20 years ago I was 20 years old. It's my first time in a *jjimjilbang*. 20 years ago, and I'm a drama student on a weekend break from delivering immersive English language camps for a Korean publishing company. I'd just met Roger for the first time. A stranger. We've just been to see the musical he directed at the company's purpose-built children's theatre in Gangnam, and one of his actors offers to take us to Precious Stones Bath House. We're bundled up in scarves and face masks and furry hats and coats squeezed over tracksuits and borrowed long johns, all hiding bodies struggling to adjust to the transition from a humid Brisbane in December to a frozen Seoul in January. We make our way down a red granite staircase, crisp freshness giving way to air that's moist, and faintly herbal. The walls are lined with mirrors framed in opulent gold and there are giant crystalline geodes installed on each landing. We reach the bottom, take off our shoes, and stand in line. We hand cash to the *ajumma* at reception. She looks each of us over. Sizes us up. We come away with a numbered slip of paper and a bundle of cloth selected from tall, uniform piles. For the girls, dusky pink with a bright orange towel on top. For the boys, mossy green. No towel. We squint at our slips and search for the pigeonholes where we are told to stuff our shoes. Our guide herds the girls through a door to the left, leaving the boys to fend for themselves. *남자*. One of the first words I learned to recognise in *hangeul*. I can still feel the finger of my first Korean friend, heir to the publishing empire, tracing the characters into my palm as I watched his lips form the unfamiliar sounds. *Namja.* The universal pictogram also helps. The boys step through, no idea what's coming next. *Man.* We're welcomed by the sight of white-haired men casually chatting and blow-drying their pubes. Suppressing giggles we hurry to find our lockers and dump our bags. What now? We stick our heads around the corner and watch. Teens. Boys. Babies. Uncles. Grandfathers. Brothers. Men. Coming and going through giant, foggy, double glass doors atop a low set of stone stairs. Naked. On the way in, each grabs a bright green exfoliator. Naked. On the way out, a bright orange towel. Naked. Towel the hair, dump the towel, naked. Towel the chest, dump the towel, naked. Towel the back, naked. Arms and legs, naked. Armpits, naked. Arse, naked. Junk, naked... If not naked, then going about their business in green shorts and t-shirt. Brushing teeth. Cleaning ears. Combing hair. Smoking in a glass-walled booth. Waiting for the barber. Sliding into communal slippers to use the toilet. Slipping backwards out of them when done. Disappearing up a narrow set of polished wooden stairs. Our only instructions were to meet the girls in half an hour. Surely that means taking the wooden stairs? 25 minutes to kill. Ok. Let's do it. We strip down as far as awkward drama school modesty allows and dash up the stone stairs and through the glass doors. We're chased out by the *ajosshi* watching over a row of very wet massage tables. "Pants, no!" How come he gets to wear shorts? Back to the lockers. 20 minutes now. What are we doing here? Ok. New plan. Lock eyes, count to three, drop our dacks, and dash. Back through the doors and straight into the closest bath we can find. We're chased again, to the wall of showers lining the cavernous space. This time the instructions are mimed. Soap the armpits, arse, junk... and scrub. 15 minutes now. I made it all the way to adulthood avoiding locker rooms and group showers. The only nakedness required of someone who chose ten pin bowling or rollerskating as a sport in school is getting the dogs out for a brief change of footwear. But here I was soaping up with the boys. Out in the open, for all to see. My fat body. Being perceived. For the first time since childhood. My fat. My body. ### ⁂ 19 years ago I was 21 years old. I move out of home, fall in love. Rejected. Have my heart broken, do another camp, graduate from drama school, audition for Roger. Rejected. Join a gym, go to my first concert, come out to my housemate, take up training, fall in love. Accepted. Break some hearts, avoid a predator, move in with my first love, get circumcised. Call Roger. Accepted. Come out to my parents. Rejected. Steal a car, relocate to Korea. Accepted... Tangled up in these storylines was the thread that became a core part of my personal mythology. Dramatic weight loss. My body became an object of scorn. A subject of ridicule. The punchline to a joke whose setup was showing pictures from that first trip to Korea. I had reached my goal. I was working for Roger. Now an acquaintance. I was an actor in his children's theatre Facilitating pilgrimages to the *jjimjilbang* became a cherished ritual. When my first love came, the *jjimjilbang* became a place to go with him. A place we could be naked together in public, sharing space with other men. Nothing sexual about it. Except maybe that one time we couldn't keep our hands off each other in the mud pool at a half-deserted spa resort in the Korean