His lips paused a breath away from our first kiss.
"You really like me, right?"
My voice sank into the thick silence. It was the first question I’d dared to ask, still trembling with arousal. He said nothing, only tapped my waist as if hurrying an answer. I do—why ask now? I turned my head and severed the air that would have started the kiss. At the tips of his lashes, my own desire glittered.
I don’t want your body; I want confirmation.
Even when my skin is on fire, a cold calculation flickers on the side: Does this person want more of me than sex? Physical heat can’t stand in for the temperature of feeling, and I know it. Sex evaporates like the scent of momentary sweat, but emotion leaves a stain. I want to secure even that stain in advance.
Is it truly wrong—the wish to fill the heart before the bodies touch? I have no illusion of a "safe body"; what terrifies me is only a body. Even with eyes closed and textures seeping in, I’m forever searching for an exit. I press my ear to his heartbeat, desperate to know whether the rhythm is for me or merely excitement, and I peer into his veins to tell the difference.
Each night, she hunted for a contract under the sheets.
Ji-hyeon had long demanded emotion. The memory of a single night with Min-jae—whose texts had already stopped—rose up. She sat on the hotel headboard, catching her breath. As Min-jae undid his shirt buttons, he asked, "What happens if I sleep with you?"
"What do you mean, ‘happens’?"
"I might… want to see you more."
It wasn’t a simple question. Ji-hyeon clutched the blanket and whispered inside, Do you feel the same for me? Say yes. Only then can I undress. But he murmured instead, Let’s just feel it. So Ji-hyeon stopped, leaving only her underwear on. By morning Min-jae had vanished, one text the only trace.
Another night, he had no idea how heavy feelings can be.
Joon-young, two years into dating, was kissing Eun-ji after drinks when the lights glowed amber. Eun-ji squeezed his hand. "Do you really like me?"
Joon-young snorted and shook his head. What’s the point of asking now? He shrugged: "The body just leads the way." Eun-ji’s hand loosened. The lights went out; he never saw her face. They never met again. To Eun-ji, Joon-young was a man who wanted only her body; to Joon-young, Eun-ji was someone whose spectrum was too narrow. Each had revealed the other’s fear—nothing more.
Desire wrapped in taboo, and its cruelty.
Why do we demand emotion before we give our bodies? It isn’t a mere safety catch. We are frightened that our bodies might prove ordinary, disposable. The dread that the other will treat our flesh as consumable. So we crave emotion not as insurance but as evidence: proof that this person wants me, not just my contours. Psychologists sometimes call this craving emotional stalking—an obsession to grip the other’s interior and never let it shake. Still, we dress the obsession as sincerity, masking the terror: If I give my heart first, I may be betrayed.
The moment we ask for feelings first, have we already lost?
In the end, if we offer our hearts before our bodies, we may be left with nothing. The other might say they wanted only the body. What face should I wear then? Perhaps I’ll whisper, Even so, it’s all right. Yet long before the confession leaves my lips, I already know: this desire can never be justified.
Still—don’t you, tonight, want to secure that person’s heart first, before any skin touches?