A Trip to the Massage Parlor

Posted in prostitution, sex, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 23, 2009 by sexwithseoul

Alright, it’s me again and I’m here to continue my story about the night that I got left high and dry by Monica after meeting her at Mike’s Cabin in Shinchon. 

So that night, it was cold (it was around mid-March) and it was raining, and fuck it was raining fucking hard too!  It was too late to take the subway, as the trains stop running at 1am, so I was forced to either stay out and drink til 5am or take a cab home.  If I remember correctly at this point it was about 2:30 or 3am and I was pretty drunk.  I was pissed off about Monica leaving all of a sudden and I was pissed off at not getting any, and I was pissed off at Korean girls and how utterly confusing they can be.  I’m standing in the rain with no umbrella on a busy street in Shinchon trying to hail a cab, but no cabs are stopping.  They pull up, the little red light is on inside showing that they are vacant and open to taking passengers, but no, they’re not open to taking a foreigner.  Time andtime again they passed me by only to stop a little further down the road to pick up a Korean.  I understand that foreigners get a bad rap here, andI also understand that some Korean cab drivers might not want to take on a foreigner because of their possible lack of Korean, but I don’t buy that 100%, because I’ve asked hailed cabs and asked them to stop and I’ve told them where to go in Korean.  I know how to say “Take me to _______ subway station” and I also know how to say “left” and “right” and “straight”.  Despite showing them that I can speak Korean, they still don’t pick me up.  Another strategy that I’ve employed in this matter, is to hold out a wad of 10,000 won notes and wave them down with the Sejongs.  Despite doing this, I still got passed cab after cab.  Finally, some ajjoshi stopped and picked me up, but it wasn’t until well after 20 minutes of waiting in the cold pouring rain.

I got home and there was this temptation nagging deep inside of me to fulfill my needs with instant gratification.  It is at this part of the story where I must provide some backstory to tell about how I came to visiting a massage parlor. 

Earlier that week myself and my two closest friends (guys I met at the orientation who got hired on at the same time as me) went out cruising to pick up some girls and check out some bars.  We went up to Nowon because we heard that there was a lot of cool bars up there.  Well we were wrong.  Nowonwas a bust, with the exception of one place that seemed alright.  Most of the bars on the street that we visited were the kind of bars where you have to pay some exorbitant amount of money for a whole bottle of whisky andinstead you’re really paying for the company of some cute young bartender.  Being English teachers we really didn’t have that kind of money, so we just stuck to looking for pubs, especially considering how most of those bottle service bars were completely empty!

We headed back to our neighborhood to drink in the local pub that we started to frequent, but on the way there from the subway station we passed by a place that we thought was maybe a bar.  It was in a dingy old rundown building, but it said it had something on the 2nd floor and then billiards on the 3rd floor.  So we figure it was a bar, but there was also these revolving barber poles.  Before I came to Korea, I read here about how barber poles  sometimes mean that a place is a brothel or a “special” massage parlor.  We were really looking for a bar, but all being new to South Korea we were interested in looking into what such a place had to offer. 

(Note:  For more information in the form of a video you can check out what these intrigued investigators have to say about the matter. )

It really is true though, you see the double barber poles everywhere and you really don’t know what to think.  In the West a barber pole signifies the place of business where a barber cuts hair and nothing else.  Here, they seem to be everywhere, single ones, double ones, giant ones, triple ones, and none of the Westerners or Koreans can even agree on what they mean. 

So, curious, we walked into this building and up the stairs to the 2nd floor where the place with the spinning barber poles was.  My mates had me walk in first because I know the most Korean.  I opened the door and walked into this dimly lit foyer.  I was greeted with a horrible smell, I dunno it smelled like a stable or farm animals or something…and beyond the foyer was a dimly lit hallway with little rooms and curtains separating them from the hallway. 

Sleeping on a mat was this old man who was suddenly awoken and up and standing at the surprise of three foreigners in his little place of business.  The guy was what smelled like farm animals, and he was old and crusty, and the only other way that I can describe him is by saying that he looked a lot like the old monk guy from the Eddie Murphy movie “The Golden Child” (1986). 

Annyeong Haseyo!

"Annyeong Haseyo!"

Realizing exactly what kinda place this was, and that everything I read on the internet must have been true (because really, everything you read on here istrue!) I got all nervous and got weak in the knees.  I didn’t know what to say, so I reverted to our previous mission of looking for a bar, so I just started saying, “맥주?  맥주? [mekju]”  which in Korean just means “Beer?  Beer?”

“아니요!  아니요!” (“No!  No!”) he yelled as he quickly pointed to the door and seemed to just brush the foreigners all out with a swift swish of his hands. 

