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In a hotel room he’s never been to before, Seungyoun dolls up until he doesn’t recognize himself anymore. It’s simple enough—a swipe of lip gloss, two flicks of highlighter and light eye makeup that evens his lids. He switches his Converse for a pair of designer loafers. He throws on a fancy coat with neon topstitchings.
A charity gala is scheduled at 10 PM. According to his date, prominent businessmen and socialites will attend. He does a final perusal in the mirror to make sure his appearance is at its best. Suit, slicked back hair, Prada and Gucci—perfect. He takes his keycard, locks the door and proceeds to the gathering.
The ballroom is adorned with wildflowers and swarovski chandeliers. On the side table is a spread of luxury, including chilled caviar, foie gras and lobsters bigger than the plates they’re served in. The ceilings are high and the curtains are made of silk. Wherever he glances, there’s only grandiosity.
He scans the hall for his seat. He is assigned to table 11—there, he locates it next to the open bar, one chair occupied by an executive in his early forties. Seungyoun sits across him. He doesn’t miss the look that he gives.
He entertains the attention; it’s flattering and in no way offending. He lets the man hold his hand as he talks about convertibles and stock markets. A while after, he comes through with an offer: he’ll buy anything that Seungyoun wants if they go to another dinner. It’s an easy exchange and on another day, he might’ve accepted. However, for tonight, he belongs to someone else.
See, if you have enough money, you can buy everything, including another kind of company. For people like Seungyoun, this is something they take advantage of on the daily.
He is emptying a flute of champagne when an arm wraps around his shoulders. His chin is tipped to the right and a pair of lips crashes into his. From his scent and the lightness of his hands, Seungyoun immediately knows who it is.
The kiss becomes hungry, all wet and devouring, in front of the man who propositioned him, in front of these bigwigs who have the gall to appear scandalized despite the skeletons they’re hiding. They can watch, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t remember any of them anyway.
All too fast, the kiss comes to a stop. He opens his eyes, blinks away the stars behind his lids, and stares at the boy he longed to see. Seungwoo, in a black suit that makes him a hundred times more lethal than he already is. Seungwoo, who is still comely and piercing.
Sometimes, Seungyoun allows his heart to take over him. When it becomes too loud and demanding, he indulges its whims. Tonight, it realizes a few things: that Seungwoo is here, that it missed him terribly, that familiarity is both a consolation and a warning.
For people like Seungyoun, seven months is a damn long time to think about somebody.
But before these sentiments name themselves, he quickly pulls the shutters to dismiss them. He breaks eye contact, returns his hands on his lap and once again, Seungwoo is just another boy who paid for him.
He can only moan.
Seungwoo is plowing into him, the bed frame creaking from the force of his thrusts. His fingers pin his wrists above his head, disabling Seungyoun from doing anything except to wrap his legs around his hips.
“Look at you, baby. It’s been months and you still take me so well. Is it because you get cock on the daily? Tell me, how many men have you been with when I was gone?”
Seungyoun should feel insulted, but the low and breathy words in his ear only arouses him more. The fact that he gets off degradation (among other things) is a deep, dark secret between them. He won’t share such knowledge to anybody else.
The last time he met Seungwoo, he was about to leave for a business immersion in Japan. The day before his flight, they spent a whole night in his bed—it was a cycle of fucking, eating and more fucking. I’ll be there for seven months, he said. Seungyoun only nodded. It wasn’t any of his business.
Yet, up to this day, he can still recall the crevices he held.
He is lifted and positioned on Seungwoo’s lap, his back resting on the other’s chest. His jaw is gripped and moved forcefully until he is looking straight ahead.
“Hey. Do you see that?,” Seungwoo whispers as he licks the shell of his ear. In front of them is a full-length mirror, and the vision it presents is a feast. Them, naked. Them, in their most carnal and debauched state.
Seungwoo pushes back in and this time, he shows no mercy. At this position, he is even deeper, hitting his prostate dead on every single time. Seungyoun can barely open his eyes. Pleasure becomes pain and pain becomes pleasure.
Often, it’s him who asks for brutality. Unlike tenderness, it’s something he can deftly acknowledge. The world he moves in is bleak, cold and jagged. When people are kind to him, he finds it difficult to comprehend.
He tightens, feels himself cresting and getting close to release. His cock throbs in the middle of his body, hard and useless and leaking. When Seungwoo touches it, he goes rigid as the first waves hit, then he spasms as the orgasm completely overtakes him. The last thing he sees is Seungwoo’s face in the mirror, morphing into the most beautiful expression he’s ever seen.
God, seven months is a damn long time to dream about somebody.
He wakes up to the sound of running water. He figures he must’ve blacked out from the intensity. He checks the time, peeks under the bedcovers, and finds himself already cleaned and clothed.
It’s been seventeen months since he first slept with Seungwoo. He was straightforward with his demands—a plus one to functions and lots of sex. Since then, this was how their transactions went: a call to Seungyoun, an agreement, an appearance and lastly, the payment.
He doesn’t play favorites, but if he has a list, Seungwoo will be up there as his best client. Filthy rich, handsome as hell. A gentleman too, both in and outside of bed. If Seungyoun only can, he already would’ve——
A hand smooths his hair. Seungwoo lies in front of him, their gazes directly meeting. In this moment, Seungyoun feels a shift of sorts, like the room is suddenly tilting. He fathoms what the emotion is, but like before, he chooses to close his eyes on it.
Inevitably, the lines become blurred. When this happens, he cracks the spines of his books and he fucks other boys.
Boys. They’re so easy to find. You only have to be pretty. You only have to be lonely. And Seungyoun, he is good at that. He’s the most beautiful when he is sad.
