LII. The Guys Who Eye Fucked Me In A Korean Spa

“I think my personality is my best asset, but the eyes go to the boobs. But, like, my face isn’t too bad, I don’t think so.”

– Francesca Farago –

The eyes are the window to the soul. For homosexuals all over the world (myself included), the saying above resonates deeply with us. Our eyes are our primary arsenal to communicate our interest in the masc daddies standing across the bar. We spent years training ourselves to master the art of rapid room-scanning to identify our fellow homosexuals. Yes, this can also hold true for you heterosexual beings out there. However, for us homosexuals, there’s an extra layer of precaution we need to take, especially for us living in an extremely conservative place. For us, one flirtatious glance at the wrong person can lead to a face full of bruises or, worse, a few years in prison. So, the next time you notice a quirky-looking guy staring at you non-stop from across the room, please don’t be offended. He might just be a blogger who wants to write about doing the nasty with you. 

To make matters complicated, I was (and still am) an introverted mess with conflicting thoughts and a constant need for validations. And in Los Angeles, a city filled with superficiality and insincerity, the easiest way for us gays to receive instant validation is through the monster dangling between our legs. One of the classier spots for L.A. gays to go fishing for that immediate gratification is the Korean spa.

Sure, it’s harder to find a penis to suck in these spas compared to other morally-corrupt places in L.A., like 24 Hour Fitness in West Hollywood or Runyon Canyon. However, there’s this inexplicable, logic-defying adrenaline rush I get from identifying the thirsty gays among the sea of wholesome elderlies. It’s like a game of Where’s Waldo, but sluttier. Besides, what’s there not to like about being engulfed in eucalyptus-scented steam and surrounded by naked men drenched in sweat?

My first name ain’t baby, it’s SquirtTale – Miss Squirt if you’re nasty

I decided to try a different Korean spa than the one I previously visited because I wanted to get a new experience in terms of both the ambiance and the scenery. After paying the entrance fee to the Naked Land, I made my way to the locker room, got naked, and left all my belongings and body insecurities locked in my personal locker. The spa of my choice was pretty spacious, albeit its narrow entrance located at the corner of a shady intersection. Sure, the list of amenities the spa offered was not super comprehensive. However, it had all the essential stuff one needed to relax and hunt (P.S. can you believe they didn’t have a Eucalyptus steam room?! The nerve!)

To my dismay, the spa was too peaceful for my taste as I could count the number of its patron with my two hands. The CDC would allow such a small gathering to happen mid-quarantine.

I did, however, notice this muscular hunk in his late thirties was sporadically staring at me. Because I was a distressed gay plagued by body dysmorphia, I brushed off the idea that he might be interested in me. I thought, “did I have some toilet paper hanging from my butt?” While a couple of guys in the steam room were enjoying some friendly banters, the staring contest between the hunky guy and I, however, got exponentially more intense. I became more curious as to why he kept looking at my direction, but I didn’t dare to make the first move. In hindsight, I didn’t know why I was terribly scared.

My brain when a guy is not interested in me

As I was busy overthinking shit, another guy in his mid-thirties entered the steam room. The newcomer sat directly next to the brawny hunk and started to aggressively vibe with him. Judging from my hunk’s effortless receptiveness to the newcomer’s approach, I could deduce that they were in a pre-existing relationship. Whether it was a marriage, a platonic friendship, or an FWB situation, it’s clear that they were involved in some shit. Upon further analysis, the fella who was aggressively flirting with my main prey was quite thirst-inducing. Although his physique was more on the chubby side, it didn’t bother me that much as I had already been tremendously aroused. I guess the heat from the steam had dried up all the moisture in my body, which turned mama into a parched queen.

In a plot twist that no one saw coming, both guys gave me looks that signified their interests in getting down and dirty with me. I was beginning to think that there must be something in the water. Like, literally.  

I didn’t know what to make of this situation. 

Were they only trying to be courteous to their fellow steam room enthusiasts? Or were they genuinely interested in rejuvenating their private parts inside one of my orifices? Because if they wanted to blow off some steam in the steam room with me, they only needed to ask. The only things getting in the way of our steamy threesome are unwanted voyeurs and a mini towel concealing my excitement. At this point, it was apparent that there was this mysterious, telepathic sexual tension between me and these two chaps. However, no one was making a move.