Outside of the “special” massage parlor we all laughed at how I tensed up and didn’t know what to say and how I just acted like a confused foreigner and started asking for beer.   It was a funny night and we all laughed about it, but I didn’t really look at neighborhood quite the same after that.  Here was a place like that right by my home, within walking distance of my apartment.  If ever I felt lonely or wanted some sexual satisfaction, I could just walk over there and get some.  It was different, because in NYC prostitution is illegal, and there are certainly rub and tug massage parlors throughout New York, but they’re not common and they’re not so obvious as they seem to be here.  To find one in NYC you’d have to look for an ad in the back of the Village Voice and then do some hunting to actually find the place.  Here you walk down the street and you see double barber poles spinning everywhere.

With more of a prevalence, prostitution becomes more of an option. 

That night that I came back home from Shinchon after being left high and dry by Monica, I opted for the next best thing.  Confused with Korean women and how to get by here, I was frustrated and in need of some sexual release, something to help get out all the pent up steam from moving over here and starting work here and adapting and having to learn new customs and ways of doing things.  So I figured I’d take a trip to the local massage parlor and test out their wares. 

I’d never been to such an establishment before.  I really didn’t know what to expect.  I went in from the rain, and was greeted by the same old guy who was laying down again.  I didn’t know what to say, but I remembered seeing 안마 [ahnma] outside and looking it up.  It means massage.  So I went in there and this old guy’s looking at me, and I had a hat on this time (to be more discreet, I figured if I was going to become a john, I needed to be discreet about it).  I felt a little embaressed about my last time there.  I was hoping he wouldn’t remember me.

I doubt he remembered me, but that didn’t really matter, because there I was standing in front of him and I didn’t know what to say again.  I could order myself a beer, I could order myself food, I could direct a cab to my apartment, but I didn’t know what to say to a pimp in a brothel, I didn’t know how to order or prostitute or even what I should say in such a situation.  So I pulled together what little I knew:

“안마 주세요” (which pretty much means, “Give me a massage”).

The old man led me down the dark hallway with the different rooms.  I could see that none of them were occupied because the curtains were all up on them.  In each room was an empty bed with a single pillow on it.  At the head of each bed was a sink and a mirror.  He took me to the end of the hall and then down another hall that led to the left.  There were probably around 10 or 12 rooms in the place, all of them empty.  I was quiet and cautious, afraid of seeing someone.  But no one was there.  I didn’t know what to expect and my heart was pumping fast.  The adrenaline was flowing, and I was nervous, but ready.  He turned the light on inside this little room all the way at the very end of the hall in the room furthest away from his little mat where he slept in the foyer.  I thought this would be good—I wouldn’t feel so self conscious about him possibly hearing some sounds that came from the room.  I know that during the act, he’d be the last person I’d want to visualize or think about, and knowing that he’s right outside the door would make things difficult. 

He took off his shoes and stepped up onto the wooden floor of the room.  I did the same.  He pulled back the blanket on the bed to show me…well I guess to show me that it was indeed a bed.  I took jacket off and sat down on the bed trying to relax myself through my nervousness.  Then the old man put up his fingers and said some indecipherable number plus “won”.

It was time to pay the man.  He held up 8 of his 10 digits.  I stood up to get my wallet out of my back pocket.  Standing next to him I realized how much taller than him I was.  I also realized that in this little room we were standing pretty close to each other.  I tried not to think of that.  I tried to think of the hot girl that would come in and take my clothes off.  I pulled out a 10,000 won note, thinking he meant 8,000 won.  “No” he shook his head and showed me 8 fingers again, this time pointing to my 10,000 won note.  He was trying to tell me:

“80,000 won.”   

Ouch.  That’s a lot.  About $80 U.S. dollars.  A lot of money for…well I wasn’t even sure.  Would I just get a massage?  Would I just get a handjob? Or sucked off?  Or fucked?  Would that cost extra?  What if she wasn’t hot?  What if she was fucking ugly?  Could I get my money back? 

Regardless of all this, I didn’t have any money anyway.  All I had was 12,000 won, quite shy from the 80,000 this ajjoshi was asking from me. 

“What can I get for 12,000 won?”  I asked in English, not even trying to say it in Korean.  “Huh?  What can I get for 12?  Handjob?”  With my hand I made the international symbol that means ‘handjob’ and he laughed.

“Hehehe!” he laughed from his raspy throat, “Nothing.”

And he laughed at me some more and I could smell the horrible stench of his breath as it came through the gaps in his smile. 

Humiliated, I put on my jacket with a feeling of defeat, dressing myself when all I wanted to do was be undressed.  The old man stepped off the wood floor and into his slippers.  I tried to just shove my feet into my sneakers, but caught the back part of them too far underneath my foot.  I struggled to shake and shimmy my foot in.  My humiliation and embarrassment surely didn’t help me.  The old man ran off.  As I got my other foot in, he came back with a shoe horn, which was now unnecessary.  I followed him down the hallway again, and just before the lobby there was a doorway with a curtain of beads.  This doorway led to a backroom that was dark and only lit with a blue light.  Behind the beads I could only see the sillouette of a woman, a tallish, kinda curvy woman, standing there poised and waiting, ready to be told to come out and work.  She must have heard me and the commotion I made with the old man. 

