Chapter 26
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: Become My Clown
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“Mom... even so, doing that in front of a bunch of aunties is a bit...”
I showed my reluctance.
Madam.
The word carried a heavy connotation.
When you hear "madam," a certain image usually comes to mind.
Permed, frizzy hair.
Flashy leopard-print clothes.
And deep, crinkled wrinkles.
Of course, a well-maintained beauty like my mom would be welcome.
But not every auntie in the world is like her.
'Fuck. No wrinkly hags.'
The thought flashed through my head.
No matter how much I love women or how unusually strong my libido is in this world...
That was a hard no.
My stomach couldn't handle it.
I didn't want to shove my precious dick into some shriveled-up mess.
That would be torture.
Seeing my face souring, Mom chuckled.
She smacked my back lightly.
“Oh my, look at this kid? You think I'd send you to a place like that?”
“But you said madams, right?”
“That's right. Madams.”
“So? They're at least in their 50s, maybe even 60s, aren't they?”
Mid-level executives.
Congressmen.
To reach those positions, you usually need some years under your belt.
Their wives would naturally be around the same age.
Especially if they're the original spouses.
But Mom just shook her head slowly.
A look of pity in her eyes.
“Son. You really don't know how this world works yet.”
“Huh?”
“I bet there's not a single person there older than me.”
...Huh?
I couldn't believe my ears.
Mom was 40.
And no one older than her?
So they were all in their 30s?
“What? But you said madams? Wives of executives.”
“Exactly. That's why they're even younger. Probably some in their 20s too.”
Mom said it so casually.
20s madams.
My brain short-circuited.
Wives of executives, in their 20s.
Remarriages?
Or mistresses?
No way the whole group was made up of mistresses.
I had no idea what Mom had been talking about this whole time.
The conversation kept missing the mark.
My common sense was clashing with this world's.
“Younger how...? Their husbands would be grandpas, right?”
“Huh? So what?”
Mom looked at me like I was speaking nonsense.
Like it was the most obvious thing.
I was lost now.
Sigh.
I gave up thinking about it.
One thing mattered.
They're young.
No wrinkly hags.
That was enough.
“...Anyway, they're young, right?”
“I told you. Some are former models, some ex-announcers.”
Mom gave me a thumbs up.
Models.
Announcers.
I swallowed hard.
In that case, no need to refuse.
I should bow and accept.
“Got it. I'll do it. The gig.”
“Good thinking! I'll let you know when the date's set.”
Mom beamed and planted a kiss on my cheek.
Mwah.
Arms full of side dish containers, I left the house.
Of course, they were packed with kimchi and stir-fried anchovies.
I took a taxi back to my place.
My body felt refreshed.
I'd dumped 1.2 liters into Mom and Yena, but no fatigue.
If anything, the eel made me feel energized.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Something from back home still bugged me.
The conversation with Mom kept veering off.
'Executives' wives are young.'
Really young.
And Mom acted like it was normal.
I got curious about this world's marriage culture.
I sat up abruptly.
Turned on the computer.
I can't stand not knowing.
I typed into the search bar.
[Average marriage age in South Korea]
Enter.
Results popped up.
Statistics Korea data.
[Average first marriage age in 2024]
Men: 42.5 years
Women: 24.8 years
“......”
I rubbed my eyes.
Men at 42?
Women at 24?
An 18-year gap.
And that's the average?
Back in my world, both were early to mid-30s.
Here, men were way too late.
Women way too early.
Why?
I scrolled down, reading related articles.
[Column] Why Do Men Delay Marriage? - From the Perspective of Semen Economics.
Semen economics.
The title was ominous.
I clicked.
[...In the past, both men and women typically married in their mid-20s and started families. But with the advent of the 'semen currency' era, everything changed.
Men's semen production peaks in their 20s.
The healthiest, most concentrated, highest volume period.
In other words, 20-something men are like infinite semen vaults.
They can unload two or three times a day, with quick recovery.
Marry in your 20s?
That means 'limiting economic activity.'
Tying yourself to one woman wastes semen, costing massive opportunity.
So most men spend their 20s and 30s purely on 'production' and 'accumulation.'
They jerk off hard, sell it, save it.
Only entering the marriage market in their 40s, when production starts declining, after building wealth.
Already rich, they naturally take young, beautiful women as wives...]
“Holy...”
My jaw dropped.
The article was wild.
But the logic was airtight.
At least I couldn't argue.
Young men produce tons of semen.
Healthy enough for multiple loads a day.
But it declines with age.
Basically, 'grind while you're young' mentality.
Stack cash and retire.
FIRE tribe...
No.
Fireball tribe.
Grind till your balls burn.
“Fuck. 'Spend it while you can'... Respect.”
Yeah.
Shoot while you can.
A man's life graph matches semen production.
Got it.
That explained it.
