Elias

“You know…” I begin, my voice low and drowsy as I pull the sheet a little higher over your bare shoulder, “you remind me a bit of her.”

You look up from where your head rests on my chest, and I smile at the curiosity blooming in your eyes. That youthful glow, that little tilt of mischief behind your lashes—it’s not the same, of course. But it stirs the same instinct in me.

“It was Phuket,” I murmur, reaching for the old leather satchel I keep near the bed. “Monsoon season. Everything was wet, swollen, heavy with promise. I was staying in this half-abandoned villa with broken shutters and too many geckos. Perfect for writing. Or for misbehaving.”

I pull out my phone and swipe to an old folder—dates blurred, EXIF data wiped. Just images. I tilt the screen so you can see. One photo shows a tangle of palm trees and a narrow dirt road. Another: a sunset from the edge of a longtail boat, two feet—hers—resting on the prow.

“Her name was Lin. Twenty-one. Wanted a European boyfriend so badly it hurt. Said all the girls in her village had married Germans, Swedes, Brits. Farangs. Said she wanted someone tall. Rich. Pale.” I laugh gently. “I told her I was only two out of three.”

You smile, but your fingers pause on my stomach.

“She sold bikinis on Patong Beach. Practiced her English by flirting. She wore this gold necklace with her nickname on it—‘Nong Lin’—and she’d twist it around her finger while she talked. She asked me, straight-faced, on the second night: ‘You take me home? Make me wife?’”

Another swipe. A blurry selfie: me shirtless on a balcony, her kissing my neck from behind, her long dark hair covering her face. I hand you the phone and let you scroll through the others if you want—pictures of mango sticky rice, the green motorbike we crashed, a photo of her asleep on my chest, not unlike how you are now.

“She had a way of moving that made you think of temple dancers. Graceful but practiced. She knew what men wanted to see. And she gave it, all wide eyes and soft pouts, until the lights went out.” “Then…” I exhale slowly, tracing lazy circles on your lower back, “she was something else entirely.”

I look at you again—your youth, your warmth, your quiet thrill at hearing me open up—and lean in close.

“She wanted a farang husband. But I was never built for settling down. I gave her a week of chaos instead. And every time I smell jasmine now, I think of her.”

I take the phone from your hands and set it aside. “But tonight,” I murmur, lips brushing your ear, “I’m not thinking about her anymore.”

“Come here,” I murmur, my arm already draped loosely over your waist as you slide closer into the warmth of my chest. “It’s too late for distractions and too early to pretend we’re just sleeping.”

Your skin hums against mine, that soft, unspoken curiosity still flickering in your eyes—the kind I’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Not with you.

“I don’t usually tell this one,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Too many people might guess who she is, and she’s quite… visible now.” My voice curls into something sly, seductive. “But for you? I’ll make an exception—if you promise not to ask her name.”

I trail my fingers along the small of your back, just enough to remind you I’m here now, not then.

“Seoul, 2014. I was staying in a little officetel just off Gangnam-daero. High enough to see the city lights bleed into the Han River. She was nineteen, maybe twenty, and already obsessed with her reflection. One of those perfect little K-pop trainees—strict schedule, calorie counting, dead behind the eyes from dancing five hours a day in full makeup.”

I pause, letting my breath brush your shoulder. “She bumped into me at a rooftop bar in Itaewon. Said I looked like an old movie actor. I said she looked like trouble.” I chuckle, low and warm. “She didn’t deny it.”

“She told me later that she wasn’t even supposed to be out that night. Company rules, curfews, image control. But I gave her her first cigarette, her first glass of real whisky. Told her what they were too afraid to teach her—that discipline without sin is just performance. That night…” My hand tightens around your hip, just slightly. “…she learned a different kind of choreography.”

You shift slightly, and I feel the tension rise, subtle but unmistakable. I press a kiss to the curve of your shoulder and let the memory hang in the air.

“She became famous not long after. Billboard. Inkigayo. Always so pristine on stage. You’d never guess what she begged me to do behind that blackout curtain before her first showcase.”

I tilt your chin up, just enough for your eyes to meet mine. “But I’ll stop there. Because right now, I’m far more interested in you.”

“Tell me… do you want to hear the rest?”

“You know,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against your shoulder, “you remind me of someone I once knew… back in Japan. A small town in the mountains—Inaba. Have you ever heard of it?”

I don’t wait for your answer. I never do when I’m already inside the rhythm of a story.

“I stayed in this old ryokan… generations old, all creaking wood and tatami. Her name—well, never mind the name. But she was the daughter of the owner. Always in a red yukata, hair pinned perfectly, never a strand out of place. You would’ve loved the way she bowed—like her spine was made of silk.”