I walked out and imagined the old man telling her the story, 

“Would you believe that silly foreigner?  All he had was 12,000 won!!!  What did he expect to get with that?  A pat on the head?”

I went home feeling even more defeated and confused at this place.  I contemplated going down to the ATM and taking out 80,000 no 100,000 won and fucking the shit outta that whore, but no…that was just way too much money to spend on that. 

I calmed myself down by jerking off.  Sometimes its the only thing you can do.  I fell asleep and woke up the next morning–going another day without sex hadn’t killed me.  I was still sexually frustrated, that was for sure, but I could live.

Little did I know that in just a few days I’d get laid for my first time in Korea…

Saying Hello

Posted in sex, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 22, 2009 by sexwithseoul

A stranger in a strange land.  One of the most common literary themes used by writers is that an individual who is isolated from those around him tries foolishly to bridge the gap and build relationships.   Another common theme is that through such alienation, comes self-knowledge.  I hope to experience the struggle in building relationships as well as self-knowledge and write about it.  These are literary themes that I plan to explore in the artwork of my life here in Seoul.  This is my first time living in another country, so far away from home.  To be quite honest, I wasn’t very well traveled either.

When I first landed in Incheon Airport and was sent to training and orientation, I was very disoriented, and culture shocked,  I actually needed the orienation, the decompression period to help me re-adjust.  I could write all about how the different cars and street signs freaked me out.  How the brightly painted parking garage at Incheon Airport amazed me at first, and how even simple things like vending machines had me gazing in wonder…

“Wow, what’s a Ghana chocolate like?”  And now that I’ve been here a few months, I know that Atlas is my favorite candy bar here.  

But at first, I was truly culture shocked.  At the orientation and training, I frantically tried to make friends.  It reminded me of being back in college.  I was very clingy.  Very very clingy.  It wasn’t cool.  Looking back on myself, I hated myself that week because I was so desperate for friends, for some inkling of something to remind me of home.  Not surprisingly, I clung to a fellow New Yorker. 

We didn’t really date, so much as we just got to vaguely know each other and occassionally we would sneak from the group to go make-out. 

She was cute, but nothing too special.  I quickly lost interest in her when I started going out with my friends and meeting more women.  But at first, it was frustrating.  I had heard all of these things to watch out for from posts I had read on internet forums where guys wrote about the craziness and quirkiness of Korean women, and also things I heard from friends of mine who had been in Korea during their service in the army.   They warned me of bar girls and women who end up being prostitutes.  Of course, I think they hung out at different kinds of bars, but nevertheless, I was weary of women when I first came here.  I also heard that women can be extremely difficult to understand and figure out because of the cultural differences.  I heard that a lot of times they’d send out mixed signals and guys would think “yeah I got this, this girl is going home with me” only to be duped and left to go home by themselves.  That sometimes women just wanted put out to a guy.   

Contrary to that, I also heard that being a white guy here came with privilege.  I read and heard about guys coming over here, ESL teachers coming and teaching and sleeping with hundreds of women.  I read about how Asian women look towards white people as the ideal of beauty, and that even ugly guys, even the fat, bald, early 30′s slob of a loser can find a hot woman and get laid.  There’s countless threads on websites like www.eslcafe.com about this subject, and dear reader I am sure that (if you haven’t already) you can read even more threads and posts and news articles and editorials about the reputation of Western ESL teachers in Korea, as well as the general attitude taken towards them.  I feel that I need not get into that too much here.     

So anyway, I guess when I first came here I thought that it would be so easy, that I would walk down the streets and bitches would be in heat in for my cock.  Haha!  boy was I wrong!

My first night out in Seoul I hung out with some other expats in Itaewon.  We went to Gecko’s and Wolfhound, and I was really very unimpressed with the talent.  Gecko’s reminded me of a white trash bar back home, complete with military tough guys, and bad music.  Wolfhound was more like a Euro trash boys club—I was just sorry that I didn’t bring my rugby jersey and alcoholism with me.  So looking for a place more “Korean” (in Itaewon its actually kinda hard).  Not to knock those places too much, but they really weren’t what I was looking for in a pub.  If I wanted to hang out with all guys, I’d join a soccer team.  If I wanted to not get laid, I’d go to church.  Another night in Itaewon my friend and I went to M1, some ritzy basement wine bar that made me reminiscent of New York.  It was complete with the white leather couches, lounge pillows, over priced drinks, and its too hip to be cool dj ‘spinning’ the best dance music his gyopo friend could burn him on a mix CD.  If I sound bitter or jaded, or pissed off, or mad, its because I associate M1 with the experience I am about to recall. 

