Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 4

Dong Junhao this “heavy-handed” and absurdly “clumsy” newcomer became an overnight sensation in the men’s department of “Bihai Yuntian.” It happened in a way he couldn’t understand and, frankly, found quite alarming.

Through the steam-laden air of the male bath area, a nickname began to circulate with a mixture of reverence and secret longing: “The Iron Diamond Grip.”

No one knew which customer first let the name slip, but it spread like mist, find its way into the ears of every curious patron. His massive hands, calloused by years of battling steel and concrete on construction sites, felt less like flesh and more like leather-wrapped tools.

Every time he pressed down, the weight was immense, as if he were grinding away the very essence of muscle soreness. Every stroke of his hand was so coarse it felt like gravel rolling over the skin. It was a bizarre sensation a mix of sharp stings followed by a deep, bone-marrow-melting release of tension. It was a current of power that bypassed the surface and struck the most stubborn knots deep within. It hurt, it really hurt, but the fiery relaxation that followed was addictive.

Beyond his hands, the man himself was a living, breathing sculpture of contradictory allure. He was silent, almost wooden. Aside from necessary questions, he never spoke, burying himself in the physical labor of the scrub table as if it were a solemn duty.

His light-blue technician uniform was helpless against the body beneath. His wide shoulders strained the fabric, and his thick chest muscles formed sharp outlines through the damp cloth. When he rolled up his sleeves, his arms revealed “hard knots” of muscle not the polished curves of a gym-goer, but the raw, wild power forged by years of manual toil. This contrast between his silent nature and aggressive physique acted like a magnet, drawing in those looking for solace or stimulation in the steam.

Booking a session with him became the front desk girl’s most stressful yet successful task. The phone rang incessantly, callers specifically demanding “Master Dong” or, more bluntly, “the tall, strong guy with the most power.”

The owner, Xu Jun, seemed unsurprised. He simply sat back, grinning at the surge of new memberships as if he had foreseen this goldmine from the start.

During Junhao’s shifts, the lounge area was always filled with men whose eyes were clearly not on resting. With towels draped loosely over them, their gazes would frequently drift toward the archway of the bath area, mentally calculating when he might be free.

“Master Dong, can I do the salt scrub now? I heard yours is great for detoxing!”

A tall, thin man with glasses had somehow drifted from the pool to the corner where Junhao was vigorously scrubbing a mitt. The man’s eyes were glued to the damp blue fabric clinging to Junhao’s chest, tracing the rising and falling contours beneath.

Without looking up, Junhao answered in a flat, monotone voice, the same tone he used to report cement bags on the site. “Salt scrub yeah, okay. Use it after the wash. Fine grains, deep scrub. Removes dead skin. Makes you smooth.”

He was reciting the lines Old Liu had taught him, but his mind was back on the construction site, picturing the way he used sandpaper to level a wall. He couldn’t fathom why these people wanted to add things to their skin; to him, it seemed like paying to suffer.

The man with glasses, however, felt his breath hitch at that unadorned, clumsy mention of the word “smooth.” He stared at Junhao’s jawline sharp as if carved by an axe and watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. The man’s face, already flushed from the heat, turned a deeper shade of red.

“Good, good! I’ll listen to you! Smooth, smooth is good!”

A middle-aged man nearby, drying a slightly portly belly, immediately chimed in, not wanting to be left out. “Master Dong! Don’t just help him. Give me a milk bath later! The best kind!”

“After soaking, will I… uh, become as solid as you?” The word he nearly let slip was “firm,” but he pivoted too “solid” at the last second. His eyes, however, were hooked onto Junhao’s bronze-colored arms, which glistened under the lights as he worked. The forearm muscles tensed and relaxed with every scrub, pulsing with ready power.

Junhao paused, frowning slightly. He found the idea strange. What does being solid have to do with soaking in milk?

He answered honestly, according to his own logic. “Milk moisturizes the skin. It’s for pampering. Me?” He freed a hand to wipe the sweat from his nose with the back of his wrist, the movement causing his biceps to bulge. “I get this from working. Sun and grit. Rough.”

“Rough is good! Rough is real!” The middle-aged man’s eyes lit up, his voice rising in excitement. “The milk bath then! Double the essence no, triple! Make it as thick as possible!”

Sea mud, medicinal soaks, petal baths, essential oil massages.

High-priced items that Old Liu and the others usually struggled to sell became natural extensions of Junhao’s sparse vocabulary and awkward recommendations. He didn’t know sales tactics; he just shared his basic understanding: The mud was black and sticky, so it must “suck things out.” The herbs smelled strong, so they must “circulate the blood.” The petals looked nice and smelled good.

His descriptions were bone-dry, yet this lack of polish this “greenhorn” honesty combined with his rugged appearance made the customers act as if they were under a spell. They stopped haggling over prices and spent money freely, just to have those “Iron Diamond” hands stay on them for fifteen minutes longer, to feel the heat and power radiating from him.

But Junhao’s confusion was growing like bubbles at the bottom of a pool. He was no longer a complete novice; he began to realize that the “temperature” of the gazes falling on him was wrong.

It wasn’t just a customer evaluating a service.

When a cigarette was handed to him, a fingertip would “accidentally” brush his skin for a second too long. In the large pool, there were always one or two figures who seemed to be drifting aimlessly, only to end up hovering near his work area. Even when he bent over to lift a heavy barrel of disinfectant, the skin on the back of his neck would prickle, as if thick, weighted gazes were crawling slowly up his spine.

He felt like a wild beast that had wandered into a forest of invisible vines. They were intangible, yet they wrapped around him with a wet, slippery discomfort. He felt a threat, but he couldn’t see its shape. All he could do was bury himself deeper into the “work,” scrubbing harder, splashing more water, and using the familiar exhaustion to wash away the eerie atmosphere that made his skin crawl.