Men marry late, and these madams' husbands were upper crust.
They probably slaved away selling semen in their youth to build fortunes.
Then bought young, pretty wives with it.
Capable men snagging young women—same everywhere.
Just the source of power is semen here.
“Hmm... So yeah, they're definitely young.”
Mom was right.
Husbands in 50s or 60s, wives likely 20s.
No hag worries.
If anything, jackpot.
Young madams with rich old husbands.
They must be starving.
Husbands past their prime.
Low output, shitty in bed.
Lots of money, no semen.
To them, I'm?
Savior.
Rain in drought.
Young, fresh, endlessly spurting 20s Royal Jelly.
Impossible not to be popular.
Confidence surged.
But.
The problem was elsewhere.
'Fuck, it's intimidating.'
No matter how exceptional my libido here.
Jerking off and doing a fountain show in front of a crowd?
Hurdle too high.
1-on-1? Fine.
3P... Done that.
With Mom and sister, but still.
Mass group?
With an audience?
This wasn't sex.
'Just clowning around.'
Stage fright incoming.
I imagined it.
Glam lights.
Beauties at round tables.
Their eyes locked on me center stage.
Me, buck naked.
Emcee shouts.
“Alright! Main event tonight! Royal Jelly Jeong Do-hun's fountain show!”
Applause.
Cheers.
And I...
Grab my dick and shake.
To music?
Or commands?
“One, two, three, shoot!”
Like that?
“Ughhh!”
I clutched my head.
Embarrassing.
Face burning just thinking.
I'm a perv, but not an exhibitionist.
I don't get off on showing off.
But.
Conditions too good to refuse.
Money.
Connections.
Legal orgy with tons of beauties.
Pass on that?
For mere shame?
If a man's drawn his sword, he slashes.
If he's whipped it out, he shoots.
“Sigh. Whatever happens, happens.”
I sighed.
Mom set it up, so probably fine.
She wouldn't sell her son to a freak circus.
S-Entertainment director, right?
Pros, so trust 'em.
Splash-.
Liquid sprayed my face.
...
How did this happen?
Let me rewind.
Definitely...
The appointed day arrived.
I'd edged for a full day, dick primed.
Meant to go two days.
But text from Lee Ha-na sunbae the other night...
'Mmm. She looked so pretty flailing in my semen.'
Fulfilled her semen shower fetish, wasted a load.
But okay.
It's thick anyway.
“Guest has arrived.”
Taxi stopped.
S-Hotel, smack in Gangnam.
Korea's priciest 6-star.
Entrance intimidating as hell.
Line of foreign luxury cars for valet.
I stepped out of a taxi amid them.
A bit awkward.
But strode confidently.
I'm Royal Jelly.
Through revolving doors to lobby.
High ceilings, dazzling chandeliers.
Polished marble floors gleaming like mirrors.
Headed to front desk.
“Welcome, sir.”
Man who looked like the manager bowed politely.
Pulled out Mom's business card from my pocket.
S-Entertainment Director Jeong Na-yeon.
Showed it; his eyes sharpened.
“Ah, we've been expecting you.”
He bowed 90 degrees.
“Allow me to escort you to the room. This way.”
Private elevator.
No buttons.
He swiped a card; 30th floor lit up auto.
Ears popped from speed.
Ding-.
Doors opened.
Hallway different.
Plush carpet sinking underfoot.
Soft lights, classical music.
First time in a place like this; heart pounding.
Manager led.
To massive double doors at hall's end.
“Here you are. Enjoy your time.”
He bowed and left.
Alone now.
Reached for handle; footsteps from side hall.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
High heels.
Turned.
Breath caught.
Celebrity?
No, flashier.
Body-hugging black dress.
Luxury shawl on shoulders.
Clutch bag.
Dripping designer labels.
Mid-20s?
Haughty cat eyes.
Stopped before me.
Scanned me top to bottom.
Like appraising merchandise on display.
Gaze lingered on my crotch.
Corner of her mouth twitched up.
“Oh? Today's Royal Jelly?”
Odd tone.
Amused?
No.
Intrigued.
Like a kid spotting a toy.
“Ah... yes. That's me.”
Blurt out.
She smirked.
“Hmm... Younger than I thought? Cute.”
Fingertip tapped my chin.
“Do well. I'm looking forward to it.”
Slipped inside.
Before door shut, her last glance.
Weirdly off-putting.
Her words dripped condescension.
Competitive fire ignited.
Deep breath.
Exhale.
Opened door.
Creak-.
Heavy door swung; room revealed.
“......”
Jaw dropped.
Center: circular stage-like area.
Waterproof white sheet on floor.
Luxury sofas encircling it.
Women lounging on them.
One, two, three...
Easily over ten.
All young.
All gorgeous.
And all...
Staring at me, eyes ablaze.
'Fuck.'
The curse slipped out.
Actual circus.