The Melancholy Whore I Might've Known

On sexual longing, deprivation, and self-loathing at 23

All names in this piece have been changed

“Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t find love,” says the protagonist of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores. He learns this lesson after a mere 90 years of life and having slept with at least 500 women (all of them prostitutes, each recorded by name and age in his personal record).

At 23, I had neither sex nor love. College had been a very up-and-down time and never again would I ever feel as full of self-doubt as I did during those years. Despite some exhilarating highs, I mostly remembered the regrets, especially as such a fresh graduate. For instance, I wished I did more writing. But by far, my biggest hangup was that I had somehow managed to go 4 whole years on a liberal campus during the height of hook-up culture (our college was once lambasted on Fox News for our annual sex party) and still technically emerged a virgin.

I say “technically” because in the couple of weeks after graduation, I did end up in bed with a girl. I’d met Cassie in class during our senior year in 2010, and we’d even gone on a semi-date (that didn’t go well). So I thought that was it for us until I ran into her a week or two on campus after graduation (I was staying put all summer to study for the LSATs). So we started Facebook chatting again and she seemed bored, and even my dumb self could sort of get the hint she might be bootycalling me. So I invited her over to watch a movie.

I’ll always associate the final scene of L.A. Confidential with the erotic sensation of Cassie’s long black hair grazing my forearm as we sat on my bed, shoulder-to-shoulder. Still to this day, that remains one of the most sexually charged moments in my life. My heart must’ve raced to 150 BPM as I knew I was out of runtime to delay making my move.

All the movies and stories I’d known growing up made me think that my first time would be cursed with premature ejaculation. But I learned that night that the exact opposite was the bigger danger. So many times during the past 4 years, my cock would get so hard, ready to burst out of my pants, filled with the desperation to be touched by someone other than myself. Blame it on nerves, blame it on condoms, blame it on god(s)... I wanted to fuck Cassie so badly and I think she badly wanted to be fucked too because she moaned unself-consciously when I touched her and she was so deliciously wet and she let me take her little striped panties off and god it was finally going to happen and it was going to feel so good to be inside her.

But when the moment came, I kept losing my erection and I barely penetrated her, if at all. I apologized, but she said it was fine and she was very kind about it all.

What is virginity anyway, though? There have been times I’ve had one night stands with women I wasn’t even that attracted to, simply because I figured I’d take a shot and they were willing. On at least one occasion, I’ve faked orgasms during such encounters because we didn’t have much sexual chemistry but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or embarrass myself. Then there have been other times when I’d be in bed with a woman, we’d be naked (or nearly so) and we’d just talk and she’d spend the night. Why does the former count more than the latter?

With Cassie, she almost certainly knew I was inexperienced. Maybe she’d even had an inkling that she’d be my first. We always remember our first and she wanted to forever imprint herself as that special person in my life. How can that not mean anything?

Sexual philosophizing aside, my 23-year-old self in 2011 very much regarded myself a virgin freak, with each passing chaste moment only worsening my grotesque state of being. To make things more difficult, after graduation, I’d moved back “home” to Seoul, where my parents had returned to from Canada once my brother and I were off to college. My plan was to spend a year in Korea as I contemplated law school. I had no friends there, didn’t know the youth culture that well, and lived with my parents in a small apartment.

But my enrollment at the Korean Language Institute at Yonsei University gave me some hope. At last, I’d be among people my age and get to experience vibrant student life (again). I was a little worried about how I’d do on the diagnostic test, but I did better than I expected. My parents’ lifelong refusal to speak English to me was paying off.

January 12th, 2019: The Korean Language Institute at Yonsei University

Hayumi transferred into our class on the second day because her initial level placement had been too easy. She sat two desks away from me and during conversation period, with the seat between us empty, I began to chat her up.

I’ve reread my journal and it wasn’t as if I’d been lovestruck at first glance. I actually wrote that when I first saw her, I just noted she was “tall and plain.” But she had a charming way of talking and I suddenly noticed how alluring her straight bangs were and how her eyes sparkled. In the next few days, my entries would be filled with sentences like:

Thursday April 7, 2011

I met a girl. Her name is Hayumi.

Sunday April 10, 2011

I get to see Hayumi again tomorrow!