So as I sat at the bar in M1 talking to my friend, enjoying a 7,000won Filipino beer, I noticed that there was two pretty Korean girls sitting next to me.  They were hard not to notice, they were so hot.  One of them, the one sitting closest to me, had legs long as a mile and was proudly displaying them in a short short skirt.  She was sitting on her barstool, shaking her head to the music and swaying the long wave of her brown hair.  She was dancing in her seat like she could hardly contain herself, just grooving to the music in her own little world.  It was a weeknight and there was hardly anyone in the place.  So it wasn’t like anyone was really dancing or anything and it wasn’t like there was a real dance floor anyway.  So I said, “It’s a shame there’s not a dance floor here, or you’d be able to dance”.  I was just being nice, trying to talk to her…but what she said really shocked me.

She looked at her friend, then looked at me with this arrogant, snobbish look, with her nose just slightly up in air she asked, “Umm, do you know us?”

I couldn’t believe the attitude on this little trick.  The fuckin’ nerve of her!  Thinking she’s so hot that she could blow me off like that.  I told my friend and we both cracked up laughing at her and her attitude.  It’s something that my friend and I still joke about now.  Every so often we’ll just say “Umm, do you know us?” and die laughing.  It really was funny that she’d say something like that.  I mean really, I was just trying to be nice and strike up a conversation with someone that I’m sharing some space with, but some girls here won’t have that.

I had heard about this element of Korean culture–this insular thinking of Koreans that prohibits them from speaking with strangers.  Like in a bar or a club, they have to be introduced by someone that they know, otherwise they won’t talk to you.  So yeah, my first attempt at talking to a girl in Korea and I got horribly shot down.  Since then, I have managed to successfully chat up women that I just met, but it came with time and patience.

Another time I struck out was in Shinchon (not Shinchon…yeah, that’s what I said Shinchon, not Shinchon–if you live in Seoul you know what I’m talking about, the constant confusion between 신촌 and 신천 which to the Western ear sound very similar).  So anyway, I was in Shinchon (the one on the north side of the Han River, the one near Hongdae, and I was in this bar/club that moreso resembles a Canadian’s dream home.  I was at this place called Mike’s Cabin.  That atmosphere of Mike’s Cabin is more like a truck stop Canadian gay bar.  Surprisingly, it’s a good place to meet Korean girls who might be interested in Western guys, that is of course if you can stomach the campy decor and the hordes of other lame ass white guys there sitting at tables drooling over the women.  The DJ knows how to DJ and knows how to play a good variety of music from her mp3 collection, which says a lot more than what others in Seoul can do. 

So anyway, shortly after the M1 “Umm do you know us?” shoot down, I bucked up and got back on the horse trying not to get knocked down.  My friend Andre introduced me to the place.  Andre’s a solid dude, he’s been in Korea for something like 5 years and he pretty much knows how the game is done here.  Andre started talking to this girl, she was playing foosball with some Pakistani guy.  Right after their game finished he grabbed me and said “We’re playing foosball!”

I love foosball, so it was no pain on my end.  I was quickly introduced to the girl that Andre was talking to and her friend Monica.  At first I thought Monica was tall for a Korean girl, but really it was just her high as fuck high heels.  She was pretty good looking, long straight hair and bangs cut straight across her forehead as if her hair stylist cut along the straight edge of a bowl.  She had tiny lips and produced an equally tiny smile as she spoke.  Occasionally she’d look into her cell phone at her Korean/English dictionary to help her find the right word to say. 

At foosball, Monica and I were one team, and we were playing against Andre and his girl.  This was a good way in, it got us talking and working together.  It was sorta like a cute couple thing, and I quickly realized that Korean girls go gaga for that kind of cutesy couples shit.  It makes sense, what with them loving couple t-shirts and all that lame crap.  So I figured that if I could get a girl to do ‘cute couple’ shit with me just after meeting her, I could easily get her to do raunchy kinky couple sex shit with me later in bed–  boy was I wrong again.

So I bought her a couple drinks and things were going well.  Andre had said something that offended Monica’s friend and she wasn’t digging him anymore.  Andre felt kinda ashamed or embarrassed or something, and he cut out and left.  I was sticking with Monica for the long haul and hoping I could take her home with me that night.  I don’t really live close Shinchon, so a cab was definitely in my future plans as Seoul believes in this retarded idea of closing subways at certain times (while public transportation in Seoul is pretty good, there’s a lot of things that Seoul could definitely learn from NYC).

So we were talking and dancing and drinking and everything was going well.  I was just happy to actually be talking with a girl and not getting snubbed and to feel like I was back in the game.  It’d been a while.  She was a smart girl, and her English was pretty good, although her pronunciation was hard to understand.  The fact that the speakers were loud and blaring music didn’t help things either.  I was thinking things were going pretty well.  Her friend was occupied with some other guy not that Andre was gone.  They were dancing, we were dancing, and the DJ was playing some pretty good music. 