I hereby announce my candidacy for the mayor of Fantasy Land

While I was busy trying not to faint from hyperthermia, the two eye fuckers decided to exit the steam room and headed straight to the shower. This only meant one thing: they were leaving the spa soon.

I was in a dilemma.

Below are some thoughts that crossed my mind the moment they walked out of the room:

  • Do I follow them to the shower, immediately get down to my knees, and start opening my mouth for business?
  • Should I just stay still and hope for more exciting opportunities to come my way?
  • Or do I just go for the old guy sitting on the massage chair? I’m getting desperate, and he’s starting to look like a snack.

I decided to go with a slightly more dignified, less stalkerish version of option #1.

I quickly dragged my thirsty ass to the shower while I maintained my sight on my prey. I didn’t, however, make my advances too visible. I was acting like a demure gentleman with an affinity for a chlorine-filled plunge pool. By the time I finished getting dressed and made my way to the lobby, the two eye fuckers were still chilling by the receptionist’s desk. At that moment, I knew that was my last chance to strike if I wanted our staring fest to progress. I was anxious, but my curiosity got the best of me. So I thought,

“You know what, YOLO.”

“You know what, YOLO” will be written on my tombstone.

The next five minutes after my initial attack felt like a blur. The adrenaline rush clouded my memory, and I couldn’t recall the combination of words that left my lips. Maybe it’s the epinephrine or the boiling hot water, but there’s definitely something delusion-inducing in that spa. Because at that moment, I felt like a fierce prostitute with the softest skin, and nothing or no one could stop me. With my head held high and zero amount of grace, I stroked a conversation with the eye-fuckers and somehow dared to invite them to my place. 

And guess what, bitches? They both RSVP’d yes to my invitation.

I’ve said this before, but I’ll repeat it: the best kind of threesome is the one with a couple in a pre-existing relationship. Basically, you’re the new meat in the trio, so you’ll get all the attention. And this couldn’t be more true for my threesome with my two eye-fuckers.

Although the eye-fuckers did not luxuriate themselves in my delicate rectal muscles (I’m disgusting, I know), the threesome was, overall, a great experience. Because we had endured the unnecessarily long staring competition earlier, we didn’t waste any time getting aroused. My fellow Korean spa enthusiasts and I went straight for business. The boys provided top-notch, sensual services, making me feel like a queen in my shoebox apartment. They stripped my clothes and laid me on my back gently with ease. After the boys uncovered what I had been hiding underneath the mini towel in the spa, their tongues embarked on the exploration of my erogenous zones. In a vain attempt to appear less like a lazy bottom, I tried to match their enthusiasm by showcasing my revered oral techniques. And the next thing I knew, I was overwhelmed by the omnipresence of their slow kisses, gentle touches, and furry testicles. I was like the lo hei in a Chinese New Year dinner: the boys got their hands all over me, tossed me around, and feasted on me with an abundance of joy. 

I treat sex like a MOBA game: only use your ultimate skill when enemies gang up on you.

The boys made sure that all of us collectively reached our goals. I accidentally volunteered to be the designated cum dump nearing the end of the threesome. Let’s just say when the threesome ended, I looked like a toaster strudel topped with a generous amount of vanilla icing. The resemblance was uncanny.

Before the eye-fuckers left my apartment, we exchanged numbers because the boys expressed their eagerness to engage in another threesome in the future. When all was said and done, threesome 2.0 never happened; it surprisingly didn’t bother me much as both parties were flaky as fuck. It’s Los Angeles, after all, and there would always be more fish in the sea. 

I did, however, remember looking at myself in the mirror after the threesome (yes, this is pretty much my post-sex ritual), and I looked exhilarated. I was brimming with confidence. Often, I wallowed in self-doubts and held myself back because I feared rejection. Even when an opportunity presents itself on a silver platter, I often question whether I am deserving of such a good thing. But every time I have a crisis of confidence, I force myself to remember this threesome. I remind myself that sometimes when I want something, I just need to go for it. I remind myself that the worst thing that can happen is getting a rejection or a weird look, and that’s nothing to dwell on.

By writing this chapter, I hope I can encourage you to face your fear and take that giant step towards getting what you want. Because sometimes, your fear is the only thing that stops you from having two naked guys and a shitload of man juice.

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