“So, that was it. I left the apartment, quit my jobs, joined the military.”

“What kind of jobs were you doing then, before serving?” Seunghoon serves more beer as Minho holds out his glass. He doesn’t keep eye contact with Minho anymore; the atmosphere is somewhat tense because of the conversation they are having. It doesn’t take Minho two seconds to realize that.

“Well, I work different jobs. A nice way to say that I’m not financially stable. But I’m sure you know.”

“Yeah. Our generation inherited a ty planet, scarce resources, and ed up politics.” Seunghoon nods his head.

“But the military was also as fabulous as I could get anywhere else, hunty.” Minho changes to the gay dialect that he rarely uses, attempting to crack a joke to change the mood when he realizes he takes up too much space. He doesn’t know what becomes of him; he shouldn’t have shared too much of himself to someone he just met. Lee Seunghoon might have been the same person he was thinking of –  how he dearly wishes, but even so, Minho must have not really known him then. If their conversations were like this, he wouldn’t have had forgotten. Just how did this guy get him so at ease communicating like this?

“What do you mean?” Seunghoon looks slightly surprised at the change in Minho’s voice. To be honest, Minho never really uses this kiki-voice, afraid of those who would reduce gayness into that one annoying stereotype. [All gay men do not talk like they have some permanent stick up their and bad smell under their nose, they just love to sound different from the boring straight counterparts, thank you very much]. But he does every now and then in close circle and trusted friends. Or when he really, really wants someone to laugh at his failed attempt at gay slangs. “I get to spend my time with tanned men who, thanks to our homophobic but homosocial culture, will swing their willies at me without a second thought.”

“Gross.” Seunghoon almost immediately knits his eyebrows at the image. His body language changes naturally; he stands a little taller with his shoulders arched back, his arms folded at the hip, hands touching elbows. Minho smiles at the not-so-subtle change in the bartender’s pose.

“Agreed. I don’t get why straight men are so obsessed with their .” Minho stops for a second, then slyly continues. “They don’t even know good s.” Seunghoon quickly covers his mouth, trying to hold back the laughters. He looks to the side as he struggles to not laugh out loud. Minho suddenly feels warm inside – a weird, tingly sensation of being understood by a person who probably shares a mutual social position. All the dark thoughts and troubles seem to just dissolve like they were never there a minute ago. Seunghoon fixes his collar and straighten up his vest as he finally calms down:

“Well, phallocentric tendency is always less about and all about dominance, just like how uality is never about and always about defining what it is and how it can be done. But I’m sure you already know.”

“Okay, I gotta ask this one thing,” Minho puts down the half empty glass of beer down and looks at Seunghoon in awe, “I’m really glad that somehow you speak this type of language, but you really sound like one of those who graduated from a fancy liberal art college, the kind that required you to read Judith Butler and Jacques Derrida.”

“That’s because I am.” Seunghoon shrugs. “I ended up in debt, but wouldn’t trade the experiences.”

“How come? Because of education quality?”

“Nah. Because the hyungs in my campus for some reasons had access to unlimited amount of weed and LSD that we spent most of the times high out of our mind and talked politics.”

“Dang, we must have been in the same parties. I made it out of there mostly alive but never the same anymore. Except all we do was vomiting sentences that do not register in the repertoire of human language.”

“That is actually equivalent to talking politics when high. Or just talking about politics in general.”

Minho swears if he was not slightly buzzed, he will gather the whole city round and make them applause. How much more brilliant can this guy get? This will go down into history as the definition of politics. Or at least make into an entry of urban dictionary: /p/ politics – equivalent of taking LSD and trying to language at the same time.

“You are so smart and so damn funny.” Minho’s compliment sounds slightly on the desperate side. He regretfully adds. “Sorry, it sounds better in my head.” Seunghoon smiles back:

“No, it’s fine. Thank you. I’m glad it makes you feel better.”

Minho looks at Seunghoon and realizes at the same time that the bartender has been trying to cheer him up. He holds up the glass again but Seunghoon shakes his head. He gets the hint and asks for a cup of cold water instead, which the bartender gladly serves.