Then out of nowhere, up walks some blonde-haired blue-eyed Adonis.  He doesn’t look like he’s fluent in Korean, but he just starts belting it out.  Monica’s friend was quite impressed.  He had a thing for her alright.  She seemed to forget the guy she was dancing with and we was all over this blondie who was actually from Sweden.   Monica explained his situation to me, he’s a student studying here.  Part of his studies meant that he had to study Korean full time, so this bastard’s fluent and picking up girls like its nothing, while I’m over here struggling, typing on some little ass keyboard looking up words in my cell phone! 

This guy knew the Korean game and he knew it well.  He had Monica’s friend crawling all over him, and I was just fudding around with Monica trying to think of how I could get her back to my place.  I had nothing.  I was like a fighter pilot trying to shake the Red Baron on my tail.  I pivoted left, I pivoted right, I dove down and spun in a spiral, I pulled every maneuver I had in my book but nothing seemed to work against the enemy that I did not know. 

I think that nothing would have gotten her to come home with me that night.  But that didn’t stop me from blaming the Swedish guy.  The Swede fucking prick bastard (who I have actually run into in Seoul quite a few times–I can never forget his arrogant macho face) didn’t really help things.  He was being really super aggressive with Monica’s friend.  At one he just grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him and just started making out with her. 

Then Swede-boy starts saying they need to go to Hongdae, that he has friends there to meet up with.  So Monica says “I have to go” to me, and I’m confused–like what the fuck does Swede-boy have that I don’t have?  Why not invite me along?  Why?  Cuz Swede-boy’s a pushy aggressive dickhead? 

(Note:  I would later discover that Swede-boy’s pushy aggressive attitude was something that was not only accepted and tolerated by Korean women, but also something they enjoyed and looked for in the opposite sex, but more on that later).

Yes, so that’s exactly what happened.  Swede-boy pulled her by the hand right outta the club and Monica followed her friend.  Off they went to Hongdae, and I was just glad that I got her phone number in time…  I remember calling it just to make sure that it was real.  I left there feeling like such a fucking loser.  I look back on that night as being a night of desperation and loneliness, but also one where I learned a great deal about Korean women and how to pick them up. 

I left Mike’s Cabin alone, with nothing to show for myself but horrible buzz and a raging hard-on hungry to get laid.  This led me to my first experience in a Korean brothel/whorehouse/massage parlor (whatever the fuck you want to call them)…but as this post is already close to 2,500 words, and I love a cliffhanger, I think I’ll leave this post just how it is.  Besides, the brothel story deserves its own separate post, so I’ll leave that for your anticipation.

Saying Goodbye

Posted in sex with tags , , , , , , , , on June 18, 2009 by sexwithseoul

I left New York because I was bored.  In a city that never sleeps, the waking life gets old fast.  My life was alright there.  I had my family and friends.  Good lifelong friends, friends I’ve known for 10+ years.  I had a job, and a good education.  I had a nice apartment with tall ceilings, hard wood floors, two tall windows with beautiful street views.  I lived in a relatively quiet neighborhood.  I had lots of girls, but I was still bored. 

I dunno, I think that things were just too predictable.  I knew what to expect from most of the girls that I met.  I knew what to expect at work.  I knew what to expect from the City.  I knew its every move, its every season.  Things were changing, but not for the better.  The economy was getting sicker, I was getting bored, and the mediocre middle-class was feeling the pinch and getting squeezed out day-by-day. 

I planned my escape from the city I loved, but it was bittersweet.  I was happy to get away, but sad to leave.  I planned to live abroad before.  I was dating this girl in my senior year of college, and we had this plan to go and live in France and bum it for a few months after we graduated.  It was a weak plan that never came to fruition because we broke up and I realized that I really don’t even like France anyway.  It was her plan, her dream, and she went and moved there and taught English and loved it.  She came back to NY a year later and told me all about.  The travel bug in me had gotten bigger.

Growing up in New York, you really don’t have to travel to see the world.  It’s arrogant, but it’s true.  It’s the captital of the world, the place where all the talented people of the world flock to, the place where the best of the best go to make it.  I tasted all kinds of cultures there, all kinds of women from all over the world.  I experienced Korean culture there before ever even flying into Incheon. 

I wanted to experience something different, something new.   I wanted to see what it was like to live in another country, in another culture.  I choose Korea because I had already worked with Korean students in New York, and I had dated a few Korean women, and I liked Korean food, and their culture seemed like one that I could get along well with.  Koreans seem different enough from Americans, but similar enough in just the right places.  I can expound more about this later, and this will be more revealed as I write more, but yeah, that’s why I came here.

