Happy in Korea
"God," said Paul, saying it like gaaaawd. "Korean guys are a bunch of homos!"
I was about to tell him to pipe down, then decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Your average Korean probably wouldn't know what he was talking about any more than we knew what they were talking about.
It was true, however, that in the disco we were in (some glassed-in thing that was supposed to look like the inside of an aquarium) guys were dancing together. Not just dancing, each in their own little world, but dancing. Slow dancing together. Arms around each other. Touching.
I tried to look disgusted as I knew Paul expected me to, but to tell you the truth, I was fascinated. See, the thing was, the men didn't act gay; they weren't all swishy or limp-wristed or whatever. Most of them were dressed in conservative suits, and during the fast numbers, they danced the same way as any drunk guys would do in the States.
But no way would guys in the States clinch like that, like those two were doing to the strains of "Beseme Mucho."
The bigger guy had curly hair, whether permed or natural, I don't know. His face was beet red and he was clutching a smaller guy whose glasses were sitting lopsidedly on his nose. They were both smiling. Around them, the salmon-colored lights beeped on and off, big plastic blades of "seaweed" shimmied.