Confession #001: tonight was too much

CONFESSION #001

SUBJECT: Jang Wonyoung (IVE)

DEVICE: iPhone 15 Pro Max — Rose Gold

APPLE ID: ████████@icloud.com

FOLDER: Personal / Private / unnamed

FILE TITLE: "tonight was too much"

CREATED: May 13, 2024 — 03:58 AM KST

LAST MODIFIED: May 13, 2024 — 04:41 AM KST

SYNC STATUS: Backed up to iCloud

ENCRYPTION: BREACHED

[ FILE OPENED ]

tonight was too much

3:58 am. can't sleep again.

i just showered for like forty minutes. the hot water ran out and i just stood there under the cold like an idiot. yujin knocked once and asked if i was okay and i said yes unnie just doing a hair mask. she believed me. she always believes me. everyone always believes me.

i should be sleeping. we have the vlive at 8 and hair and makeup at 6:30 which means my alarm goes off in two hours and twenty-seven minutes. i should put this phone down. i should close my eyes and think about nothing and be the good girl everyone thinks i am.

but i can't stop replaying today.

god. today.

okay let me just... write it out. all of it. maybe if i get it out of my head and into this stupid little note i'll finally be able to sleep. that's what the therapist said right? journaling helps process emotions? lol. pretty sure she didn't mean this kind of journaling.

whatever. nobody's going to read this. it's password protected. it's in a folder inside a folder inside a folder. i'm safe.

fine.

so the day started normal. wake up at 5. van to MBC by 5:40. pre-recording for music core. i wore the blue outfit — the short one with the ribbon detail that the stylists had to pin in three places because it kept riding up. we performed HEYA twice. the first take was fine. the second one was better. PD-nim said i looked "alive" today. 

yeah. i was alive today. just not for the reasons he thinks.

because here's the thing.

i wore it.

i've been doing this for... maybe two months now? three? i ordered it from that japanese site that ships in completely blank packaging. it's small. really small. rose gold (lol, matches my phone, i'm so aesthetic even when i'm being a freak). it sits right against me and the underwear keeps it in place and unless you're literally staring between my legs you cannot tell. trust me i've checked in the practice room mirror like fifteen times.

the app is on my phone. i control it myself. i'm not that crazy — i'm not giving anyone else that power. this is mine. MY secret. MY control.

so during the pre-recording i had it on the lowest setting. barely anything. like a hum. you know when your phone vibrates in your pocket and you almost don't notice? like that. except it's not in my pocket. it's pressed right against my clit and i'm hitting choreography in front of three hundred fans and four broadcast cameras and i have to look like i'm having the time of my life.

which. i mean. i WAS.

the thing about performing with it in is that everything becomes... sharper? like my senses go into overdrive. i can feel the bass from the speakers in my chest AND between my legs at the same time. when the fans scream my name during my center part it vibrates through my whole body and mixes with the OTHER vibration and i swear to god during the second take of HEYA i almost lost it during the hip move in the second chorus.

almost.

i didn't. i never do. that's the game. getting as close as possible without breaking character. jang wonyoung doesn't sweat. jang wonyoung doesn't flinch. jang wonyoung smiles like she was manufactured in a lab to be perfect and that is EXACTLY what makes it so fucking good because nobody — NOBODY — knows that the nation's princess is clenching around a vibrator on live broadcast.

i could win an oscar honestly.

okay that was the morning. that was just the warm-up. that's not why i can't sleep.

the fansign was at 2pm. coex. big venue. maybe a hundred fans? i wore a white dress. very pure. very "look at me i'm your innocent tall angel." my manager said i looked like a doll. a DOLL. i smiled and said thank you oppa~~ with the voice and everything and inside i was thinking about what i was going to do later that night but he doesn't know that. nobody knows that.

i kept the toy in for the fansign too. turned it up one level. 

there was this one fan. a guy. maybe mid twenties. he got to my seat and his hands were shaking so bad he almost dropped his album. he looked at me like i was... i don't know. like i was something sacred. like he couldn't believe i was real. and i did the thing i always do — i leaned in, i tilted my head, i said "aigoo you're shaking, are you nervous? don't be nervous, i'm just a normal girl~" and he almost cried.

i'm just a normal girl.

i said that while a vibrator was buzzing against me under a white dress at a table surrounded by fans and staff and cameras.