(Please NoteI did not come here solely to chase women and fuck as many as possible!  Sure, I love Korean women and have an intense attraction towards them, but contrary to what some of you may believe, I did not come here just to shag them)

I really did come here for something new, for a cultural experience, for an adventure.  Only the thing is, I quickly found out something that many others have already discovered long before me….no matter where you go, you’re still yourself, and you take yourself with you wherever you go.  So my old habits and past times  in New York quickly reered their heads up in my life here in Seoul, and that’s how Sex With Seoul came about.

Like “Debbie” from the 70′s porn classic, Debbie Does Dallas (1978), I do Seoul.

It was hard to say goodbye.  In your life, there will be certain lays that you’ll have that you will never foreget.  Of course there’s the first lay, the time you lost your virginity, usually everyone remembers that one and can re-tell it pretty well.  Then there’s maybe the first time that you had a one-night stand, or the maybe even the first time that you had sex with somebody that you fell in love with or married.

Before I left NY, I had a nice and memorable goodbye fuck from a friend of mine.  It’s a memory that I hold close to me here in Seoul.  It was the night of my going away party.  About 20 of my friends showed up and drank with me at this bar that my friend Brian worked at.  There was this friend of mine, I girl I’d known for a few years, but never really got to know too well.  She was a pretty girl, a bit shy at times, but talkative when necessary.  She was Italian and Portuguese (an incredible combo) and she had subtle olive oil glow to her skin, and long curly brown hair.  She had a beautiful body, and a beautiful name to match:  Lorraina Molino. 

I never knew she was into me, but towards the end of my party she was still lingering around, and I quickly got the hint. 

“Where are you staying tonight?” she asked.  I was already moved out of my apartment and staying at my friends until the move to Seoul.  She asked if she could crash there with me because her place was far away.  I said sure, but didn’t really know what to take from it.  Here she was, this girl I’d known for years, and never knew she had any interest in me.

Goodbye sex is meant to be steamy and passionate and a tad bit raunchy.  With Lorraina it was surprisingly good and kinky and a little raunchy despite it being our first time in bed.  Usually some things need time to get ironed out.  You sometimes need the time to feel a person out and to get to know the way they are in bed, but we seemed to mesh together well.  It was a good sending off, which is what goodbye sex should be! 

It was a nice little nugget of ass to tide me over as I got re-adjusted to life in Korea.  I sure needed it, because I think that after I landed in Korea, it was about  3 weeks before I  got laid.

Anonymity

Posted in sex with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 17, 2009 by sexwithseoul

Through reading this blog you will learn about my sexual adventures in the city of Seoul, South Korea.  You will also, incidentally, learn about me.  Despite this fact, I feel the need to remain anonymous. 

You are what you eat.  Really?  Is that true?  I love eating 낙지볶음 (nakjee bokkum, or spicy little octopus tenticles) — does that make me a spicy sea dwelling animal? 

In the instance of this blog, I am writing about my life.  The writing is autobiographical, it’s based on my experiences.  So am I what I write?  Is my life what I write?  Some might say so, but I think not.

The second that I write about any experience, the I that is me, disappears.  It might have been Foucault or Lacan or some other French pre-cursor to deconstructionism  that said “when the author writes, he disappears into the words”.  Through writing, I become non-existent.  All that is left behind, is words.  The words are read by a reader, and digested and thought about by that reader, but the author who penned them has vanished and is gone. 

These words are a boat that I send off on a suicide mission in the deep and dangerous waters of the internet.  These words are sent off absent of my name so that I don’t get google-harpooned to death.

These words are fictions of my life.  They are not really me, and they are not to be confused with me, but I’m afraid my reader might not know that.  When I send these words off, when I hit “PUBLISH” I leave myself open to your interpretations, judgments, and accusations.  In Korea, where reputation and image and status is everything–this is incredibly true.  It rings true everywhere else, but it seems to be especially harsh here. 

Through this medium I wish to express the things that I would never dare to express to my boss, or some of my co-workers, but that I feel that I must tell.  I understand that as readers, we love to attach a name, a person, a soul to what we read.  I know that authors love to attach their soul to what they write, but “it ain’t me, babe“.  If you want that in a writer, I urge you to read on and continue to read, as a formula, a style, a better purpose and understanding will emerge from this exercise, but you chose not to–that’s okay too.  I know that some of you will be angered by what you read.  Oftentimes I can’t stand reading blogs because it really is a form of torture for me.  I get so fed up with some people and their ideas.  I’m as unfaithfaul to blogs as I am unfaithful to women I date.  I can’t stand them after awhile.  I lose interest, and I move on.  I only expect you to do the same.  

