My problem (one among many anyway) with Korea is this: People seem to see me as 298329 times fatter and flatter than I actually am (as opposed to America where they think I’m super thin and then, upon hearing my actual weight, fumble for euphemisms like “fit” and “shapely” to cover their shock). I don’t lay claim to flat abs or covetable legs by any means, but I think I know how to flatter my figure as much as I can and go with that.
This one night I’m at a so-called “night club”—otherwise more infamously known as a booking club—with my girls, as per usual looking for a few hours of casual flirting and nothing more. We follow the usual protocol: coyly eye-fuck with the waiters, feign wide-eyed innocence when they deem us worthy of our patrons and drag us by the wrist to the hidden depths of this underworld, then judge our male caretakers when they offer us only cheap beer or sport dog faces or only dish out enough for a crummy booth and not a proper room like the real gentlemen do. So sue me: I was young and drunk and assimilating. I suppose my condemning the cloth booth dividers as I’m waltzed into this particular circle of friends really sets the karma for what I’m about to encounter in another thirty seconds.
At first glance, my curses seem undue. The guy is tall, good-looking, and has the swag of someone who knows he acts to impress and pulls it off. Natural grace, I like that. He looks me over in turn, curious, twinkling in what seems like appraisal. Being a typically image-conscious Korean girl, I’m thrilled.
Pride is quickly doused in reality check when I realize he’s staring openly at my chest, even before we’ve exchanged two words. I give him the benefit of the doubt and an extra moment for his eyes to finally make their way up to mine. It’s like he’s almost surprised to discover they exist.
“So…” he begins, “you must be a…” he pauses, humming appreciatively. “A-cup?”
My mouth drops open.
Mistaking my speechlessness for acquiescence, he reaches over and claps his hand around my waist. “Ooh, you’ve even got a little jiggle on you. I like that.”
I glare at him. “Actually, I’m a 34c,” I say, then get up to leave. As I breeze out the booth, I vow (successfully) never to come to a nightclub ever again.
I guess I asked for that one.