countryside. When my first love left, the *jjimjilbang* was a place to go when I was bored, or tired, or sore, or stressed, or couldn't sleep. A place of weekly solace. A place to be anonymous, relaxed, naked. Slowly though, the *jjimjilbang* also became a site of compulsion. Where my obsession with my weight could be quantified as I stepped off the stone steps and onto the scales every time I came out of the baths. ^1efc0d Especially if the costume designer had complained that day that my pants were sitting funny on my hips. Or my 'panty line' was showing. Or that my jacket was tight. Or my singlets were stretched. ^9b905e It didn't help that I had a crush. He was paying me close attention. I was paying him close attention. Watching his lips pout adorably as he huffed and puffed and pretended he hated his job. It didn't matter if the number on the scales didn't match what I heard. Or what I thought. Or how I felt. It wasn't him. I had heard the same sorts of things every Sunday as I dressed for church. From aunties and uncles, relations or not. Brothers and sisters, relations or not. Old ladies perfectly arranging flowers and old men cutting white bread into perfect cubes as I folded the bulletin into perfect thirds. We were saved by grace and not by good works, but good works still needed to be done. And whenever two or three of us gathered in his name for Christmas, Easter, weddings, funerals, birthdays, conferences, anniversaries, and whether anyone said anything, my fixation was on the way I was being perceived. I was desperate not to be perceived. Desperate not to be exposed as lustful, gluttonous, greedy, slothful, wrathful, envious, proud... Never proud. I knew what they were thinking. God knew what I was thinking. I promised my parents I wouldn't be marching at Pride. A trip to the *jjimjilbang* became something I had to earn. Good works for a place in heaven. Keep that number down. 70... ### ⁂ 18 years ago I was 22 years old. I confess to Roger that I need to leave. I want to train. He tells me not to go. Now my mentor. My first love returns to Seoul. I'm leaving. He's staying. I pack up and return home. Kuluin. 72... My first love and I send each other emails. He needs space to share with other men. I run and cry in a moonlit field. 75... I buy new shoes and run along the Maroochy River. 74... Brisbane. 75... Bootcamps at sunrise, stomping at sunset. 74... Dancing my way to leaner muscle. 73... My first love returns but I've found a second. 72... My belly aches. 71... I joke that my period has synched up with the girls. 72... It's not very funny. 73... I need to be 70 for the body check. 72... My friend hasn't had a period in months. 71... Body check. 72... Shit. Dress. 72... Fuck. Opening. 71... Closing. 69... Tokyo. Running at sunrise, smoking at sunset. We paint ourselves gold and dance in a moonlit field. We paint ourselves white and dance in a shallow pond. Melbourne. 71... We paint ourselves white and dance through cat piss in a gallery. I send my second love home. I go home to my first love. Brisbane. 73... My first love and I scheme our way back to Seoul. I need to be 70 for Seoul. Seoul. 75... "You've put on weight." Maybe all the dancing, stomping, crunching, squatting, means that I've earned a trip to the *jjimjilbang* anyway. If I'm good, I might even allow myself to pay extra for a scrub and a massage. Brisbane. From children's musicals to dancing in g-strings and back again. Livin' the dream. 80... I need to be 75 for Seoul. Three months. 70 would be nice though. I run 10km a day along the Brisbane River. Seoul. 74... "You look tired." I'll go to the *jjimjilbang* by myself so nobody has to see me like this. Roger takes me to the casino. We eat steaks, drink bourbon, play poker. Now a best friend. Brisbane. 79... Roger slips away under the stars. A ghost. I start drinking in earnest. A late bloomer at 26. I've got shows to make. I need to be 75 for Seoul. Seoul. 75... "You look tired." Brisbane. It wasn't my period, it was a chronicly inflamed appendix. A pretty funny joke after all. I cry as I go under, pleading with the surgeon: "Don't leave a scar, I dance in a g-string for a living." Seoul. 80... "You've put on weight. " Brisbane. Us drama students are 10 years older, at the top of our game, and we're together again. Making a show about my first love and I. About our life together and our lives apart. Bucheon. 83... "You look old." I paint myself white and dance across Korea. Brisbane. Our life together. We do our show again. Our lives apart. I find my third love late at night. We do our show again. I save my second love late at night. There's nothing sexual about it. I make my own show. Dancing again. No more g-strings, I hide in high waisted skirts. Seoul. 80... "You look tired. You look old." We do our show again. I feel too old for this. But I'm sore, and we have worked hard, and everyone is going to the *jjimjilbang* on the mountain, and my first love is just my first love, and my third love is here, and our friends are here, and future lovers are here, and here we are all together. We're touring my show. I feel too fat for this. Brisbane. Our lives are more apart than together. My third love and I give it a go. 85 again. I need to be 80 for Seoul. Sunrise at the gym. 85... 