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 is low, thick with that late-night hush that only hotel rooms seem to create—dim lights, cold wine on the bedside table, your bare legs draped over mine, skin soft and warm against the crisp white sheets. You’re younger, sharper, always pretending to be more amused than intrigued. But I can tell you want to know. You always do.

I tilt my head to look at you, the corner of my mouth curling.

“It was Shanghai.”

I let the name linger, slow like smoke. “The Bund glittering like a jewel box, the air heavy with humidity and promise. I’d just come from a dinner with a tech firm—everyone posturing, toasting baijiu like it was water. I slipped out early and ended up at a speakeasy hidden behind a tea shop in the French Concession.”

My fingers trace lazy lines across your thigh. You pretend not to notice.

“She was already there. Cheongsam so tight I was convinced it had been stitched onto her. She had this way of speaking Mandarin—fast, clipped, like she didn’t care if you kept up. Her laugh was sharp, eyes sharper.”

I pause, watching your lips part slightly.

“She asked me if I liked Chinese girls. Said it like a challenge. Then she dragged me into the alley behind the bar and kissed me so hard I nearly forgot how old I was.”

I exhale, lips brushing against your temple.

“She brought me back to her high-rise. All concrete and glass and blackout curtains. Told me to undress while she played some sultry old Teresa Teng record on vinyl. Didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.”

I feel your breath catch. My hand stills on your skin.

“That was the first night. There were three more before I left. Each one a little rougher. A little sweeter.”

I glance down at you, eyes half-lidded, voice almost a whisper now.

“Want to hear what she said the last night? Right before she tied my wrists with her silk sash?”

“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.”

“You’re trouble, you know that?” I murmur, lips brushing your temple as I settle deeper into the pillows of your family’s guest bedroom. The door’s shut, but it doesn’t lock. I can hear faint voices downstairs—your parents, maybe your siblings. Makes it worse. Makes it better.

You’re lying on your stomach, chin resting on your crossed arms, bare legs kicking gently in the air, one of my shirts draped over you like you forgot to finish putting clothes back on. Or didn’t want to. I let my hand trail slowly down your back, watching you shiver just slightly at my touch.

“You keep asking about the wildest one. The craziest girl I’ve ever been with. Fine. Mexico.”

I pause, smiling at the way your body tenses a little, like you know this one’s going to leave a mark.

“Oaxaca. Day of the Dead. The whole city lit up like a dream—candles, marigolds, faces painted like skulls, the scent of mezcal and copal in the air. She was a tattoo artist. Wore a white embroidered dress, no bra, bones inked up her ribs. Said I looked like someone who’d break hearts and needed to have his broken.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but your eyes are locked on mine. I lean in, speaking just above a whisper now.

“She pulled me into her studio after midnight. Lit a candle. Played old rancheras on a crackling speaker. Told me to take off my shirt so she could sketch on my back… and then climbed onto me without ever picking up the pen.”

I feel your breath catch. Good. I shift a little closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“She said if I made her come twice, she’d tattoo her name somewhere I’d never show in polite company.”

A beat passes. I can hear your heart thudding through the silence.

“Want to know if I earned that ink?”

“You really want to hear about France?” I murmur, brushing my knuckles along your jaw, slow and easy, like I’ve got all night—and I do. We’re tangled up in the sheets of your childhood bedroom, no less. Door locked, the old ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above us, muffled voices of your family drifting up from downstairs. You said they’d never come up without knocking. I didn’t ask how you were so sure.

Your leg is draped over mine, warm and bare, and I feel your breath catch just slightly when I shift under you. You always ask for stories when we’re like this. And you know I’ll always give them.

“Paris,” I say, dragging the word out like a drop of honey. “I was younger then. Still older than you are now, but—hungry.”

I smile faintly at your expression. I know you like it when I say things like that.

“She was older than me. A gallery curator. Wore black silk blouses and smoked Gitanes on her balcony like it was still 1963. Called me ‘mon loup’—my wolf. Said I had the hunger in my eyes.”

You shift again, pressing closer. My hand slides down your back, resting at the small of it.

“We met at a café in the Marais. She liked that I didn’t try too hard. She said French men always begged. I didn’t.”

I lean in closer, my lips grazing your ear now, voice a shade deeper.

“She didn’t take me to her place. She took me to the back room of the gallery after hours. Pressed me up against a wall-sized mirror while a chandelier rattled overhead.”

I pause, letting the tension stretch, letting your imagination fill in what I haven’t said—yet.

“Want to know what she did when I finally let her take control?”

“You really want to hear this one?” I murmur, brushing my thumb across your bottom lip as we lie together in the back seat of my car, windows fogged, your dress pushed up just enough to remind me how reckless we’re being. The lot is empty. Somewhere outside, the world moves on—but in here, it’s just your breath on my neck and the heat between our tangled limbs.