That Monday of our first full week of classes, my plan was to arrive a bit early so that if she was there too, I’d have a chance to talk to her. But I entered an empty classroom and she only came a few minutes before lessons began. During conversation period, I did eventually chat with her, asking her about her weekend. She’d said something about how she liked art, so I asked her if she liked to paint or sketch. No, she said, she just liked studying the subject.

Sometime later, during what must’ve been one of the break periods, she came to sit beside me. But she didn’t say anything, instead just taking a piece of paper and scribbling on it. When she showed it to me, I saw that it was a drawing of a cat. She gave it to me, saying she just wanted to show me the kind of stuff she liked to draw.

An encouraging sign! After classes ended at noon, she and I were heading out at the same time. I’d just given a presentation and she congratulated me on doing a good job. Another excellent sign! So I asked her what she was doing, and when she said she was just going back to her dorm, I asked if she wanted to join me for lunch.

We had naengmyeon together. Both of us spoke in stilted Korean (the lingua franca of a student body comprised mostly of Japanese women), but we managed to get by. Towards the end of the meal, I plainly asked her if she was single, to which she said yes. She seemed a bit surprised by my directness, but I hoped I’d come off as bold. After, she wanted to get dessert, so we did. She was calling me oppa now and we both dropped the honourifics.

Monday April 11, 2011

While we waited for our [bubble] teas, we looked at love notes that couples had put up on the wall. She even touched me on the shoulder.

I didn’t talk much to Hayumi the next day because she was sick. She came bundled with a blanket over her head and had a facemask on. Once, I looked over at her and she looked so adorably pathetic (in the best sense possible) in that getup that I had to stifle my laughter. During break, I bought some cough drops and gave them to her.

On Friday, the class met up at night for dinner and drinks. The Sinchon neighbourhood where Yonsei is located is also home to Ewha Womans University and Hongik University, so it’s a hotspot for young people. I’d explored it before, mostly on my own. But now, for the first time, I’d be in a large group of similarly aged friends, out and about like any typical university student in Seoul.

July 7th, 2012: Sinchon district

For better or for worse, Hayumi didn’t come out (for me, mostly for the better, since I would’ve been way too self-conscious if she’d been there). When we went to a makgeolli bar after dinner, a couple of my classmates, Asuka and Tamura, kept trying to get me to drink more. When I asked if they were up to something, they said they were very curious about something but were afraid to ask me in case I’d get mad. I assured them I was a chill guy.

So they asked me if I liked Hayumi. I first tried to deflect it by saying I merely wanted to be friends with her. But they weren’t having that and kept pressing. I caved and admitted that yes, I did like her. They erupted when they heard this, causing the rest of the group to demand what was so entertaining at our end of the table. We told them it was nothing.

One of my classmates, Machiko, was married to a Korean man and he joined us later. He was probably in his late 20s, maybe early 30s. He had a whole biker thing going on. There was a Korean American, a fellow gyopo, in my class named Devin who was the same age as me. Machiko’s husband gave us two a pep talk about dating and how we were both at a great age, unlike a withered old husk like him.

I did reflect on how I was having a good time at this supposed great age of mine. I’d been disheartened that college hadn’t turned out as I’d expected, and I had little idea of what was to be the rest of my life. But my stay in Korea was turning out to be a much-needed break from the usual, and with the way things were going with Hayumi, I dared to think I might actually have a girlfriend soon (for the first time since high school). There was so much of Seoul, let alone Korea, I hadn’t seen or experienced. To have someone like Hayumi to do it with… I even put a pause on writing, thinking that I needed to live more before I had anything to write about.

Monday April 18, 2011

If Hayumi breaks my heart, today was the warning day.

I sensed something was off with Hayumi when I talked to her on the following Monday. I had to wonder if Asuka and Tamura had told her what I’d said to them last Friday. But I chalked it up to it being a cold dreary Monday and by Wednesday, my fears had been allayed. After classes, Hayumi and I even went to look at the cherry blossoms on campus. I asked her to go to Gyeongbokgung Palace with me that weekend. She said she couldn’t because of a midterm. But she said she would like to go the following weekend.

Wednesday April 20, 2011

I love my life right now.