I slip a hand behind your neck, tilting your face toward mine, so I can watch your expression change. You’re not sure if you’re jealous or turned on. I like that.

“She was shy in front of her parents, of course. But behind paper screens? She had this quiet hunger. Not loud like girls in the cities. It was… practiced. Intentional. She served me tea with hands that were trembling—then fucked me like she’d been preparing her whole life.”

I pause to run my thumb along your lower lip.

“She had this thing about foreigners,” I whisper, “Said I looked like a Norse god. I think she liked the contrast—my pale skin against hers, my hands in her black hair. She told me she fantasized about being taken by a barbarian.”

A slow grin forms as I let the silence thicken, only the sound of the fan and your breath between us.

“But unlike a barbarian, I always leave something behind. A story. A memory. A bruise… or two.”

My hand slides lower again.

“Would you like to hear what I did to her… the night it snowed?”

“You really shouldn’t look at me like that when I’m telling these stories…”

My voice dips into that velvet tone—low, rich, made for hotel rooms and half-drunk honesty. The suite’s dim, the city a blur outside the window, and your legs are stretched out over mine like you belong there. Maybe you do. But you’re hungry tonight—eyes gleaming, lips just parted. You want something wicked.

So I give it to you.

“It was Xi’an.”

I let the word settle. Ancient city, old ghosts, and even older pleasures.

“She was my guide. Fresh-faced, full of rehearsed charm and perfect English. Said she’d studied tourism in Guilin. Had this eager little smile, like every compliment was the first she’d ever heard.”

I swirl the glass in my hand, eyes glinting at the memory.

“I tipped her too much after the museum tour. She blushed, said thank you, but the way she lingered… well. I asked if she had time to show me the local nightlife. She hesitated. Then smiled.”

My hand slips behind your knee, fingers slow and idle.

“She took me to this underground club near the old city wall—red lights, velvet booths, music soft enough to be ignored. She sat close. Too close for it to be innocent.”

You shift slightly. I feel it. You’re hooked.

“She asked if Western men were always so generous. I asked if local girls were always this brave. She laughed. Nervous, excited. Then, right there in the corner booth, she pressed her thigh against mine and whispered, ‘What else would you tip for?’”

I lean in, lips brushing the edge of your ear.

“Her hotel was tiny, clean, tucked above a noodle shop. She made tea. Jasmine. I never got to drink it. She locked the door, unzipped her skirt, and told me she wanted to try something… different.”

I pause, breath warm against your neck.

“She didn’t have much experience. But she learned fast. Eager to please. Curious. That was the night she realized there were things Western men wanted that no local would dare ask for. I think—” my voice turns thoughtful “—I might’ve been her first. At least the first who asked for more than just a tour.”

I feel your breath stutter. My grin grows.

“She kissed me after. Real slow. Then asked if I thought other men like me would pay for a girl who made them feel seen. Touched. Guided.”

I look at you, eyes dark, voice low.

“She’s probably running the whole damn city now. But that night? She was mine.”

“Mm… you feel too good to be real, you know that?”

My hand lazily traces down the curve of your thigh, the way a man touches something he knows he’ll crave again tomorrow. We’re tangled in hotel sheets that still smell faintly of sea salt and whatever perfume you wore when you came knocking.

Outside, the ceiling fan spins in slow, rhythmic turns—like the memory I’m about to unwrap for you.

“You ever been to Siargao?” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Little island in the Philippines—white sand, rice fields, tricycles sputtering past you like beetles… everyone’s barefoot and beautiful.”

You shift under the sheets, and I grin to myself. I know that look. You like the stories, especially the wrong ones.

“She was called Lira. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Tiny. Looked like a sun-kissed elf. Brown as a coconut husk and just as sweet when she smiled—but Christ, the way she rode me…”

I pause for effect, watching your eyes flicker in that way that tells me you’re half jealous, half turned on.

“Condom broke,” I say casually. “Wasn’t built for… well, let’s just say they don’t stock Viking sizes at the sari-sari store.”

You laugh, then try to hide it. I know what you’re thinking—but I’m not lying. I still have the photo somewhere. Her in my button-down shirt, sitting cross-legged in a hammock, belly just starting to show. “She called me her ‘white dragon’. Her aunt called me something else.”

I lean closer, voice low.

“LBFM. Know what that stands for?”

I let it hang in the air, my hand now resting over your stomach like I’m imagining what you’d look like carrying my next scandal.

“Little brown fucking machines. Crude. Racist. But it came from somewhere real.”

I kiss the corner of your mouth—soft, slow, like punctuation.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t let that happen with you… Unless you wanted me to.”