We met on the street, sitting on a curb, drinking cans of beer that were sweating as much as we were. It was Seoul Pride 2013, and we were both waiting for friends to group up post-parade (back when the parade went on as scheduled without a bunch of dickwad protestors either lying down in the streets in front of the floats or trying to block it on permit regulations); she was cracking jokes about the lesbian organization in my city, and I was giving her shit about where she lived. Soon after we started talking, my friends hollered at me that they were headed to dinner; I said goodbye, smiling at her, never expecting to see her again.
I was surprised and delighted later that night when, rum and coke in hand, she strode up to me on the dance floor in a Hongdae gay bar, her tall, lean figure bathed in strobe lights. She had swagger. She looked down at me, smiled a broad smile, and said, “It’s good to see you here.” Likewise, I told her. As we danced, the floor began teeming with undulating bodies, strangers holding each other by the waist, grinding against each other. I put my drink aside so I could place my hand on the small of her back, eventually sliding it down onto her ass; she had the same idea, but her hand found its way into my back pockets, then into my pants. She crouched a bit and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss her – a strong kiss, fueled by alcohol-induced confidence. I snaked my fingers into her dreads and held onto her head, kissing her deeply, wanting more. She moved her hands up the front of my shirt, cupping my breasts; we moved our bodies in sync to DJ-spun electronic music while exploring each other.
Forgetting that we were in the middle of a crowd, she slid her right hand down the front of my jeans now, into my silky boy-cut panties, over the soft mound of hair that I’ve come to love and into the folds of my labia, gently moving her fingers forward and backward, dragging my fluids up and over my clit before finally pushing two fingers into me, pressing upward and inward. I moved my whole body against her hand, begging her not to stop, continuing to move with the music. She fucked me harder with her fingers, making me gasp and moan into her ear; no one else could hear me. Perhaps no one else noticed what was going on; even if they had, I wouldn’t have cared. After I’d come onto her fingers and my body was quivering, she slid out of me, dragging her fingers up my cunt, out of my panties, and around my waist, then kissed me again.
We went outside for a smoke; I finally asked what her name was (“Excuse me – now that you’ve had your hand inside of me, perhaps you could tell me your name?”), and we had the Standard Korea Expat Introduction Conversation. She came with me and my friends as we went onto the next bar, and we continued to dance for hours. She walked home with us when we finally stumbled out of the Pink Hole (yes, that’s the actual name of the bar) at dawn and asked to come in, but as I was staying in a dorm, I said no; we left it there and said goodbye, kissing outside of my hostel.
I don’t remember her name, and I doubt she remembers mine... but I remember her hands.
Happy Pride Month, everyone! Go out and have sex on a dance floor.