That Friday, our class hung out at night again. Like last time, Hayumi wasn’t there. So I alone had to face my class’ ecstatic teasing and grilling. By then, everyone knew I liked Hayumi and they all tried to one-up each other on the best schemes to bring her and me together in rom-com fashion. Maybe the whole class could just not show up one morning so she and I’d be alone together. Or they could rig the seating so we’d always be beside each other. My face must’ve been strawberry red throughout the whole ordeal, but I was genuinely touched that they all cared so much.

And if they all knew (Devin told me he’d known from day one), surely she knew as well? Yet she still got coffee with me, went to see those cherry blossoms with me, and had agreed to go out next weekend with me? It was all but certain she reciprocated. At last, a requited love?

I thought of where I would tell her how I felt. Maybe at Gyeongbokgoong Palace. Or maybe at Bukchon Hanok Village. On a date night, with romantic lighting. Definitely not under the fluorescent panels of the KLI hallways.

That Friday night hangout ended with karaoke. I asked Asuka and Tamura if they could sing Yuki No Hana, which I’d learned that past week from Hayumi was the Japanese original of a Korean song I loved, Noon-yi Kkot.¹ They sang beautifully, making it the highlight of my night. Devin and I decided to take a taxi home and I don’t remember what we talked about, but I did note in my journal that we had a “nice little chat.” Probably guy stuff.

That would be the high point of my time at KLI, though. If last Monday had made me wonder about Hayumi’s feelings for me, the subsequent Monday made me seriously doubt them. For the first time, she said no when I asked her if she wanted to get coffee with me at break. She’d said she was too tired, so I figured I’d bring her a cup. But when I returned to class, she was gone. Apparently not that tired anymore. I felt like an idiot there, with both my hands full.

The next day, I received the confirmation I needed when a classmate of mine, Helsya, asked me to join her for lunch. Hayumi was also there, but she quickly excused herself once I arrived. She must’ve sensed a setup and made a run for it.

So I’d misread the signs yet again. Or maybe I’d had a chance in the beginning but I’d fucked up in my usual fucking-up ways. I thought maybe there’d been some cultural miscues because Hayumi was Japanese, but even I thought that was a majorly weak cope. She just didn’t like me that way, and unfortunately, I’d gotten pretty used to that by then.

I did want to talk to someone, though, so I asked Asuka if she wanted to get lunch. She broached the subject that must’ve been obviously showing on my face (and my gait and my tone, etc.), and she generously listened to my venting. I felt much better. Afterwards, I thought about something she said, about how romantic escapades, even one-sided ones, were good. I had to agree. My life had become much more interesting since meeting Hayumi. That, I couldn’t regret.

Hayumi and I definitely did not go to Gyeongbokgoong Palace. When I realized she would now only give me one-word answers anytime I talked to her, I stopped doing so. I thought about just asking her what had happened, but that seemed too confrontational and I worried I might get too emotional. Besides, I was becoming better friends with my other classmates, hanging out with my cousins (one of whom was trying to set me up on a blind date), and getting to know some cool coworkers at my English-teaching job.

A couple of weeks later, we had a class field trip to the National Museum of Korea. By then, I was fine with being in the same class as Hayumi. Maybe I always sat on the opposite side from her, placing her just out of my field of view. But out in the open, it wouldn’t be as easy to ignore her. During our time at the museum, I must’ve looked depressed because a classmate asked me if I was okay. Tamura sweetly told me that she had a friend who thought I was handsome, to which I flatly said to her to give my thanks. I thought, with my luck, it was probably a guy who’d said that. The class went to get lunch afterwards, but I skipped it, making up a lie about having students to teach.

The next day, I learned the terrible truth: Hayumi was dating Devin. Asuka texted me the news.² It wasn’t a total blindside because the previous morning at the museum, I’d noticed that Hayumi and Devin had arrived together. But I’d assumed they’d ran into each other in the subway or something like that.

I’ve never hated a girl as much as I hated Hayumi at that moment. It wasn’t just the rejection. It wasn’t just the public humiliation. It wasn’t that she chose another guy I knew over me. It wasn’t as if I’d never experienced those things before. But never all at once. All the fretting I’d done about how to not make her feel uncomfortable in our claustrophobic classroom setting after it’d become clear she wasn’t interested in me… Just for her to make me a laughingstock—or worse, an object of pity—in front of everyone?