84... Sunset at the gym. 83... 82... Seoul. 81... "You've put on weight." We tour my show again. Brisbane - Seoul - Brisbane - Seoul. I allow myself to use the sauna at the gym because it's the gym and I run 10km a day along the Han River. Walk up the mountain to sing with my teacher. Drink in the yard at night. Finish writing my PhD somewhere in-between. My third love and I. My third love and her. My third love and I and her. I and her. New York. My third love is in Berlin and I let him go. Brisbane - Seoul - Brisbane. I visit my second love late at night. My back gives out in the gym. I've lost count of the boys I love. 87... Can't lift. Can't run. New York Me and some boys I love. Brisbane. Full time job. Me and a boy I love sit in the dark, high above the city. Seoul. 88... Me and a boy I love sneak back to my room. He's sick. We fuck anyway. Brisbane. Stop counting at 90. What's the point. Me and a boy I love sit in the dark, racing through the city. He gets out. I can't follow. Seoul - Brisbane - Seoul. I stop going to the *jjimjilbang* because I don't deserve it. I stop fucking because I don't deserve it. I stop loving because I don't deserve it. I go out for long walks instead. Brisbane. I break my toe in the studio. Covid. More long walks. I've lost sight of the boys I love. I sprain my toe falling up the stairs. Very long walks. The Korean spa in Brisbane is not the same as a proper *jjimjilbang*, but those drama students are my chosen family now and I get a voucher for my birthday. A girlfriend and I go check it out. It's a beat. My first love and I go check it out. I'm no good at cruising. My third love and I go check it out. Covid is over. I hurt my back packing up my life. Perth. I hurt my back unpacking my life. I don't even bother looking for a spa. The physiotherapist suggests hydrotherapy. I haven't swum since primary school and I'm not going to start now. There's a sauna in town, but my students are putting on a show about it and I can't think of anything worse than running into them in the state I'm in. My doctor makes me get on the scales. 100... Devastating. But I meet some nice people that I want to get to know. I go out for the first time in 2 years. I fracture my femur, tear a ligament, and destroy my meniscus singing *Bat out of Hell*. Last time I did this I was 19, dancing the *Time Warp*. Nothing ever changes. I hate this. I start therapy. Physical therapy. 109... Two of those drama students drive across the country in my first love's van to see me. I start therapy. Psychotherapy. I get in the ocean for the first time in years. ### ⁂ It's now and I'm 40. I learn new things about my brain. I start new meds. They are meant to help with intrusive thoughts. They fry my brain. I stop the new meds. I read Bo Bickmore on the freedom of fat queer sex. ![[Bo Bickmore - The Freedom of Fat Sex with Bo Bickmore#^241920]] I start new meds. They are meant to help with focus and attention. They jumpstart my brain. I look in the mirror for the first time in years. Maybe I can find a way to like what I see? ![[Bo Bickmore - The Freedom of Fat Sex with Bo Bickmore#^af12ad]] What if I document my changing body, take some time to enjoy it... It does feel good. I didn't think it would. It's relieved some of the terror of knowing I'm going home. To Seoul. A place I'll be sized up, perceived, with nowhere to hide. I weigh now what I did on that first trip. 110... The punchline to the photos of my fat body was that I lost 30 in 6 months. That's what Roger asked for when I auditioned. He was my hero. I made a promise. But I didn't call Roger at 30 because 80 felt too high. I was fixated on 70 and I still don't know why. I also promised him I was straight and could play the accordion. I fell in love with a boy. Learned the accordion. Lost 40 and my foreskin. I'm sure there's a joke in there but I can't quite see it. ### ⁂ It's been 20 years and now I'm 40. Things have changed. I have spent the last six months telling people that we never change. We just become more of what we always were. I'm terrified to go back. I know I need to set some boundaries before I go, to tell the people I love what I need to do my best work. But I am on the plane and it's too late. I am being perceived, and I'm having a terrible time. I'm with the people I love and I hate it. Eating and drinking with old friends from 20 years ago when I was 20. I hate it. I don't sleep. I lock myself in my room and write everything down. [[obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD)|I let the people I love know what is going on.]] [[OCD and Me|I set boundaries.]] Better late than never. A weight begins to shift. I can breathe. I draw *Inner Child* in my morning devotion: "Have fun, just for the sake of it!" It's been an exhausting week of new connections and old connections, and my first love is meeting his hot new friend, and I want to do something fun for myself, just for the