Once upon a time, I had a thriving sex life. Yet over the past handful of years, a cascade of major life events (moving countries and coasts, being out of work and starting new work, and the pandemic among them) threw a wrench into my after-hours social plans. Staying solitary and lacking human touch quickly became my new norm. I lacked any remote interest in lust and love alike, the latter since I’d long sworn off relationships (#trustissues) and had never envisioned getting married.
As I was gearing up to fly to Seoul for a month-long vacation last autumn, I stumbled upon an article on Western women who, bewitched by romantic male leads in K-dramas, traveled to South Korea for the sole purpose of dating. Although cautionary (surprise: most women interviewed were disappointed by the lack of decorum and romanticism from their real-life dates), it planted a seed in my head that maybe I, too, might want to dip my toe back into the dating pond while abroad.
Two weeks into a packed itinerary and having the time of my solo life in Seoul, the aforementioned seed sprouted, so I downloaded Tinder. (FWIW, I’d only used the app once 10 years ago.) Korean Tinder is amusing, to say the least. I swiped past hundreds of questionable guys—many of whom only posted pictures of their back or wearing a mask (the majority), stripped down to their skivvies in curbside photo booths or for professional glamour shots (ballsy, sure, but too cringe to take seriously), were crazy about cats (hard pass as I’m phobic and allergic), didn’t speak English, refused to date foreigners, or wore more makeup than I did. In the midst of them all, I matched with one guy—headless in a bathroom mirror shot, but with a chiseled chest and six-pack—who knew English well and could carry a conversation. After a few days of texting, we decided to meet at a wine bar that weekend.
Fortunately, this guy—let’s call him K—was cute even with a shirt on, and the conversation continued as smoothly IRL over the standard first-date fare. A bottle of red in, I mentioned I was confident enough to spell his name in Hangeul (the Korean alphabet), as I’d been studying Korean for the past year. He doubted me, thus igniting my competitive streak, so I said we should bet on it. The stakes: If I lost, he said I’d have to kiss him. K asked me what I’d want if I succeeded. Knowing full well that I’d win, I said he’d have to be the one to kiss me. Flirt mode: flexed. I ended up victorious in more ways than one.
Throughout the week, I saw—and slept with—K a few times. Our dates fluctuated from rewarding to strange: In bed, I felt that I got my groove back à la Stella, finding myself more adept at taking the lead than I had in years past and being more confident in my body, to boot. But at times, K would flip a switch and say strange, strongly anti-feminist things. It became clear pretty quickly that he was part of a faction of young conservative Korean men who, to put it mildly, are highly pro-patriarchy in a traditionally patriarchal culture resistant to gender equality. While this attribute would understandably be a red flag for most, I voiced my resistance but ultimately decided to keep his words at a distance. I also didn’t let myself get riled up when he pinched my fat (saying it was “cute” and that he didn’t have any of his own) and judged me for liking K-pop. I was on vacation, I was having great sex, and I wasn’t about to cut that short.
When I got back to LA, we continued to talk—and to sext, which was relatively new territory for me. Daydreaming about our past encounters and fantasizing about the next (if they were to, ahem, come), I was constantly a cat in heat. I’d never been adept at self-pleasuring, but within seconds of thinking about K’s body or reading a steamy message from him, my pulse would start to race, and I’d need to find relief. Within a month’s time, I scored the chance to get a super cheap flight back to Seoul over the winter holidays. Though this trip would be under the guise of simply loving all things Korean culture—food, sites, sounds, et al—I’d be lying if I denied that I was going back mostly to get my rocks off. I coordinated my accommodations with K, even electing to switch hotels midway through my trip so it’d be a short commute to his work. With that, a sex marathon was on the books.
Things didn’t go to plan. In the days preceding my trip, K was spewing more of the woman-hating vitriol my way, which was getting harder to stomach. Regardless, I chose to play it as cool as I could and take his words at arms’ length—again, solely for the sake of lust. Even before our reunion, I vowed that I wouldn’t pursue him any further once I returned home… but K expedited the deadline even more. After our first night together, he fell sick and went missing for days, citing a 72-hour hospital visit and near-death experience from food poisoning. I didn’t doubt his illness as he was clearly worse for wear the night we were together. But mixed with going MIA, the random rants, and stringing me along with failed plans day after day once he recovered, my blood was officially boiling. I said my piece and went back on Tinder to put my thumbs to work in search of a rebound.
Messaging the next guy—let’s call him C—was a delight from the start. He immediately told me that he was in love with a French tourist who would return to Seoul in a few weeks; I told him I was looking for a distraction from K. His honesty was alluring and disarming, and I was motivated to meet him that night. He had good style and the most unique accent I’d ever heard, having learned English while living in Germany from an Australian neighbor. A fellow writer, he showed me a love poem he wrote for his ex. C was full of wit, surprises, and offbeat charms. I was instantly hooked—even more so when I finally had the sex marathon I’d longed for that night. And into the next morning. And with multiple orgasms, at that.
After he left my hotel late that afternoon, I walked around with my mind blank, skin abuzz, and body shaking from hours of arousal and release on repeat. By nightfall, he reached out: My dick’s getting hard out of nowhere the whole day. Quite surely an after-effect from you. (Korean or not, C absolutely spoke my language.) I told him I wanted to see him before I left. Me too. I’m horny again. I asked when we could make it happen. Whenever. I said I was spent but wanted him there and then. Me too. I want you. I’ll go. We’ll fuck. He was back in my bed within the hour.
Everything that followed was a haze. Over 72 hours, we were inseparable and fell into a routine of sex, eating, walking, talking, sleeping at sunrise, and waking near sundown. We talked at length about our histories: past loves and sexcapades, family issues, our dreams and goals. We walked arm in arm from designer boutiques and department stores to sushi spots and cocktail bars. Having been celibate for a half-eternity and without a relationship for even longer, my hyper-sexed, quasi-romantic time with C was something akin to a fever dream: a druglike fantasy making up for lost time in a world that I’d long ruled out (largely of my own will, but one that I was starting to question). It was tactile and real, but simultaneously ephemeral and fictitious.
My flight kept getting pushed due to my choice to wait for a ticket on standby during the holiday rush (and the mistake of poor planning during Mercury retrograde). Day by day, which became an extension of two more unintentional weeks spent in Seoul, I was in a psychological purgatory of “will I or won’t I” get home. There are worse places I could be stuck, I told myself as my bank account plummeted. I saw C a few more times, which helped make the burdens less burdensome. Yet I was growing tired from the energy suck of the whole trip. Admittedly, despite C’s delicious distraction, I still hadn’t processed the annoyance of the first scenario that blew up in flames. C was growing weary, too, valiantly keeping up with my voracious libido despite going through a difficult period in his own life. But I finally made it back home and lived to tell my sordid tale.
Was my foray back into dating messy? Absolutely. Would I have done anything differently? In all honesty, probably not. Although K ended up being what many women would objectively deem a P.O.S., he was my grand entrée back into dating and helped to ignite a new chapter of sexual self-discovery. C, though off-limits in many ways from the get-go, made a sexcation gone wrong go right, allowing me to have the best sex of my life, and had me rethinking how committed I really am to a lifetime of singledom. Sure, neither instance of “expiration dating” was ideal by typical standards. Yet, in truth, they were just what I needed to break out of my solitary rut and bring me back to life.