I couldn’t exactly fault her for choosing Devin. He was friendly, likable, and always had a good story to tell. He was tall, though I thought I was better-looking. And at least he was Asian. If he were not, their pairing would only confirm the message that’d been culturally beaten into my head by Western society since puberty, that Asian women were wasted on Asian men.

Once, in college, I was hanging out with a friend of mine, a fellow Korean guy. One of his female Korean friends came up to say hi to him. When I introduced myself to her, she said she knew my brother, and that she already knew of me. Apparently, in her circle, I was known as that Lee Jun-ki lookalike. She even began to say something about how she even knew all the classes I took before she cut herself off, perhaps realizing she might be coming off as creepy (on the contrary, I was flattered).

As appreciative as I was for the attention, that was never a happy memory for me. It only confirmed my fear, that for all the open-mindedness people espoused (especially at a proudly progressive place like my university), race was still the definitive factor in everything. Apparently, in this Korean clique that I was not even a part of, I was being compared to one of the hottest Korean actors of that time. But in the oh-so-beautifully diverse circles that I did run in and in which I tried so hard to be interesting and lovable and charming, I felt like the guy people gave a few minutes to at a party before looking around for someone better to talk to.

But this Hayumi situation wasn’t that. It seemed to prove, once and for all, that I was defective, that even with all the racial bullshit removed, there was something fundamentally repellant about me.

A couple of months before all this happened, the president of the hagwon I worked at took me and a couple of others out for dinner. He dispensed his wisdom, one of which was that you had to live your life to the fullest when you were young. You had the rest of your life to work and accomplish difficult things, but your youth was meant to be savoured to the max because you’d never get that chance again.

That little speech made me deeply insecure about how I was now past college, now beginning my mid-20s, yet I’d still lived so little. I hadn’t even had proper sex yet, putting me behind even many teenagers. Stuck in this foreign homebound setting, that’s when I first entertained the idea of visiting a prostitute. Just get it over with. Maybe once that mental block was removed, everything would start to become easier.

After a night of feverish research, I chose the district I’d go to. Payment would be a tricky issue, but my parents trusted me and I’d just make up some explanation when they’d eventually see on their bank record that I’d withdrawn an abnormal amount of cash. I read anonymous forums where johns recounted their experiences at this or that place. Some talked about the “GFE” (or “girlfriend experience”) and how close their sessions had come to approximating it. I was sad, but also titillated, when I read such accounts.

Soon enough, I’d have my own story. I certainly wouldn’t be sharing this tale at parties because I’d never stopped feeling that it was pathetic to pay for sex. But perhaps I’d treated sex with far too much reverence, thinking and hoping my time would come. And look where that had gotten me. Better to be pathetic but still in charge of my own destiny.

Then I woke up the next morning and laughed at how foolish and desperate I’d been.

But now, what happened with Hayumi confirmed that nothing was too foolish or desperate for me. Paying for sex wouldn’t degrade me, because I was already degraded. This was my level and I’d be better off finally coming to terms with it.

May 3rd, 2017: Alleys of Cheongnyangni 588

Cheongnyangni 588 is the old red light district in Seoul. Or at least it was. In 2017, I took a day trip out to that neighbourhood, just to see what it was like, only to find it creepily derelict and shrouded and full of broken mirrors, maybe in preparation for the 2018 Winter Olympics.

Perhaps it was defunct all the way back in 2011 as well. I never found out because I never did end up going. I just couldn’t do it. If there was anything worse than a sexpat who had to slink off to foreign countries to pay for love and affection and satisfaction, then it was a sexpat who had to go to his own ancestral country because he couldn’t hack it in his real homeland and who only added to the exploitation of his own people.

I thought of the girl who’d be assigned to fuck me. She’d be pretty and sweet, having been contractually obligated to be so. Every time she’d blink, I’d see the scars on her eyelids from her cheap plastic surgery. Her unnaturally pointy nose would look so fragile, like it’d cave in instantly if anyone hit her.

I’m sorry I couldn’t make you feel beautiful. My melancholy whore.

