Instead, they suggest the emergence of what I call mukon shakai (non-marital society), in which intimacy is increasingly constituted through chosen, non-institutional, and commodified relationships. In this context, rezu fūzoku does not signal the absence of intimacy, but rather its transformation, revealing new forms of connection, belonging, and self-making beyond the confines of heteronormative institutions.