sake of it. No guide this time. Down four flights of grey marble stairs, and past a sign on the landing that says there is one more floor until you reach the *jjimjilbang*. The self-serve kiosk is a nice touch. Cuts out the awkward conversations. ₩14,000 for 6 hours. The only thing that hasn't gone up in Seoul is the price of admission to the *jjimjilbang*. The *ajumma* tells me I have to put my shoes in the pigeonhole before she will give me my bundle. All genders get baby blue. Girls get one hot pink towel. No towel for the boys. Some things never change. We never change. We just become... More of what we always were. The familiar smell of the men's locker room. Cheap cologne, bleach, and blow-dried pubic hair. The layout is a drab facsimile of Precious Stones. The shock of seeing two naked foreigners, telling myself to keep walking, that I can do it. That they are probably on their way out. One of them has a limp and the other has a little pot belly, and they both have short, thick cocks. I still count to three when I take off my pants. The walk from the lockers to the stone steps and glass doors is still the worst part. Catching my reflection in the mirror is a reminder that the body I used to despise - the body that I ran away from - is the body I'm stuck with now. There is a group of teen boys being boys. Laughing, splashing, play fighting. One or two occasionally hovering a hand over their dicks in the way you would cover your mouth and turn away slightly if drinking in front of a senior, or sweep back an imaginary sleeve if pouring a drink... I sink into the first bath. Purple water, furious bubbles, and bodies of every shape and size all around me. Toddlers, teens, and younger men are all intact. Circumcision must be out. I read later that the declining trend is considered both a cultural and a public health issue. I'll save my own thoughts on circumcision for another time. I only see one old man with an angry, bulging cluster of pearls under the skin circling the head of his cock. I remember how shocking it was to see these for the first time, and how us boys worked up the courage to ask Roger about them. Gangsters, apparently. They were also the only ones allowed in with tattoos. Or was the ban on tattoos meant to keep them out? Another misremembered memory. These days tattoos are everywhere. Strangers don't make eye contact other than the minimum required, a polite nod. The young guy across the bath though... Is he looking at me? Or is he avoiding my gaze? Is he disgusted? Is he curious? Is he keen? He gets up. Moves across the room. Steps up and into the cold pool. Not the freezing plunge pool, but the one with the waterfall that activates with the press of a button. He settles in, leaning against the low wall. I shift to the other side of the bath so we can see each other. He looks me in the eye. Looks away. Minutes pass. Looks pass. Bubbles. The teens invade the hot bath between us. I sink down low and close my eyes. Breathe deep. Exhale and go to get up, but he is back. I move to face him. Disgusted? Curious? Keen? I think my face is open. I stretch. He stretches. The teens get up to shower. I get up the courage to stand. Show myself. I try to rise gracefully, centre engaged on the slippery steps. I cut across the space. I take his place in the cold pool. Face him. It's a good view. It's cold. I feel the rush. Tingling skin. Open lungs. Minutes. Looks. Bubbles. He joins me. Glances out of the corner of his eye. I adjust so that I can see him in the mirror across the room. I shift. He shifts. Disgusted? Curious? Keen? I can never tell. His hand disappears between his legs. Stays there. Is this it? Did he just look at me? He is looking at me. He leans his head against the wall and sighs, and my hand goes between my legs. What are we doing? Is this it? What else could it be? There is nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. He looks, I look, we look to where our hands have disappeared under the water. Does he move closer? I hold my breath. Minutes. Bubbles. His hands return to the wall So do mine. I catch his eye. Disgusted? Curious? Keen? It's too hard. Too confusing. I'm cold. Shivering. I leave for the shower. Then the hot bath. Will he follow? He does, but only as far as the next pool, the 'event bath' where he can look at me from behind a stone frog. Or maybe it's me who is looking for him behind the frog. I'm bored now. I shower. A fit young foreigner enters through the swinging glass doors. He's all yours, I guess. I'll sit in the corner of the public rest area, outside the clay bead room, the oxygen room, the jade room, the Himalayan pink salt room, the ice room, the sleeping room... I'll eat my smoked eggs, drink peach iced tea, watch the teen boys giving each other head massages, and write about us. # **Created**: [[2024-05-28|Tuesday 28 May 2024]] **Published**: [[2024-05-29|Wednesday 29 May 2024]] **Updated**: 18:50 [[2024-07-20|Saturday 20 July 2024]] %% ## Scanned Notes [[2024-05-26]] - Journal 18:33 @ [[Riverside Spaland - 강변 스파랜드]] ![[2024-05-26 - Journal - Gangbyeon Jjimjilbang.pdf]] %%