Were I born and raised in Korea, she might’ve been a classmate of mine. Maybe even a friend. How and why she ended up in this life, I’d never be able to comprehend, much like how I’ll never understand my parents. After our session, she’d sadly slink away to get ready for a whole roster of customers after me. At night, she’d take the bus home to a dark little apartment.

I already felt as if to like a girl was to subject her to something horrible. But to transform that intangible repulsiveness into physical violation through semi-coercion, where if she didn’t fuck me and take in my abhorrent self, she’d go hungry or get beaten or raped? If I couldn’t do anything to help her, then the least I could do was not add to her misery.

Fortunately, by the end of May, I’d pulled myself out of that low place. I was making memories with my cousins and befriending the new summer crop of teachers at the hagwon. And as my time at KLI drew to a close, I focused more on being grateful about the friends I’d made, like Asuka and Tamura.

May 3rd, 2017: What was possibly a brothel in Cheongyangni 588

In Memories of My Melancholy Whores, the elderly protagonist believes he’s led a wasted life devoid of love, family, or even a meaningful career. He finds salvation in a child prostitute whom he does not sleep with, but instead watches as she sleeps every night he goes to the brothel. Upon turning 90 on what is likely his last birthday, he at last learns to love and be loved.

Suffice to say, I’m not a 90-year old man nor do I cavort with 14-year old prostitutes. But I did just turn 37 and it’s no coincidence that I’m writing this piece around my birthday. As I’ve gotten older, my days as an excruciatingly insecure and inexperienced 23-year old seem more and more like a lifetime ago. And as I grow more removed from those days, the stories that would’ve once crippled me with shame if anyone ever found out about them no longer carry that power.

In college, I remember learning that the average American man has sex with about 7 women. That figure seemed dauntingly high, and I wondered if one day, I’d get at least respectably close to that number. Then I’d stop being so obsessed with sex to the point where it’d even get boring. Now, 7 seems laughably low. And sex, while I can’t say is ever boring, has long lost its luster. Mostly, I’m glad that has happened. It’s what I wished for, after all. But I do miss how much I used to feel.

I’ve rarely told anybody about Hayumi. The first time I did was to my first serious girlfriend as we were breaking up. I met her that summer after that eventful KLI semester and spent a wonderful 2 years with her. But our long distance relationship had no realistic future and after a while, we both knew it had to end. I told her that story because I wanted her to know what her love had saved me from.

But I do wonder if I’m guilty of over-moralization. Is it that wrong to visit a prostitute? We’re all such hypocrites about sex. Many people use the very real exploitative elements in prostitution as the basis for their objection to it. But deep down, what they’re really scornful of are people who can’t get anyone to sleep with them outside of a business transaction. It’s why despite all our lofty words about how people, especially men, shouldn’t tie their worth to their ability to have sex, a term like “incel” remains gleefully used as an insult. And if it’s actually just about using hateful men’s own twisted macho value system against them, why don’t we re-purpose “fag” and use it against them too? It’s because we won’t abide by homophobia. On the other hand, we all believe on some level that convincing someone to have sex with you, especially if you’re a man, is a supreme signifier of value.

Sex will always be a contentious thing, which is why at the heart of almost every online squabble these days seems to be some permutation of a gender war or people’s sexual insecurities. Vibe shifts and cruel kids’ tables… We’re all terrified of losing the mandate of hotness. Lord help us when cyborg mates become a thing.

I have rather fond memories of Hayumi now. She didn’t do anything wrong. I sometimes try to piece together what her side of the story would be. My best guess is that she initially liked talking to me but then got scared off once everyone started gossiping about us and she realized she didn’t like me back. She also liked another guy more. He also happened to be in our class. It must’ve been very uncomfortable for her too.

I think about what she’s doing now. She was from Yokohama, so perhaps she returned there. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if she and Devin ended up getting married? I’d be so happy for them if they did.

1. Noon-yi Kkot (Snowflower) | Youtube

2. Later, Asuka would confess to me that she liked Devin too, which led me to bitterly think, ‘Oh great. So we’re the island of rejects.’ I will always be grateful for Asuka’s friendship, though we’d lose touch after my time at KLI ended.