Soft Hands

Choi Wonjae. The name printed on the business card. The man Jin Ayoung had called her mentor.

So of course I'd expected a man to pick up when I dialed. Instead, a soft woman's voice answered.

"Ah, hello. My name is Kang Junhyun. Jin Ayoung referred me."

A brief silence, then she was back.

"Sorry? Oh, uh… whenever works for you. I don't have anything scheduled today."

"Two o'clock. Yes, got it."

"Uh. I'll figure it out."

"Wait! Is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there anything I should bring?"

A short laugh came through the receiver.

"Yes."

I hung up, then turned my palms over and stared at them for a long while. For a second I thought of Inspector Pyeong, the guy who'd proven his entire charisma with the single line, "Palms."

Pfft. So what does that make me — Goni? What is this, a gambling flick?

I checked the time on my phone. Still a long way until the appointment.

Ha. Without meaning to, I flopped around on the bed replaying yesterday. Jin Ayoung had left me a text, but I'd only read the preview and never opened it. A little push-and-pull of my own, I guess. Answering too fast would look desperate. I didn't want her knowing I'd been waiting for her message like a man possessed.

Yesterday, while she was still nestled against me, Jin Ayoung had asked my age. I'd said twenty-nine, and she'd given me that signature smile of hers before revealing her own — thirty-six. The gap was bigger than I'd expected, and it must have shown, because she'd worked so hard not to let it show that I'd laughed again and stroked her hair. Even though I was significantly younger, she still used formal speech with me every single time. And she never once asked the kind of face-reddening question like why a twenty-nine-year-old had zero experience.

Screw it. I couldn't hold out any longer. I replied.

A second later the little unread mark vanished. She'd been waiting and checked it the moment it came. My mouth curved up on its own.

I knew exactly what that shy little emoticon meant, and my face broke into a full grin.

Kids these days say "almost dating" more than "dating." Was that about where Jin Ayoung and I stood? Closer to a relationship than a crush, but not actually a couple.

And more than anything, I could feel it clearly — this woman seven years older than me didn't see me as more than a man in the physical sense. The fluttery, exciting feeling was real, but our relationship probably wouldn't go further than this. That didn't mean we wouldn't keep mixing skin, though. Call it a bond of the body? Coming from a guy who'd only had his first time yesterday, it sounded ridiculous, but something unforgettable — the kind of connection you get from sleeping together — was already pulling us toward each other.

I didn't feel any regret about that, either. Watching how cool she was about it, I decided I'd try to be cool too. Above all, the confidence I'd gained through her was beyond words.

I'd saved a person with a massage. Maybe I actually had a talent for this, and I'd just never known it until now.

With that confidence as my foundation, I felt like I could hold my own anywhere.

And I no longer needed to walk around wearing the title of virgin.

That said — a women-only aesthetic?

I fired up the computer right then and typed Head to Toe Women-Only Aesthetic into the search bar.

They've got a website.

Not just a blog — an actual site. The place was bigger than I'd thought. Inside, there were write-ups on the benefits of massage, videos of women actually receiving treatments, and a wall of reviews.

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clicked a video. A woman, stripped down with only a towel covering the important parts, was getting a massage. The masseur, surprisingly, was a man. The camera angle hid his face. It was a clean, wholesome massage that never crossed any lines. The reviews that went with it were solid too. Great massage, leaving satisfied. Felt so safe putting myself in their hands. Average rating: 4.5 out of 5. Hard to find a single dissatisfied comment.

The prices, though — not cheap.

The cheapest option was a forty-minute foot treatment for fifty thousand won. At the high end, a fifty-minute full-body aroma massage ran two hundred thousand.

But further down the page was a section labeled Special Course, with nothing listed under it except a bold four hundred thousand won. How special did a massage have to be to charge that much? I checked whether the special course had reviews of its own, and compared to the other packages, the reactions were explosive.

A review board as lively as any internet gallery. This was clearly one of those places — famous among people who knew, famous for being famous. Further down, someone had posted a joke: "Sports college applicant, got a massage, won gold at the athletic meet", and the comments exploded into pure chaos like a street market.

These women are unreal.

I snickered my way through the reviews until half past twelve had somehow come and gone.

I boiled a quick pack of ramen, scrambled to get ready, and headed out. I'd arrive about ten minutes early.

My heart was hammering. When was the last time I'd even done a part-time job interview? Three years since I'd quit the job I'd held for about a year. I'd scraped by on what I'd saved, grinding for the civil service exam. When it looked like I couldn't keep afloat, I'd interviewed for a café job a year ago — and never heard back. The crushing feeling from that was hard to put into words. If I couldn't even land a café gig, how was I supposed to pass a civil service exam?

This was different. Jin Ayoung had received my massage herself and told me to trust her. This wasn't baseless confidence.

I got off at Sillim Station and walked straight along the road. Checking the map app, looking around, I spotted the Head to Toe sign across the street and crossed over.

Definitely not a new building. Six stories, with parking running down to the basement. A car tire shop on the first floor, the massage parlor on the second. Everything above that was small-business officetels. The main clientele would be office workers in the building, residents near the station, or people from the newer apartment complexes a little farther out.