“What department were you in back then that you had to take those classes?”

“Theatrical and performance studies.” Mino is sure he found the one he needs. It is Christmas after all – and terrible as he is, he should have counted in god to bring him to the right place at the right time. “We read the radical stuff as parts of the theoretical approaches to performing.” Seunghoon explains. “The professor was a radical queer woman; she taught us a thing or two about the gendered performances. I really appreciate it – as a -holder who benefits of male privilege, I’m not a fan of phallocentrism at all.”

“As for me though,” Minho smirks, “my phallocentric tendency is always about the and never about dominance. Not applied, however, when s are at the scene.”

“Oh.” Seunghoon raises his eyebrows. “So… both ways?”

“One way.” Minho smiles. “Human way. What are you doing after this?”

“Nothing. But I’m not going home with you.”

Minho’s smile freezes upon the cold answer. Taken aback, he doesn’t know what to do but pulling out some cash from his pocket and leaves them on the table. He almost drops them to the floor in the process.

“Keep the change and have a nice rest of the night.”

Seunghoon grabs his wrist before he can turn around, but let go right away when he looks back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you without permission.” Minho glares at him without saying anything.

“But you have had quite a few drinks. You should wait a bit till you sober up before going home.” Seunghoon gives him another cold water and Minho feels rather stupid about his abrupt action. He receives the glass from Seunghoon in an awkward position of half-standing, half-sitting on the bar stool. He debates whether or not to sit back or to stand up and excuse himself after drinking the water.

“The bar will close in 15 minutes – so don’t worry, I won’t keep you here for long.” Seunghoon says as he starts packing things up. It is not like he has much to do – the man manages to clean everything during the conversation. Minho looks around and realized that the lights have been turned up and the last call was around fifteen minutes ago; there is not one single soul left except him and Seunghoon.

“I think I just made myself look quite like a jerk.” Finally Minho speaks up. “For coming onto you then rudely leave when rejected.”

“Ah, short summary of what happened?” Seunghoon says as he steps out from the bar while undoing his short apron. He s the collar and starts rolling up his sleeves. “My shift is over.” He proceeds to pour himself a drink and sits next to Minho’s seat.

“I got flustered.” Minho confesses.

“Not used to rejection, it seems.” Seunghoon’s tender chuckle confuses Minho. He was so sure, just thirty seconds ago, that the man doesn’t want nothing to do with him – yet they somehow are flirting again.

“So, why?”

“Remember I told you how I can read lost boys, runaways, and the unfits very well?” Seunghoon smiles at him. “You are none of the above.” He sips from his glass. Minho waits for him to continue.

“You are just a broken-hearted boy.” He says, and looks Minho straight in the eyes. Minho unconsciously leans back. “So stop with those heartless flirts, you didn't run away to keep doing this. Plus,” Seunghoon continues, “whoever I am, you don’t even remember me.”

Minho doesn’t know what to say. He runs out of excuse – and realizing that during this whole time, his excuses had kept his self-esteem intact by convincing him that he actually got reasons to live recklessly and ruthlessly as he did. He inhales deeply and turns to face Seunghoon:

“Well, I don’t. I don’t think I forgot a lot of people, but I must have.”

“But you also remember a lot of things.”Seunghoon’s sharp-edged eyes with slightly smudged black eyeliner on the bottom lashes makes Minho think longer than he should.

“It always starts with the family.” He admits defeat.

“Ah, the family.” Seunghoon takes another sip. “Always the family that makes it or break it for queer folks.”

 “Did it break you?” Minho hesitantly asks.

“No, I broke it.” Seunghoon answers while pouring himself another glass of brandy.

“How was the talk?” He asks again after the bartender puts down his drink.

“It went fast. There was no crying, no yelling, no begging. My mom had passed away since I was young so I was the only family. My dad was older, so he didn’t understand. I wanted to hide so it wouldn’t make him sad, but he found out through the nosy neighbor. I was thrown out when I was fourteen.”

