We crowd into a tiny elevator, our guide included. As the door opened to the eighth floor, the smell of lavender permeated into the crowded lift from the darkness beyond. The place was so dimly lit that we could only see the sheer white curtains hanging from the dirty white walls and windows. Beyond a large archway was a salon of sorts, big enough to hold 30 or 40 people comfortably, with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Tokyo Tower. The only people beyond the archway were the bartender behind a black marble - or what looked to be black marble - counter and eight women, each of varying non-Japanese ethnicities and wearing grossly sheer negligees, each standing next to very large and oversized lounge chairs. To the left of the archway was another opening with a sheer curtain draped in front of it. From what I could tell, beyond the curtain was a dimly lit empty room save for a giant round black leather couch in the center.

Everyone had big smiles on them. Among the eight women in the room, the smiles seemed almost fake, seemingly forced.

"Okay then," Jason says, nonplussed.

Linda gives the place a quick look around, turns toward us, and nods. "Thank you very much," she says as we all quickly crowd back into the elevator with the teeth of our smiles showing. No eye contact. No one is trying to stop us. As the elevator door opened on the first floor, we stared straight ahead and walked to the next block without talking.

"That was ... something," I say. No one responds save for the same huge smiles on their faces. Looking at my watch, it was finally midnight. "Well, we might as well try that bar we saw earlier."

By the time we returned to the bar, the line entering the bar had shortened. The entrance to the bar was up a large set of stairs almost as wide as the building itself. At the door was an older Japanese man wearing a long peacoat with a younger guy in a green down-filled vest next to him. "ID," the man in the peacoat says to us.

"Is this a club?" Linda asks.

The man chuckles. "Not a club." This was slightly strange as we could hear a definitive drum and bass beat from beyond the door.

"That's a pretty wild bar," I say.

The man in the green vest laughs. "Clubs are for dancing. Bars are for drinking."

"So you can't dance here?" Jason asks.

"Clubs can't open past midnight," the man in the green vest says as though he had to field this question several times tonight to intrepid tourists looking for a funky night out. "Bars can be open till the early morning. As soon as someone is dancing, that place becomes a club, and it causes a lot of trouble."

Entering the establishment, we were greeted by a long blue-illuminated bar, not unlike those in a standard club. At the center of the bar was a DJ, not unlike those in a standard club. In front of the DJ was a large floor with tables scattered around, not unlike those in a standard club. People of all sorts were scattered through the bar - some wasted and almost on the verge of passing out, while others were at tables getting into drunken spats with their friends - not unlike in a standard club. What was unlike a standard club was what everyone was doing: standing still.

Crowds in the bar were standing near tables and facing the DJ. With beers in hand, they stood there with the occasional movement as they shifted leg weight. At one point, a young guy with several empty glasses next to him starts to nod his head to the beat and move his shoulders in circles. Another man in a peacoat heads to the young guy and talks to him briefly before escorting him out note 1.

To the right, a group of Japanese youth points at us. "Here comes the fun!" one guy yells out. The rest of his friends laugh. "Join us," he says, pointing to the large booth next to theirs.

As we sit, one of the girls starts singing, "Proud to be an American."

"We are not American," Jason says with a laugh, "we're Canadian!"

After grabbing several rounds of beers, one of the guys at the other table - Hiko - talks about his clubbing experience in Los Angeles. "It's so strange," he says, "people get so drunk in the states that they go to the club and not enjoy the experience."

We look at each other semi-sheepishly. I ask, "So that doesn't happen here?"

Hiko shakes his head. "No, it does, but those are a small section of the establishments you see." Hiko then goes on his phone, intently searching for something on his device. "Here, tap my phone."

Instantly, he transfers me a list of places throughout Shinjuku, Roppongi, and Shibuya. I show the list to Jason, who nods approvingly. "Well, we know where we're going tomorrow," he says excitedly. "And the drinks there are good?"

Again, Hiko shakes his head. "Do you want good drinks, or do you want good music and atmosphere?" As he says that, he looks at the thrall of young guys standing around with restrictive ambition to move synchronously to the beat. He asks for my phone and scrolls through the list before landing on one of the listings. "We'll meet here tomorrow night - it's in Shibuya."

We already followed one stranger into a sketchy bar tonight - we might as well follow another stranger into a club. If not for our venture into Hustlers, we might have said "no thanks" to Hiko's offer and called it a night.

Instead, the next day, we learned much about what Tokyo nightlife had to offer.