Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 1

Upon returning to the simple tin-shack dormitory at the construction site, Dong Junhao immediately tore off his work uniform. The fabric, soaked in sweat and dried by the wind countless times, had turned stiff, carrying a pungent, briny stench.

He grabbed a chipped washbasin, tossed in a thin sliver of yellow soap and a frayed towel, and headed straight for the noisy, temporary communal showers at the end of the corridor.

It was the peak of the post-shift rush. The cramped shower room was packed with workers. Thick white steam mingled with the heavy scents of male body odor, sweat, and cheap shampoo, instantly blurring his vision. Under a dozen showerheads, naked men crowded together. The splashing of water blended with laughter and coarse shouting, echoing off the four walls. The floor was slick with murky, soapy wastewater.

Scanning the room, he couldn’t find a single empty spot.

Men on construction sites, exposed year-round to the scorching sun and relentless wind, mostly had skin that was dark and shiny as if coated in a layer of deep brown tung oil. This obscured their individual features, leaving behind only the rugged outlines carved by a hard life. Years of battling steel, cement, and brick kept them lean; they were covered in tight muscle tempered by weight and sweat. These lines weren’t as symmetrical or polished as those sculpted in a gym, but they pulsed with a primitive vitality, rippling under dark skin like resilient wild grass.

In this forest of wild, powerful bodies, Dong Junhao stood out. Standing nearly 1.9 meters tall and weighing almost 180 pounds of solid muscle, his presence was impossible to ignore. As he appeared in the doorway, his silhouette shoulders wide enough for a horse to gallop across, chest muscles thick as rock walls, a narrow waist, and long, powerful legs immediately captured several lingering glances.

Some looks were simple admiration or envy, viewing him like a fine piece of equipment. Others were thicker, carrying an indecipherable heat as they traced the defined muscles of his back and the tight lines of his hips.

“Junhao! Over here! Come here!”

A loud, somewhat urgent voice called out from the thickest mist on the right. It was his roommate, Tian Gui. He was squeezed under a sputtering showerhead, waving vigorously with a wide smile.

“There’s no room left! Quick, squeeze in with me. Just a quick rinse and we’re done!”

Dong Junhao hesitated, his thick dark brows furrowing almost imperceptibly.

Tian Gui was two years younger and only reached Junhao’s shoulder. He was lean and habitually over-enthusiastic. He would scoop an extra portion of food for Junhao, rush to carry his tools after work, and always stood too close when speaking. His eyes were “sticky,” and his occasional “accidental” brushes of hands or shoulders left Junhao with a deep sense of discomfort. It wasn’t fear of malice, but an instinctive rejection of overstepped boundaries. It felt like being stuck to a piece of wet chewing gum impossible to shake off, yet difficult to get angry about.

He scanned the room again. Through the haze, no one else looked ready to leave. The older workers were lathering up slowly, deep in conversation. Every other showerhead was crowded.

Forget it, he sighed inwardly. It was just a few minutes to wash off the brine and grit. He could endure it.

His plastic flip-flops made a rhythmic clack-clack on the wet floor. As he stripped, his body honed by high-intensity labor like an ancient Greek sculpture was fully revealed.

The moment he stepped under the water, Tian Gui’s eyes roamed over him like a brush. From the bulging chest to the carved abdominal muscles and deep V-line, Tian Gui clicked his tongue, his voice warping slightly in the steam. “Brother Dong, not bad! Haven’t seen you in a few days and you look even thicker. This muscle, it’s hard as a rock!”

The praise was laced with a disturbing intimacy. Seeing Junhao holding only a pathetic sliver of yellow soap, Tian Gui eagerly handed over his half-full bottle of cheap, floral-scented shampoo. “Use mine! That soap makes your hair feel like straw.”

Before Junhao could react, Tian Gui stepped half a pace closer. “I’m almost done. It’s hard to scrub your own back; let me help you.”

His wet, bony hand reached naturally toward Junhao’s smooth, tight back, his fingertips nearly brushing the muscle.

Junhao’s shoulders tensed instantly. His muscles bunched as he swerved away with the speed of a startled leopard. The movement was subtle but carried an inviolable force. Water droplets rolled off his sharp jawline. He opened his eyes and looked flatly at Tian Gui’s embarrassed face. His voice was steady, like a heavy stone hitting the bottom of a pool.

“No need. I’ll do it myself.”

Tian Gui’s hand froze in mid-air. His smile faltered, his eyes flickering. He muttered, “Oh… okay… do it yourself then,” and sheepishly withdrew his hand. He turned away, but his peripheral vision remained glued to Junhao.

Ignoring him, Junhao rubbed the yellow soap into a coarse lather and began scrubbing his body with a force that bordered on venting. It was as if he weren’t just scrubbing away dirt, but the suffocating feeling of being watched and the lingering sensation of that near-touch.