This boy has thick wrists and eyes of ocean blue. His height and way of pronouncing syllables are different too. Seungyoun pretends to be comforted by these variances even though he knows they’re not enough to forget about the boy in his head.
He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he silently recites as he undresses. Only there are no flowers this time, and the petals are the clothes he disrobes instead.
Five days after the event, he hears from Seungwoo again.
He is reading Sartre when his phone rings. He checks the name, gapes in surprise, then snorts at the screen for three more seconds before answering.
He tries to sound unperturbed. “Hi.”
Seungwoo’s voice comes through the line. “Hi. Pack a week’s worth of your necessities.”
“Huh? Are you going on another business trip? Am I coming with you this time?” This kind of request is not new to him. As long as the expenses are paid, he doesn’t mind. Once, a person even attempted a month-long deal.
“No. You’ll live with me.”
Seungyoun moves the phone to his right ear. He must’ve heard incorrectly. “Live with you? But what for? Wait, it’s obviously for sex.”
“Hey. You wound me. But that’s included, of course. Can you blame me? I haven’t had any during my last trip.”
“Oh shit. Okay, I understand the desperation then. Just let me rest at times, you animal. From how the night after the gala went, I’m bound to be wrecked.”
Seungwoo chuckles softly, his laugh more air than noise. “You’re so mean. Don’t I take good care of you every time?”
He melts at his words. It’s true—Seungwoo has never been cruel towards him. He makes sure he’s satisfied and cared for, especially after a more intense scene. But there was an option to turn away before, and Seungyoun was able to ignore things because of it. He didn’t inquire about his life, he always left before dawn, he washed off his traces and covered his marks with somebody else’s. Being with him for a week would mean no chances for escape.
He can decline; he knows Seungwoo won’t take it personally. And yet, a part of him is curious about the way he lives. Is he neat? Does he have pets? What are his habits?
In times of vulnerability, he wonders how it would be to wake up beside him.
Seungyoun does something he hasn’t done in ages: he gives in. “That you do. When do you want me there? I have something tomorrow but I’m all free after.”
“Then let’s do that. The sooner, the better. Where should I pick you up?”
His tone raises a little from shock. “No! Just send me your address. I’ll book a cab.” He vehemently shakes his head even though no one can see.
“No buts. I insist.”
It shouldn’t matter, but he doesn’t want to dampen the mood of their talk by saying unnecessary things. In the end though, he decides to be honest. “I’m going to spend the day with a client. I can checkout at midnight. Will that—will that be fine?”
The line goes silent for a few seconds. He readies himself in case Seungwoo opts to take back his offer.
“Yeah, it’s okay. Message me where the hotel is.”
He searches the other’s voice for any inkling of anger or disappointment. When he realizes what he's doing, he reprimands himself at once. It shouldn't matter, he repeats. “All right. Will do.”
“And Seungyoun, please promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Promise me that you’ll keep an open mind.”
He agrees. Seungyoun convinces himself that it’s probably nothing big. But an hour after the call ended, he finds himself still mulling over what it means.
The conference isn’t far off from the social parties he typically attends. As usual, the place is lavishly decorated and the food meticulously prepared by sous chefs.
Seungyoun adjusts his suit jacket. It’s a little snug around the chest owing to the workout routine he practices these days. Today’s job is elementary—he only has to smile, be polite and feign interest in boring topics.
All rich people talk about are two things: the money they possess and where they use it. Mundane as it is, there isn’t anything to complain about, especially when sitting still brings him more money than he can do with. If intercourse is involved, the numbers can stagger up to seven digits. It’s vapid and morally depraved, but who's even counting?
It makes him feel powerful, granting what people ask of him on his terms and needs. What they take away is only what he gives.
His client is in the field of metallurgy. At fifty-five years old, his face is lined with wrinkles and crow’s feet. He laments about long work hours and dysfunctional families. Seungyoun takes a bite of filet mignon while listening.
The most sobering part of what he does is the amount people are willing to pay for somebody who will listen. Mostly, these are small complaints that have piled up over the years. Those who don’t prefer talking take it out with aggressive sex.
If there’s anything Seungyoun has learned in this obscene world, it’s that money can buy everything except peace.
The speaker announces the conclusion of the program. Seungyoun stands up, bows to his client and accepts a bank check. He verifies the details—eight million won and all he had to do was nod and be charming.
There’s four hours left.
Seungyoun decides to go out. With his oversized hoodie and sneakers, he finally feels like himself. The wind is biting and he huddles into his down jacket. The car should already be here, he murmurs. Just in time, it arrives in the form of a Chevy Malibu.
He is dropped off at a speakeasy with a photobooth by the door. Upon entering, the marble counter is the first to grab attention with its large gold-framed mirrors behind bottles of liquor. Leather seats and exposed ceilings lend the space an industrial feel.
He advances to a bar stool. Being a regular, the bartenders attend to his orders swiftly. One Manhattan is placed in front of him. He looks around to study the people he’s with.
Boys. They’re so easy to find. If he wants to, he can lure one by the end of the night. But they’re either too noisy, too harsh or too arrogant. He yearns for the boy who resembles the clouds.
Seungwoo once told him that he wanted to be distinct from the boys he had met. Since then, all Seungyoun can notice are the things that make him different.
A jazz song echoes in the background. Three cocktails are enough to provide him a pleasant buzz. In his mind he starts to recite, I want to know what drives people into love and solitude.
In a hotel room he’s never been to before, Seungyoun plays music and slow dances on his own. The bathtub is half-filled and waiting. On the coffee table are Möet and brie cheese.
He looks at his luggage beside the hotel bed. The digital clock signals it’s an hour before twelve. His chest swells, like it swallowed a thousand fluttering insects.