Smoke signals and other Saturday nights

It started in the park and led toward the smoke. A bottle of soju and two cans of energy to pass around, we flipped through his Grindr to find lurking homosexuals zero feet away. Suspicious steps towards ears covered by iPhones, we all placed our bets.

When the text made its jump to a quarter of a mile we swigged the last of the cherry bottle and started the search for another dive. Past the Museum we wound down a staircase into a smoking cave.

The ceiling curved into the walls and shot down two pillars in the centre, framing a DJ’s screen. We curled up in the top corner and lit the first hookah of the night. Sipped tequila and waited to get details of a tea date from a female friend.

The second hookah hideout was just as empty for all its sing-along eighties electro hits. Danced in our crossed legged seats until we turned our toes to the gay bars. When Hongdae’s dead the Saturday night sex fiends are sure to buy you drinks.

Lodged against a wall of strangers or dancing on stage, we closed down the night, and went to sleep face first on the floor.