Sex sells, sex grabs attention.  I got your attention with the title of the blog.  Now some of you will be interested.  Some of you will sit and read with your ears perked up.  Some of you will get a boner.  Some of you will double click your mouse.  I will want you to double click your mouse.  Some of you will get really angry with me and go over to the “Report as Mature” option and report me to the authorities at WordPress.  Some of you will write me nasty e-mails or leave me nasty comments.  Some of you will be left with the notion that “those dirty fucking foreigners teaching English in Korea really are losers who just come over here to steal our women” and some of you will become obsessed with hating me, and you will read these words only to disagree with them and churn up some ball of hate inside of you for what you think I am and what you think I represent–  all of this okay.  I am fine with it, but really, I just don’t want my name, my beautiful name (it really is a beautiful name, I swear, I’d love to see it up here _______ _______ it’d look so nice in bold 14 point Times New Roman!) but no, no I just can’t do it!  I just can’t do it for me, for my family name, for my future children, for my job, and for my employer, and for my country (bullshit!). 

If I must have a name, if you must call me something, call me “Danny” short for “Daniel”.

Deconstruction’s got my back.  I’m disappearing into this thing with every stroke of the keys.  Hello…Goodbye…

Like a magic trick.  I’m disappearing into this thing and never coming out of it.  You want Sex With Seoul (or sex with soul), I’ll tell you about it. 

Anonymity is a good thing.  It’s sometimes it’s a good thing….

  and now an anecdote from The Book of Daniel

 

Back in New York there was this girl that I dated.  I met her when I got invited to her apartment through a friend of a friend of a friend.  She was having a Halloween party.  I can remember it pretty well because I showed up sober, and I remember thinking that it would really suck.  It was an okay party.  This girl was a nurse and her roommate was a nurse too.  The roommate was this hot Trinidadian girl with skin the color of burnt sienna (you know, the Crayola crayon color), and maybe it didn’t even really look like burnt sienna, like the way that Crayola made it, but in my mind, synesthetically, the color of her skin made me smell something burnt, like the burnt bark of a tree, or some burnt incense.  She was dressed up like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.  The other girl was a tall curvy white woman dressed up as  Flapper Girl, or like a 1920′s flapper dancer or something.  She had on this sparkly ruby red dress and these fishnet stockings, and these heels, and a shiny black wig that was in a bob.  She had blue eyes, and thin lips that she made bigger with red lipstick.  She smoked her cigarettes out of a cigarett holder, she was a fantastic host, but she was nowhere near as memorable as her roommate, the sexy Trinidadian girl dressed up like Dorothy with the burnt sienna skin. 

The flapper girl was a great host, and the more talkative of the two.  I remember getting really drunk and talking to her.  The two roomates worked together at a hospital and were x-ray technicians (not quite nurses, but almost).  I was a poor ass college kid studying Ancient Greece in one of my classes that semester.  I remember telling her about this and her being really impressed.  I dunno how, but like so many times in my life, this chick just started digging me, and I was in.  She was petting my head and I was rubbing her fishnetted (is that a word?) leg, and we were talking all cute.

“Will you come back later tonight?” she asked.  I don’t really know why.  I think she wanted to clean up or something.  So I agreed to come back later cuz I figured that I’d surely get laid.  So I left and got a drink at this bar with the friends that I went to the party with. 

When I went back to her apartment, I was surprised.  She was out of the sexy flapper dress…and in some very unattractive pajamas.  Also gone was the sexy black bob wig, and the lipstick.  Instead, she had some long flowing blonde hair.  Some guys love blondes and would be amazed and glazed with a happy golden smile about this, but not me.  I actually dislike blondes, possibly for the reason that so many guys (especially in the 80′s) seemed to make such a big fucking deal about them! 

She looked like a totally different girl.  I couldn’t quite place her identity (which is why in my memory, I must partially think of her when I think of anonymity).  Furthermore, I can’t for the life of me remember this girl’s name.  In my list she is known only as “X-Ray Girl”.  My memory of her physical body is vague, and my memory of her is vague too.

After I went back to her apartment and she greeted me in her pajamas, we quickly started to kiss and we went to her bedroom where the first thing I did was take off those whack ass pajamas and fuck the shit outta her.  I can think of a million excuses right now (the heat of the moment, my dog ate it, she doesn’t believe in them) but for some stupid reason there was no condom involved in the sex that night, just straight up bareback humping.  Like an author who disappears onto the page, my cock disappeared into her…

“Where is it?”

“Oh wait, it’s there!”

“Now it’s gone!”

“Where is it?”

“It’s there!”

“–Now gone!”

“Where?!”

And after the deed was done, I was gone too, off into the night on the subway back home.  Another girl, another anonymous person in a city of millions.  I didn’t even know her name.

Two weeks later I realized I had the clap.  Yup, that’s right, the bacterium Chlamydia trachomatis, the most common sexually transmitted disease known to man (and woman).  The word “Chlamydia” comes from the Greek word χλαμύδος which means “cloak”.  Funny, we didn’t learn that in the Ancient Greek Civ. class that I was taking that semester.  It’s a sexually transmitted disease known as a “cloak” because oftentimes people carry it but are unaware of it for months because symptoms don’t always show up.  It’s the disguised STD that seems to burn people the most.