You nod, slow, teasing. I smirk.

“Afghanistan. Long time ago. Back when I still thought I could outrun consequence.”

I let my hand rest on your thigh, just above your knee. You don’t stop me.

“Her name was Amina. Kandahar girl. Always wore the hijab, always lowered her gaze in public. But she had this fire in her—sharp tongue, sharper mind. She worked in a medical outpost, helping women no one else would touch. She saw things. Survived things.”

My voice softens, but it stays low. Intimate. “I was stationed nearby. We started talking over chai—burnt sugar, milk, cardamom. She’d sneak me in after dark, past her uncle’s compound wall, past the guard dogs.”

I feel your breath hitch. My fingers trail just a bit higher.

“She kept everything on. The scarf. The robes. Said it made it hotter, knowing how forbidden it was. Said she’d burn for it, but she’d still do it again.”

You shift in my lap, your hips pressing into mine just enough to make me pause. I look at you, eyes narrowed, voice rough.

“Want to know how quiet she had to be the night she came with my hand over her mouth and her prayer beads still wrapped around her wrist?”

“You really shouldn’t let me talk like this out here…”

I murmur it low, voice brushing your ear as we sit tucked away behind the stone wall of an old temple garden—quiet, hidden, the kind of place no one wanders into unless they’re looking for trouble. And trouble’s exactly what you’ve found, curled against me, your skirt riding just high enough to tempt, your breath catching every time I shift a little closer.

“Vietnam,” I say, resting a hand on your thigh, slow and possessive. “Not the version in glossy travel magazines. This was deep countryside—dust roads, lanterns swaying from bamboo poles, and eyes that lingered when a foreigner walked through.”

You tilt your head toward me, lips parted but silent, the way you always get when I start a story like this.

“She worked in her aunt’s noodle stall. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. Barefoot, shy smile, dirt on her hands from chopping herbs out back. She didn’t know a word of English—just stared up at me like I was the first man who’d ever looked her in the eyes.”

My voice dips. “I taught her the word ‘kiss’ first. Then ‘yes.’ She blushed when I said it, but didn’t look away.”

I glance at you, the corner of my mouth lifting. You’re breathing differently now. Good.

“Took her into the jungle one night, said I wanted to show her fireflies. We barely made it five steps before I had her pinned against a tree, her skirt hiked up, whispering things she couldn’t understand but moaned at anyway.”

I lean in, lips grazing the corner of your jaw.

“She still didn’t speak a word of English when I left. But the last thing she did was pull my hand between her legs and smile like she knew exactly what she wanted.”

I pause, fingers tightening just slightly on your thigh.

“Want me to show you what I taught her?”

You’re nestled against me, your legs tangled with mine under the linen sheets, warm and relaxed, but I can feel the curiosity simmering just beneath your quiet exterior. That look in your eyes—the one that says “tell me something no one else knows”—it’s become familiar. Addictive.

I reach over you and grab my old phone from the floor. “Here. I’ll show you something I shouldn’t.” The screen lights up. My fingers move with muscle memory, opening a folder I haven’t touched in years. The label just says: HK 2019.

“That was a wild time,” I say, scrolling past videos of street fires, canisters smoking in the night, kids in black with masks and helmets, ducking behind umbrellas. “Protests in full swing. Cops in riot gear everywhere. You could taste the fear and freedom in the air.”

You lean in closer, eyes scanning the screen as I stop on a photo: a girl with cropped hair dyed the color of chrysanthemum tea, hoodie half-zipped, a streak of blood down her cheek, but smiling. Vivid. Alive. Alive like only someone who just escaped something dangerous can be.

“Her name was Fei,” I say softly. “She was cornered down an alley near Prince Edward station. A young cop had her up against a shuttered dim sum joint, baton in one hand, zip ties in the other. He was about to take her in—no questions asked.”

I glance at you, then swipe to the next photo: the back of my own figure in silhouette, one hand outstretched, the other gripping a broken street sign.

“I didn’t fight him,” I murmur. “Didn’t need to. I just stepped in, said something in my worst Mandarin, and stared him down like I had diplomatic immunity. I had that Viking look going on—tall, white, unpredictable. He got spooked and backed off.”

Another swipe. Fei, panting, pressed against a wall, eyes wild. Her lips parted. Her hands clenched in the collar of my shirt.

“She didn’t say ‘thank you.’ Just dragged me into the stairwell behind a bubble tea shop and… showed her appreciation. Enthusiastically. Like it was the only way she knew how to breathe again.”

I turn the screen off and toss the phone onto the mattress beside us. My hand slides slowly up your side, drawing lazy circles on your skin.

“Hong Kong’s like that,” I murmur. “Tense. Claustrophobic. Electric. You never know if you’re walking into a memory or a revolution.” I look into your eyes. “And you, my dear… feel like both.”