The location wasn't bad. From the website it looked like they had a few more chain locations around Seoul, and business seemed solid.

Even at this hour a customer was coming down the stairs. She was wearing a mask, and the moment she saw me she dipped her head and scurried off like she was fleeing. I caught her from behind as she went — damn. A short top that left her navel and back completely bare, long tights that covered down to her lower belly, every bit of her held tight with lean muscle and not an ounce of spare fat. A perfect apple butt. The kind of body that made men's eyes spin.

I suddenly thought of the woman in the reviews who'd called herself a fitting model. Going by that, celebrities and the so-called in-crowd were probably coming here to maintain their figures.

I went up to the second floor, opened the shop door, and a woman at the counter with her hair piled high stood up to greet me. She'd clearly gone for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a mysterious look.

"Hello, how did you hear about us?"

"Ah, I'm Kang Junhyun. I called earlier…"

"Kang Junhyun. This way, please."

She led me to a room off to the side. A sliding-door room — not a massage space, more like a staff break area. There was a sink, and a bathroom attached. Clean dishes stacked in the drying rack still dripping water told me they'd handled lunch here.

The thought that this might become my workplace made every object in the room feel suddenly fresh and pleasant.

I was running my fingertips over the smooth surface of the sink counter when the sliding door opened and I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠looked up.

"Kang Junhyun?"

"Hello."

"I'm Choi Wonjae, the owner. Ayoung told me all about you."

So this was the Choi Wonjae from the business card. The moment he walked in, you could feel he was no ordinary man — because he was a rugged, handsome bald guy straight out of a Japanese yakuza movie. And the size of him. Built like pure muscle packed tight under his clothes, Choi Wonjae looked every bit as tough as he was. He gave me a sharp, stylish smile, so I bowed my head again in greeting.

"Ah, hello."

"You like your greetings. Sit."

Choi Wonjae settled into a cross-legged seat on the floor, and I sat facing him a little ways off. The second I sat down, he thrust a hand straight at me.

"Let's shake on it."

Sss—

I sucked in a breath so deep it puffed my chest out from sheer nerves. His forearms looked rock-hard from the muscle. Combined with the unreadable charisma rolling off him, I felt my spirit shrinking.

And then the handshake.

Suddenly I remembered high school, arm-wrestling with friends. One of them used to say, "I can tell if I'll win just by shaking hands," and like a scene out of a comic he'd go around shaking everyone's hand, then sit down and announce, "Five wins, five losses." That idiot never actually arm-wrestled once the entire year.

But I thought I understood the feeling now. No matter what trick you pulled, you were never beating this man. Even with both hands you wouldn't tip him over.

"Soft. But the bones are thicker than I expected. And you've got good instincts."

A gaze that felt like it was boring straight through me.

But what was this? I kept needing to look at his face, yet my eyes kept drifting toward that shaved head. Focus, Kang Junhyun! Screw this up and you'll get buried right here!

"Ayoung says your hands have an incredible touch."

"Ahaha. She said that? Ahahaha…"

I managed nothing but an awkward laugh. Incredible touch. All I could think of was kneading her ass and breasts like dough, and the embarrassment hit hard.

"Want to work on me once?"

"Sorry?"

Choi Wonjae's face lit with curiosity. Still cross-legged, he straightened his back cleanly and stripped off his top. A muscular body, as expected. Not the kind you build in a year or two of gym — the kind you forge steadily over a lifetime.

"My condition's been a little off lately."

"Ah, yes… then…"

I stood and moved behind him the way I had with Jin Ayoung.

"Your body might rock back and forth, so bend one knee and lock it between my shoulder blades."

At first I had no idea what he meant, but the moment I tried it, it was the tip of all tips. No chair with a backrest — if I massaged him like this, of course his body would sway.

I looked at Choi Wonjae's bare shoulders. For someone claiming his condition was off, there were a lot of red spots clustered around them. Spots only I could see, no doubt. If Choi Wonjae could see them himself, he'd have had a coworker wipe them out already. It was a massage shop, after all — wouldn't they work on each other?

But there was something strange. A blue spot I had never seen on Jin Ayoung's body was nestled near the base of the lumbar spine, right at the start of the lower back.

Figuring he was waiting, I started working his shoulders first, clearing out the red spots as I went.

The instant I erased a red spot, the others elsewhere went wild, thrashing and racing around. The exact same reaction as when I'd worked Jin Ayoung's ankle. But no matter how the red ones rioted, the blue spot just sat there, still.

Fascinating. I was curious. Instinct alone was enough to make my fingers itch.

"Owner."

"Yes. Something wrong?"

"Would it be alright if I massaged a little lower, not just around here?"

"…"

Choi Wonjae turned his head and studied my face carefully for a moment. Then, as if something had clicked, he nodded, lowered himself, and lay face-down on the floor.

"Like this?"

"Yes."

I wasn't certain, but I needed to know the secret of this blue spot.

I shoved down the fear I'd worked up in advance and rolled up my sleeves.

My breathing settled.