I’d matched with him by pure mistake, back in Seoul.
A body in a suit, thirty-nine years of age. I found it so hilarious that he made a point of saying he’d majored in economics at Columbia University that I tapped his profile for more. To see what kind of an idiot went to such great lengths to hide his face and identity but proclaimed where he went to school—an Ivy League university, at that. The idiot turned out to be “Alex,” a Malay Singaporean. His favorite book was Keynes’s Employment, Interest and Money. His favorite artists were Bach and Rachmaninoff? Of course they were. He must have traveled a lot for business, because his profile came with a long list of dates of availability per city, and he was in Seoul for only a few days. Looking through this silly profile, my thumb accidentally hit Super Like. We matched, and he immediately messaged me. Could I come to his hotel? I thought for three seconds and replied yes, I could. He gave me his room number at the Four Seasons. Not bothering to shower, I put on my tracksuit that I wore for pajamas, pressed down a cap on my head, and headed for the hotel. The receptionist gave me a suspicious look as I came in, and I knocked on Alex’s door with no hopes of any sort for this encounter. Because life had always been eager to fail my expectations, no matter how low I set them.
As I showered in his room, I thought, It’s been four days. It was funny to me that your scalp could get so itchy that it hurt.
Sex with him was neither good nor bad. The lights were down low, the room was bigger than I thought, and I could smell Tom Ford’s Leather on his neck. All I could think of was that my face felt dry since I’d applied nothing after coming out of the shower.
While he was in the shower, I looked through his Louis Vuitton wallet and took a photo of his ID, just in case. He was in his mid-forties and his name was Habibi. Of course his name was fake. Chinese money, Hong Kong dollars, Thai baht, and some unidentifiable denominations. His job must have involved a lot of travel. There were some 50,000-won bills, and I thought for a second of taking a couple but didn’t. I don’t know what came over me to even think that in that moment.
He came out with a bath towel around his waist. I’d done nothing wrong—well, I hadn’t stolen any money—but felt weirdly guilty and avoided his gaze. I was practically curled into myself like some cornered wild animal when he looked down at me and asked me a question.
—What does jeuk pay ching sai mean?
—What? What’s that?
—I hear it outside the hotel. Protestors shouting it.
—Uh . . . jeok-pye-cheong-san?
—Yes. I think that’s it.
I burst out laughing, much to my own embarrassment. I laughed until my belly ached, until realizing it had been a long time since I’d laughed so hard. If ever . . . When was the last time?
—Is it something funny?
—No, it’s just . . .
Jeok-pye-cheong-san. “Get rid of old, evil practices.” I didn’t know how to explain it in English, so I fell silent. An awkward pause.
Habibi looked as if he were thinking something over before asking me another question.
—Do you want to go to Bangkok together?
?
The room I had booked with Gyu-ho had been a king.
The Park Hyatt at the time was in the last stages of remodeling and not all of the facilities were operational when we got there. Needless to say, there weren’t many people staying. Gyu-ho invariably got into a panic when it came to making choices, which is why I ended up choosing our flights, hotel, and even the length of our stay. Of the 1.58 million-won hotel bill, I paid 780,000 won and Gyu-ho 800,000. It was a splurge. I knew I was burning money when I confirmed the reservation, but I adamantly believed it was worth the sacrifice. We were desperate for rest and relaxation.
As soon as we got to the twenty-first floor, we tossed our backpacks on the floor and fell side by side onto the bed, our shoes still on. Gyu-ho stretched out an arm and gently rubbed out the frown between my eyes with his hand, and I stuck out my tongue to lick it. His unwashed hand had a hint of salt. Lying on the bed, we stared out the windows that surrounded us. There was a clear view of the grounds of someone’s grand house below, so grand and well kept that it looked more like a theme park than someone’s house. After staring at it for ages, I was desperate for a quick nap and so took off my shoes and clothes. Gyu-ho dug his nose into my chest, and I could smell a familiar scent in his hair. I probably smelled the same way. I pressed the button for the curtains to close. The light slowly dimmed. About to close my eyes, I noticed that the curtains hadn’t closed completely, and light was streaming through about a palm’s width of space.
—You have got to be kidding me.
—Let’s just sleep.
—No, look. The curtain won’t close completely.
—Sleep, damn it.
—How can you sleep with this light streaming in?
As I called the front desk to tell them the curtain was broken, Gyu-ho covered his face in the pillow and mumbled, “Here we go again.” A handyman came up to our room, checked the curtain, and called up the concierge to take a look as well. He was a middle-aged Frenchman in a suit. The concierge politely informed us that because the hotel was still in its preopening stage, there were some kinks to be worked out, and they would upgrade our room. When I passed on this information to Gyu-ho, he smiled his usual weary smile. The concierge slung our backpacks one on each shoulder. His sleek suit and our ragged backpacks looked oddly good together. We followed him down the corridors like two giant hamsters. And the room he ended up putting our backpacks down in happened to be right below the penthouse. As he handed us the keys, he said my family name, Park, and pointed out that we were in the Park King Suite, which made Gyu-ho pipe up that the name of the suite sounded like an RPG boss that was tough to defeat. As an additional gesture of apology for the inconvenience, the concierge invited us to a party being held at the rooftop bar at nine, adding that drinks were free. I did my Very Fancy Person impression and said that we would endeavor to make it. But as soon as the doors closed behind the concierge, Gyu-ho and I hugged each other and screamed. The room was vast and luxurious beyond what we ever could have imagined.
I took out our passports and Thai baht from Gyu-ho’s backpack. The passport covers had Pororo characters on them. I sometimes called Gyu-ho Pororo, since his eyes also shrank when he put on his big glasses. Meanwhile, I had a big face and prominent nostrils, which was why my passport cover was of the dinosaur Crong. I put our Pororo and Crong passports and money into the black-cloth-lined security box.
When Gyu-ho and I went to the Jongno district office, he hesitated over deciding how to spell his name in English. I wrote down “Q-ho” for him instead. It made him glad that the spelling was easy to remember. I whispered in his ear:
—It stands for “Queer Homo.”