A frequent visitor to Tokyo for the past 20-plus years asked me whether I thought S/M was on the rise in Tokyo. The answer is both yes and no. Hardcore S/M bars have been discreetly operating throughout that period, but as with all specialty bars, they are controlled by a strict members-only door policy, i.e. no tourists. What has emerged and proliferated in recent years, though, are soft-core, user-friendly S/M theme bars.

Once-regular S/M theme parties held in clubs, however, have declined. Back in the late '80s, the legendary club Gold in Shibaura dedicated one entire floor to S/M, and in the early '90s, Automatix in Shinjuku did the same. But now, except for the annual Torture Garden event -- featuring a hardcore crew of performers from England that fills the house with a who's who of serious advocates (as well as some tourists) -- these events have all but disappeared.

And you will forgive me if I consider most soft-core theme bars to be fake. They are supposed to be. Or, as another expat friend, who suggested a nightcap at Black Rose (one of the most popular such establishments), puts it, they are fun places to take clients because you know they're safe but will also result in a risque story for touting at the office.

It was 2 a.m. when we arrived. A narrow corridor of plush, red velvet drapes leads from the elevator to a small, softly lit 10-seater bar. It felt cozy -- despite the cage draped in chains and mounted on a low circular stage at one end. And despite the studied deadpan of the half-dozen girls working there -- all rigged out in a variety of black leather and fishnet stockings. All stools at the bar were taken. And one of three young Japanese men sitting in the middle had his shirt off. He was quite cute. And very giggly.

Just as my friend and I were taking a seat at a side table, an older-looking dominatrix walked past, toting a dog collar on a long chain leash. She walked over to the bare-backed boy and slipped the collar around his neck. He protested mildly, in muted volleys of giggles. His friends seemed unperturbed. Mistress X then led him -- apparently quite willingly -- over to the stage, where she easily forced him onto his knees and, her hand still wrapped firmly around the leash, she then fetched a large candle.

But Mistress X made sure that the wax had plenty of time to cool by holding the candle high above her supplicant's back. Even so, each time the wax hit flesh, the boy gently whelped, "It hurts! It hurts!" He also added -- giggling -- "But it feels good." Everyone laughed. Once seated back at the bar, he then had the pleasure of having his back gently scratched free of wax -- by both his mistress and his friends.

She then had him put his shirt back on and grabbed her cat-o'-nine-tails. The crack of the whip was astounding. He yelped. I winced. And on it went. On noticing the disbelief on the face of one of his friends, she quickly explained that by twisting the tongues of leather into a loose spiral and administering the blow from high above the point of contact, one can make a resounding crack on impact without inflicting undue pain. This she then demonstrated on the dumbfounded friend.

It's all in the twist of the wrist, we learned. Spontaneous interludes like these are fascinating, but except for the marvel of how an entire bar can be converted into a stage, you would do well to skip the choreographed floor show . . .