The construction site was a male-only world, isolated from women, where excess hormones and energy had nowhere to go. Men pushing and shoving, cracking crude jokes, or engaging in harmless physical contact was the norm a small relief in a bitter, boring life.

But people like Tian Gui, and others he had encountered, went too far. Their “kindness” offering to scrub his back, wash his clothes, or even “tuck him in” at night crossed a clear line. Every time, Junhao would instinctively erect a cold barrier. He didn’t understand it, and he detested the clingy entanglement. His body was his capital for labor and a part of his dignity; it wasn’t an object meant to satisfy someone else’s murky desires.

Today was payday. The air was thick with a brief, sweat-scented lightness. Holding a thick stack of bills, many workers were smiling and making plans to “let off steam” at cheap hangouts on the city’s edge dimly lit video halls, smoky pool halls, or questionable massage parlors.

Naturally, they invited Junhao. “Let’s go, Junhao! Stop huddling in the shack counting your money! We’ll buy you a drink!”

An older worker threw an arm around his neck, laughing with breath that smelled of cheap liquor. “With your looks and your build, if you just stand there, those ‘sisters’ might even pay you to serve them! Let us bask in your glow!”

Junhao shook his head, a firm but polite smile revealing teeth slightly yellowed from low-grade tobacco. “You guys go ahead. I’m not interested. I’m too tired; I just want to rest.”

In his heart, he carried a heavy, almost obsessive vision: save enough money to return to the loess hills of his hometown, build a bright courtyard house with blue bricks, and perhaps a second floor. He wanted to bring his aging parents whose backs were bent from a lifetime of toil into a home where they would never have to worry about rain leaks or cold winds again.

Since dropping out of high school, he had been like a rootless weed. He had worked in deafening textile mills, flipped heavy woks in greasy kitchens, and braved the cold rejections of sales. Only here, at the construction site, by gritting his teeth and hauling steel and cement, had he finally seen his bank balance rise layer by layer, solid as rammed earth.

He cherished this hard-won stability. Every cent earned with sweat and blood was precious. He didn’t fear pain or exhaustion; skin would callus, and sore muscles would recover after a night’s sleep. His only worry was how far pure physical labor could take him. It was a young man’s game, and the lowest rung of the ladder. He planned to save enough for the house, then a little more to enroll in a night class for electrical automation. He wanted a real trade to be a technical “blue-collar” worker. It would bring honor to his parents and peace to his mind.

As he stared at the mottled ceiling of the shack, calculating how many months he had left, the gruff voice of the foreman, Gao, rang out: “Junhao! Dong Junhao! Come here a second!”

Junhao felt a surge of relief; it was finally his turn to get paid. He brushed off the dust and entered the “luxurious” prefab office.

Gao was in his forties, balding and portly. He sat in a creaky swivel chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. When he saw Junhao, he broke into a grin and tapped a thick envelope on the desk. “Come, Junhao. This is yours for the month. Count it.”

Junhao reached for the envelope. But as his fingers touched the paper, Gao didn’t let go. Instead, his hand slid forward. With an unmistakable pressure, Gao squeezed Junhao’s tanned, muscular forearm, his thumb stroking the skin. The touch was oily and warm.

“Tsk, you kid,” Gao said, his eyes lingering on the lines of Junhao’s arm like he was appraising a piece of meat. “You’re really something. This strength, these muscles, they’re like iron.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke, his eyes turning murky. “A grip like yours, must be something else.”

With that, Gao began unbuttoning his expensive but stained polo shirt, revealing a flabby, hairy chest. “Come, give me a massage. My shoulders and neck are stiff as rusted pipes. You young guys have hot hands and plenty of power.”

He turned his back to Junhao a gesture that combined the casual command of a superior with a sickeningly different intent. “Once you’re done, don’t eat that slop at the canteen. I’ll take you out. I know a place with a bathhouse that feels amazing.”

The “care” in his voice was too eager; the light in his eyes too viscous. A wave of nausea hit Junhao’s stomach, sharp as a physical blow.

Dealing with the “salty claws” and sticky stares of coworkers like Tian Gui was exhausting enough. But now, even the foreman the man who controlled his livelihood was being indecent. In the past, to keep this high-paying job, he might have suppressed his disgust and made an excuse.

But this time, Gao’s intent was too blatant. The string in Junhao’s heart, pulled tight for so long, finally snapped.

He stood there, unmoving, his hands slowly clenching into fists at his sides. The room was thick with smoke, sweat, and a suffocating silence. He knew that once certain lines were crossed, there was no going back. A confrontation was inevitable.

This job was over.

He would roll up his bedding, sling his old snakeskin bag over his shoulder, and walk back out into the scorching sun to find a new path. In this vast city, he refused to believe that without a man like Gao or a site like this, he couldn’t find a clean way to earn his bread.

There was uncertainty and a flicker of panic, but a heavy, scorched-earth determination began to burn in his chest.