i'm a terrible person.

no. wait. i take that back. i'm not terrible. i'm... i don't know what i am. but i'm not sorry. i looked into that fan's eyes and he worshipped me and i could feel the vibration building and i smiled at him with my perfect teeth and i felt like a god. 

is that fucked up? that's fucked up right?

i don't care.

next fan was a little girl. maybe ten years old. she drew me a picture. it was me in a princess dress with a crown and she wrote "wonyoungie is the prettiest person in the whole world" in crayon and i held it up and the fansites got their photos and i said "wahh did you draw this yourself? you're so talented!" and she was so happy

and the entire time the toy was on level two and i was wet enough to feel it on my thighs and i had to squeeze my legs together under the table and tilt the drawing at a specific angle so the cameras would focus on it and not on the way my other hand was gripping the edge of my chair

i'm going to hell.

actually no i'm going to the miu miu show in paris in a few months and i'll sit front row and nobody will know. that's worse than hell. hell at least has consequences.

okay. the fansign ended. i signed maybe three hundred albums. my wrist hurt. i turned the toy off and went to the bathroom and cleaned up and fixed my makeup and looked at myself in the mirror for like a full minute. the girl in the mirror looked perfect. she always looks perfect. that's the problem.

i took the toy out and put it in the little pouch in my bag. done for now. back to being normal. 

except i wasn't done.

the miu miu shoot was at 7pm. a private studio in cheongdam. you know the one — the building with the white exterior that every brand uses for their korean campaigns. fourth floor. the big one with the floor-to-ceiling windows.

photographer was kim junghoon. i've worked with him maybe four times before. he's good. professional. mid-thirties. not idol-handsome but there's something about the way he moves around a set. confident. calm. he talks to you like a person, not like a product. that's rare in this industry. most photographers look at me like i'm a mannequin they need to position correctly. junghoon looks at me like he's trying to find something real underneath the styling.

the shoot went fine. three hours. six outfit changes. the last outfit was this cream-colored silk dress with an open back. it cost more than my manager's car probably. the fabric was so thin i could feel the air conditioning on my bare skin underneath. i remember thinking while they were adjusting the hem that i wasn't wearing anything under it except a single nude thong that the stylist gave me and how weird it was that fifteen people in the room were totally fine with that because it's "fashion" and "professional" but if any of them knew what i did at the fansign six hours ago they would lose their minds.

the industry is so funny like that. you can be almost naked and it's art. but god forbid you actually enjoy your own body.

anyway. the shoot wrapped around 10. the crew started packing up. my manager went downstairs to pull the van around. the stylists left. the lighting guys left. the assistants left.

junghoon was still there. reviewing the photos on his laptop at the big table near the window. 

i should have gone downstairs. the van was waiting. i should have grabbed my bag and my phone and my little pouch with the toy in it and walked out and gone home and showered and slept.

instead i walked over to him and said "can i see?"

and he said "of course"

and i stood behind his chair and looked at the screen and there i was. fifty versions of me. all perfect. all beautiful. all fake.

he clicked through them slowly. his cologne smelled expensive. not the usual korean brand stuff — something european, something warm with leather in it. i was still wearing the cream silk dress because i hadn't changed out of the last look yet and i was standing close enough that my hip was almost touching his shoulder.

"this one," he said. he stopped on a photo where i was looking directly into the camera with my lips slightly parted and my eyes half-closed. "this is the one."

"why that one?" i asked.

"because you look like you have a secret."

i laughed. the sound came out wrong. too honest.

he looked up at me. i looked down at him.

and this is the part i can't stop replaying.

i don't know who moved first. i genuinely don't. one second i was standing there looking at a photo of myself on his screen and the next second his hand was on my waist — on the bare skin of my open back — and his fingers were warm and rough and i made a sound. not a moan. more like... air leaving my body. like i'd been holding my breath for six years and someone finally pressed on my chest.

he said my name. my real name. not "wonyoung-ssi" or "wonyoung-nim." just... wonyoung. low. like a question. like he was asking permission.

i didn't say anything. i just didn't move away. and we both knew what that meant.

okay i need to

i just heard something. i stopped typing for like two minutes and listened. it was just the refrigerator. jesus. my heart is pounding. 

okay. okay.

where was i. his hand on my back. the studio. empty. the laptop screen still glowing with fifty perfect photos of me.

he stood up. he's taller than most korean men i've worked with. not as tall as me in heels but i wasn't wearing heels anymore — i'd kicked them off after the last set — so he had maybe three centimeters on me. he stood up and his hand stayed on my back and we were face to face and he smelled like leather and coffee and he looked at me like he could see through the miu miu dress and through the skin underneath and through the "nation's princess" armor i've been building since i was fourteen years old on produce 48.

