A Deadbeat Dad's Farewell

That bastard called my father was a real pain in the ass.

He left raising his son to Mom and spent his days gallivanting around carefree. Showing up once a month was a big deal, and even then, he never stayed more than two days. What was the point of saying anything? Dad poured most of his time—time he could've invested in his kid—into fooling around with college girls in their twenties or models. He was the epitome of a deadbeat parent.

He wasn't rolling in money, but he looked young for his age, handsome enough to rival celebrities, and above all, he was huge. That's probably how a guy like him could hang out with beauties half his age, partying and eating well. Mom fought with him endlessly, but in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠end, she waved the white flag and pulled out the divorce papers. Who could blame her? No matter how much she talked, it never got through.

He was the king of deadbeats, but when Mom dumped me on him, he seemed to feel some semblance of responsibility. We'd go fishing together, he'd cook for me, even sit me down—a middle school kid—and grill meat while handing me booze. That's when I first learned I was the kid born because Mom skipped birth control to trap him. So yeah, I'm immune ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to fat-shaming jabs like "you're just a failed condom baby."

I had some hopes. Now that they were divorced, maybe he'd stop wandering for a month or two at a time and actually commit to family life. But no. The hopeless bastard waited until I was old enough, then bolted and didn't come home for a whole month. When he finally showed up, I asked why, and his answer was a doozy.

"I need a breather too. I couldn't go out because of you, and it was driving me nuts. I still sent you pocket money, so don't complain."

"Are you insane?"

"You little shit, talking back to your father like that. Anyway, Dad's heading out."

Old habits die hard. In the end, I handled all the housework alone. He was out carousing and tangled up with women constantly, but he never hit me, never nagged about studying, and gave me plenty of pocket money. I didn't have major complaints.

"Hoo."

Embarrassing as it was to admit, he was still my dad, and now he was dead... It weighed heavy on my heart.

I caught a bus back to my hometown. I'd rushed from home by taxi and snagged the earliest one. Staring blankly out the window, I realized we'd arrived before I knew it. At the funeral hall, reached by taxi, there were tons of women sobbing. I passed them and stood before Dad's portrait.

A man who'd constantly chased women outside was now captured in a single photo. He'd borrowed a foreign luxury car to impress some girl, took her for a drive, and smashed into a guardrail. Fatal accident. No one to blame.

"A guy who lived like an artist goes out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠such a lame way."

I lit incense and muttered it under my breath. I couldn't say he'd been a great dad even as an empty compliment, but unlike my birth mom who'd abandoned me and vanished, he'd taken me in. I didn't hate him that much. Sure, over 80% of the time he ignored me to chase skirts, but in this moment, I didn't feel like nitpicking.

With a sigh, I changed into mourning clothes and handled the funeral. I watched as Dad was cremated last, then scattered his ashes at sea, sending him off completely.

After seeing Dad off, I lived a hectic month. Sorting and selling the old house, filing death reports... No time to breathe.

"Geon-woo."

"Yeah?"

Dahyeon had helped, so I wrapped things up quicker without major issues.

"Sorry about your dad."

"Thanks for helping."

"No biggie, it's what you'd do."

"Your research okay? You haven't been to the lab helping me."

Dahyeon didn't just bow, eat some yukgaejang, and leave. She stuck by my side, helping with the funeral, greeting guests, watching the cremation. She even came to scatter the ashes, witnessing it all.

"Research can wait. Helping you matters more."

"Yeah..."

With Dad's traces gone, I returned to my shabby studio apartment.

"......"

After that, I spent nearly a week like a corpse. I couldn't even remember what I did. Only went out when Dahyeon called; otherwise, I just lay in bed.

Then it hit me—what if they were here? I opened my phone gallery.

Dozens of videos and photos flooded the screen. To an outsider, it'd look like a porn collection, but to me, each was a precious memory. The thought made me chuckle bitterly. Precious memories? Do I even deserve to say that after hypnotizing them from 1 to 10 to create all this?

I scrolled slowly through the gallery. Even muting and playing videos, I watched.

"Ah."

Naturally, I got hard. With energy to blow ten loads easy, just a few clips had me standing at attention. But no urge to jerk off, so I switched to YouTube to binge videos I'd missed.

Heena's news shocked me. Halting training and activities, barricaded at home. Well... probably nothing serious? If they all remembered everything, shit would've hit the fan already. So it must be fine.

Maybe because of the Heena news, I suddenly recalled our first meeting.

"Ugh, hate going to work."

But money was the enemy, so I sighed deeply, splashed water on my face haphazardly, and headed to the job.

Shuttle bus to the site, basic check like blood pressure, then straight to loading docks—lifting packed boxes, loading and unloading on repeat.

"Ow, this sucks!"

"Hey, old man! Take it easy!"

During a short break, I gestured at Deokbae stretching his back, yelling to pace himself. I was beat, but he had it worse. Sweat pouring down his face, back cracks audible from afar—he'd end up sick at this rate.

Midwinter, but Kim Deokbae worked in a short-sleeve tee. Constant motion kept him hot. Wiping sweat, tossing and catching boxes, and suddenly it was quitting time.

"Good work, everyone."

"Ayoo, you too!"

Deokbae bowed deeply to me, young enough to be his son. I bowed back.

"Man, you're young and tough. What sport you do? I'm dying here, but you don't even look winded. Barely a drop of sweat."

Job reviews online freaked me out first day: quit in under an hour, brutally hard, bedridden with flu for days after, even two ramen bowls on rice left me hungry. I was tense, but it wasn't that bad—tough but doable. Surprised me.

"Haha, guess I'm adapted."

"Sigh, youth is wasted on the young."

We patted each other's backs, grabbed jackets from the break room, smiling like good guys.

On the bus, checked communities on my phone, then pulled out the nutrition pill bottle from my pocket. Nearly empty, super light. Peeked in—one red pill left. Same strawberry flavor as always.

Off the shuttle. Kids laughing and playing, happy couples strolling.

"Nice life."

Amid the peace and brightness, I trudged home dark-faced, hands in pockets.

Passed a discarded full-length mirror, paused, checked myself out. Dingy yellowed duck-down jacket, faded jeans. Poverty personified.

Eh, regret coming to Seoul.

Came for a job, got jack shit—just gigs and loading docks for months. Resumes mostly bounced at round one. Interviews? A few, but specs like high school grad and military discharge couldn't compete with fancy degrees and smooth talkers everywhere.

Stopped thinking, hit the bathroom, turned on the shower. Paused to eye my body in the mirror. Shredded abs, solid pecs, broad shoulders. Even I was impressed.

Looked down. Thighs and calves chiseled like a cyclist's, veins popping on flex. Gym noob like me—no home workouts even—and this? You'd grind years at the gym for maybe this level.

No gym, just loading... gets you fit, sure, but not this ripped.

Muscles were wild, but wilder was my forearm-thick cock. Soft, and still impressive. My one pride: 10 inches long, girth that laughs at toilet paper rolls. Oh, inches—not cm, don't get it twisted.