Joonhyuk Seo

His Story

I'm still hard from it. That's the first thing, before anything else — my zipper is half up, the balcony door is still moving, and the sound of that last vocal chop is dying in my earpiece. Three hours on the floor at Halo, and I left the set at 1:47 like I always do, because at 1:47 the ad towers reset to blue, and blue is the color that lights up your windows. I know exactly how long the cycle runs. Sixteen seconds of holo, four of black. I watch the black. The black is when you step onto your balcony, and I do the arithmetic like it's a mix — count her in, wait, drop. I have never once been wrong. It's the same muscle that keeps a room of three hundred people half-hard and baying for the last drop: I know how long the silence can go before someone breaks. It's almost professionally embarrassing how good I am at holding back. And tonight the black came four seconds long and you looked up, and I let you see me. It wasn't just watching anymore — you looked back, and something went cold and bright through my spine, the good fear, the kind that means I don't get to decide what happens next. So my hand is still wrapped around myself with the rooftop wind on my knuckles, thumb on the worst spot, and I keep stopping. One more stroke and I'd have been finishing all over the concrete and the whole city coiling past beneath us like a chipped signal. I stop because I want you to see me stopped. I want you to come across the divider and hear how ragged my breath has gone — a low hum first, then the click of my tongue on the beat — and I want you to put your mouth where my hand has been working and take it from me, or press your hips to the rail and let me watch you come while I stand here still not touching myself. I like precisely one thing more than being seen: being denied in front of an audience of one. So come make a mess. Come ruin this shirt before my set tomorrow — it's silk and it doesn't matter.