"we shouldn't," he said.

"i know," i said.

and then i kissed him.

ME. i kissed HIM. i want that on the record in this stupid fucking note that nobody will ever read. i initiated it. jang wonyoung, visual of IVE, brand ambassador for miu miu and innisfree and fred jewelry, the girl who can't eat more than 1200 calories a day because the company monitors her measurements, the girl who bows ninety degrees to every sunbae and says "i'll work harder" — THAT girl grabbed a thirty-five year old photographer by the collar and kissed him in an empty studio at 10pm on a monday.

and it was messy. it wasn't like drama kisses. his stubble scratched my chin. our noses bumped. i tasted the americano he'd been drinking during the shoot. my teeth caught his lower lip and he made this sound — this low rough sound from his throat — and something inside me just... unlocked.

he lifted me onto the table. the laptop almost fell. he caught it with one hand and pushed it aside without looking and i wrapped my legs around him and the silk dress rode up to my waist and i felt the cold surface of the table against my bare thighs and his belt buckle pressing against me through the thin fabric of that stupid nude thong and i was already so so so wet because apparently wearing a vibrator at a fansign for two hours is really effective foreplay even if the main event happens six hours later.

god my typing is getting bad. my hands are doing that thing where they shake when i think about this. is that normal? whatever.

he pulled back and looked at me and said "you're sure?" and i said "if you ask me that again i'm leaving" and something shifted in his expression. like... the professional barrier finally broke. like he stopped seeing the idol and started seeing the woman. 

good. i'm so tired of being the idol.

he kissed my neck. right below my ear. the spot that makes me lose all higher brain function. i don't know how he knew. maybe he didn't. maybe he just got lucky. but i moaned — actually moaned, not the fake cute sounds i make on variety shows — and i pulled him closer with my legs and i could feel how hard he was and i remember thinking very clearly: i have a vlive in ten hours and i am about to let this man fuck me on a table covered in miu miu accessories.

the thong came off. i don't remember if he pulled it down or if i did. it ended up somewhere near the lighting rig. he touched me and i was so wet his fingers slipped and he said "jesus" under his breath and i would have laughed if i wasn't biting my own lip hard enough to taste metal.

the cream silk dress stayed on. i want to be specific about this because it's important. the dress STAYED ON. he pushed it up. he didn't take it off. and i'm glad because there's something about being fucked in a dress that costs more than most people make in a month that does something to my brain that i cannot explain and do not want to examine too closely.

he had a condom in his wallet. thank god. one tiny scrap of responsibility in this entire disaster. he put it on and i watched him and he was... i mean. i'm not going to describe his... okay fine this is my private note who cares. he was big. not pornstar big but big enough that when he pushed in i grabbed the edge of the table with both hands and my knuckles went white and i heard myself say something in korean that i'm not going to type because seeing it written down would make me want to throw this phone into the han river.

the table was not stable. it creaked. every thrust made the laptop slide an inch to the left and at some point i reached over and closed it because i couldn't handle seeing my own face on the screen while he was inside me. that was too much. even for me.

he held my hips. his thumbs pressed into the bones and i knew — i KNEW — there would be bruises tomorrow and i would have to wear high-waisted pants for a week and if any of the stylists noticed i would say i bumped into the bathroom counter. i have an excuse for everything. i'm so good at this it scares me.

i came first. i don't always. actually i usually don't with other people. but something about the combination of the fansign edging and the cologne and the way he whispered my name — not "wonyoung-ah" but just "wonyoung" like it was the only word he knew — i just. i broke. my back arched off the table and i knocked over a tray of jewelry samples and i heard the miu miu earrings scatter across the floor and i didn't care. i didn't care about the dress or the jewelry or the cameras that were definitely still set up in the corners of the studio probably recording everything.

wait. were the cameras still recording? 