This was my 2nd round with the clap, so when I felt the burning sensation when I pissed, and when I could see the discharge coming out, I knew exactly what it was.  Only this round of the clap was much harsher than the last.  The last time I didn’t show any symptoms, but instead got a call from an ex-lover and then tested positive for it.  This time around I was pissing hot razorblades that had been held over a burning stove.  I ran to the clinic and dripped the whole way there.  They got me on antibiotics right away, and I was cured and back on the streets working my magic in no time.

The blonde from the Halloween party was the last girl I slept with, and I hadn’t been with anyone for a while before her, so I figured it must have been her who gave it to me.  I thought it was odd, seeing as how she was an x-ray tech and she worked in a hospital, in the health profession and all, but hey–everyone can get and spread STDs. 

One night, I was out in this bar that I used to frequent, and sure enough, she was there.  I couldn’t remember her name, but it was her alright.  X-Ray Girl.  She was there with a guy and I presumed that they were on a date, because they were sitting alone together in a booth.  With what little identifiable information I had about her, I approached her.  At closer sight, I realized her breasts were quite larger than I remembered them.  Her waist was quite slim too.  She looked good.

“Hey, uh, remember me?” I said.  She looked over, caught off guard, surprised.

“Yeah, you never called me.” she said, giving me attitude.  And then, I dunno what it was, I guess all the pain that I felt, the burning, the razorblades, the dripping, the embarassment and the humiliation, I just wanted to make her feel it too

“Yeah, and uh, you gave me the clap!” I snapped back.  The awkwardness of the situation (or perhaps a burning sensation) sent the guy she was with to get up and go to the bathroom. 

“What?!  No I didn’t!”

“Yeah, you gave me the clap!”

She denied and I accused.  We went back and forth until she started crying, and not wanting to make any more of a scene I left.  I thought about this, and I still think about this:  I accused her of giving me the clap eventhough I was not certain that she gave it to me.  All I knew was that she slept with me, and I had symptoms afterwards. 

I admit that I was an asshole for approaching her about this at a bar (especially when she was on a date with another guy), but after seeing her, I felt I had to say something to her. 

After that night, I never saw her again.  She weaved back into the anonymity that she once belonged to, and all that I am left with is the memory of her Halloween party, and the night I told her that she gave me the clap.  I don’t know her name.  I don’t know the details of her life.  I have very few chunks of information to go by:  blonde, x-ray tech, hospital, the clap….

I too wish to enjoy that anonymity.  Leaving you, my dear reader with a few chunks of information about me here, and a few chunks of information about me there, I plan to be weightless and sheathed in my anonymity–disappearing into these words and never existing.  I feel that it is the only way that I can share these stories with the world, if not telling them myself.  As I have told many of these stories already, I have felt the tarnishing effects of them on my reputation.  Most often, I don’t care.  These stories are me, right?  No.  This is how I make me disappear.  This is my detachment, my escape plan, my way out.

Introduction

Posted in Uncategorized on June 15, 2009 by sexwithseoul

I’m originally from New York.  I’m in Seoul doing exactly what I used to do in New York.  I teach English, and I date women,  I read books, I eat out, I sleep with women,  I go to bars, I go to clubs, I dance, I drink, I screw, I kiss in public, I have fun, I live life.

I’ve only lived in Seoul for 3.5 months.  In that time I have managed to have a great amount of incredibly memorable, dangerous, hilarious, and ridiculous sexual adventures with many many women.  As I’ve re-told these stories in my office at work, or in the confines of text messages or instant message boxes, or in the smoke-filled din of Itaewon pubs, I have heard repeatedly that I should write these stories down. 

“Sexual adventures?” you ask….  yeah, like that time that I woke up in Bucheon to an angry Korean ex-boyfriend yelling at me for sleeping with his woman, or that time I slept with a woman that I met for a language exchange, only to find out later that she was married, or that time that a sexy 31 year old doctor checked my penis in the back of a taxi cab, or that time I bedded a cute little 19 year who barely spoke a drop of English…and so many many more…

But of course, the first second that I attempt to write these sexual adventures in some sort of book or collection–I come across as a sexist pig, as a dirty manwhore who can be the target for anger and hatred.   In doing so, my name may forever be tarnished and associated with my words, possibly barring me from certain future possiblities.

So my good friend suggested that I write an anonymous blog–this way these stories can be shared with the world.  I can exercise my skills at writing, get some (other) form or release from all of these sexual adventures, and you, my dear reader, get to dissect my words and possibly even experience a different kind of life, or perhaps even a life that is not far from fiction, but is your reality as well.

As I write this introduction, I feel that it can never really be good enough–it will never really suffice what I have to say.  For now this will have to make do, and through time and experimentation I will figure out exactly how I want this blog to go. 

I will write of my adventures as they occur, but I have quite a bit of bactktracking to do…

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