“Fourteen.” Minho repeats. “How did you even survive?”

“What do you think?” Seunghoon drifts his gaze from elsewhere back to meet Minho’s. Ah. Minho finds himself amazingly embarrassed because of his own question. Of course, even though the South Korean public remains oblivious to how LGBT youth became homeless, he should know better. Even the most prominent LGBT youth-oriented programs tip toe around the fact that LGBT youths are more likely to end up in ion, services, and other unsafe illegal practices. There has been no research done on LGBT youth drop-outs and runaway, they say, they don’t know what kind of lives these youngsters will face, or why they are on the street. It really takes a genius not to figure out how a young person can survive on their own without food or money in a society that simultaneously criminalize uality and ualize younger bodies.

“Back then, the gay tourism industry in Itaewon wasn’t as popular as it is now.” Seunghoon says. “Not that it is a good thing. All I’m saying is workers are never protected by laws, especially the underage, and it was an ideal situation for predators and abusive customers. At least the tourists who came for tourism weren’t always dealing with denial and self-hatred, they just want some good times.”

“I’m sorry, Seunghoon-ssi.” Minho whispers.

“I had it easier than other homeless folks. I found myself a sugar daddy.” Seunghoon continues. “He adopted me, that tells you how messy it gets. I get to play a gay Lolita.” Minho puts his right hand on top of Seunghoon’s. The bartender takes it into his palm and slightly grips his fingers. “But the man wasn’t too terrible. At least I get to finish high school before leaving him for good and pursuing higher education. That’s better than a lot of other scenarios; I could still be working as a gay worker or in host club for straight women, and when I get older, all I will get is occasional paid hookups in bathhouses. You know the drill.”

It’s clear that Seunghoon’s ideas of one night stands and fast-forward hookups are really different from Minho’s. He feels utterly ashamed of his stupid act a while ago.

“I guess I developed Stockholm syndrome.” Seunghoon pulls out from his pocket a pack of red Marlboro and offers Minho one. Minho slightly shook his head but get the lighter ready anyway; Seunghoon leans his head toward Minho to light the tip of the cigarette. “That is probably why I took a bunch of loans to pursue a degree in that expensive institution. I wanted to become better, and bigger than him – it becomes really easy to forgive people when you’re superior. I wanted to forgive him that much. The guy who took care of me was a professor of philosophy. When we were not having , we would cosplay father and son. He would read poems to me, the really beautiful ones that talk about gay love and gay identity. You see, am I supposed to hate him for screwing an underage – albeit that child was me, or should I be grateful because he took care of me when no one else did, and taught me that my existence is beautiful?”

Minho takes the cigarette from Seunghoon’s hand and inhales deeply. Seunghoon closes his eyes as if he tries to reminisce the past. “My favorite one was ‘Mayakovsky’ by a New York painter and poet named Frank O’Hara. It goes like this.”

My heart’s aflutter!
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it’s throbbing!

Minho exhales, both the held breath and the smoke inside his lungs. He continues where Seunghoon leaves off. He somehow knows this poem by heart.

I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Seunghoon softly smiles. “Minho-ssi. As queer people, we have spent our lives quietly waiting for the catastrophe of our personality to seem beautiful again.* It might take one’s parents to make one, but they don’t have to be the one to break one.”

“No, they don’t.” Minho dazedly repeats after Seunghoon. “What happened to your dad afterwards?”

“He died recently.” Seunghoon says emotionlessly. “The last thing he said to me was, ‘I hope you rot in hell’.” Minho drops the cigarette into the ashtray. His index finger nail smells like burnt wood.

“But I am not, you know, I am not.” Seunghoon pats his pants to get rid of the splattered ashes sticking on the fabric. Minho watches him standing up and grabbing his bag. “I might be struggling and working a job that more often than not remind me of my past when customers harmlessly hit on me.” Minho lowers his head once again. “But I’m alive, and I am myself again. And so are you.”

[* italic parts of the dialogue are from the poem.]