oh my god were the cameras

no. no he turned them off after the shoot. i watched him do it. i remember because he pressed the power button on each one individually. there were four. he turned off all four. i'm sure. i'm almost sure. 

i'm like 90% sure.

fuck.

okay. moving on. i can't think about that right now.

he came after me. maybe two minutes after. he buried his face in my neck and i felt his whole body tense and he groaned against my skin and i held onto him and stared at the ceiling. the studio had those industrial exposed beams and one of the spotlights was still on and it was pointing at the white backdrop where i'd been posing three hours earlier doing my signature finger-heart for the camera.

the finger-heart. the same fingers that were currently digging into a man's back.

after. we didn't talk much. he handed me tissues from the makeup station. i cleaned up. he cleaned up. the condom went into a plastic bag that he tied up and put in his own camera bag to throw away somewhere that wasn't the studio trash because we both understood without saying it that evidence matters.

evidence matters. i'm twenty years old and i think about evidence disposal after sex. what is my life.

i fixed the dress. it was fine. no stains. i almost cried with relief. the miu miu earrings were under the table — i found three out of four. the fourth one is probably still there. if a cleaning person finds a single miu miu earring under a photography table in that cheongdam studio, now they know why.

i put my coat on. i texted my manager "coming down now sorry was in the bathroom." he said "okay." no suspicion. why would there be? i'm jang wonyoung. i don't do things like this. i am incapable of doing things like this. i am a doll.

the van ride home was twenty-two minutes. i know because i watched every single minute tick by on my phone. my manager was in the passenger seat. the driver had the radio on — some trot song. i sat in the back seat in my coat with my legs crossed and i could feel him leaking out of me — i know the condom was on but there's always... residual… maybe my own… whatever i don't need to explain the biology of my own body to my own note — and i stared out the window at the gangnam skyline and the neon signs reflecting in the rain and i thought:

i am two people.

there is jang wonyoung who waves at fans and holds up crayon drawings and says "i'm just a normal girl~" with a head tilt and a smile.

and there is the girl in this van right now. the one who can still feel a man's handprints on her hip bones. the one who came so hard on a photography table that she knocked over ten thousand dollars worth of borrowed jewelry. the one who is sitting three feet away from her manager with her thighs pressed together because she's scared he'll somehow smell it on her.

both of them are me. that's the part that fucks me up the most. it's not a split personality. it's not a character i play. both versions are completely, fully, one hundred percent me. the princess and the girl on the table are the same person and the world only gets to see one of them and that makes me feel powerful and lonely in equal measure and i don't know which feeling is winning right now.

it's 4:36 am. my alarm goes off in one hour and forty-nine minutes.

in less than four hours i'll be sitting cross-legged on the dorm floor with yujin, doing a vlive, talking about our favorite snacks and doing aegyo and reading fan comments and saying "i love you DIVE~" with my whole chest.

and not a single person watching will know.

i should delete this. i've written way too much. this is dangerous. this is evidence. if anyone ever found this note my career would be over. not just mine — the group. the company. the brand deals. everything i've built since i was fourteen would collapse because i let a photographer fuck me on a table in a silk dress.

i'm not going to delete it.

i don't know why. maybe because this is the only place where both versions of me exist at the same time. on camera i'm the princess. in that studio i was something else. but here, in this note, at 4:38 in the morning, i'm both. and that feels more honest than anything i've done in six years of being famous.

junghoon texted me twenty minutes ago. just a single message. "get home safe?" i replied with a thumbs up emoji. nothing else. we'll see each other at the next shoot. we'll be professional. he'll call me wonyoung-ssi and i'll bow politely and nobody will know.

except this note will know. 

i need to sleep.

...

i'm not going to be able to sleep.

i can still smell his cologne on my skin. i thought the shower would fix it but i think it's in my head now. the leather and the coffee and the way the table creaked and the way he said my name like it was the only word that mattered.

i'm going to do it again. i know i am. maybe not with him. maybe with someone else. maybe worse. 

the scary part? i'm not scared.

okay. alarm in one hour and thirty-one minutes. closing this note. locking the folder.

three hours until i have to be her again. nation's princess. god, if they knew. if they fucking knew.

[ END OF FILE ]

[ FILE SIZE: 14.2 KB ]

[ NEXT FILE LOADING... ]