4. Red Part 1

The last time Lu Zhengming opened Foucault’s works, he was still writing his graduation thesis.

Back then, his research on Foucault focused on aesthetics. Now he sat on the floor with The History of Sexuality spread open on his knees, surrounded by piles of materials he had gradually collected. Psychology, sociology, even novels and scripts, all centered around a strange and unfamiliar realm. BDSM.

He had known Yin Yan for over ten years, yet this was the first time he had seen this other side of him. He tried to analyze why Yin Yan was drawn to such preferences from every possible angle, only to end up frustrated, realizing that he didn’t understand Yin Yan any better than anyone else did.

The events of that night had pushed his limits to the extreme, making all his past experiences feel pale and meaningless. It was like tasting methamphetamine. Marijuana would lose all appeal after that. Once that unattainable thirst reignited, every rational analysis crumbled. Yin Yan’s shamelessly honest face seemed to surface between the lines of dense, obscure text, calling for more, more pain, until the boundless sea of suffering drowned him completely.

Lu Zhengming could not comprehend Yin Yan’s pleasure, just as Yin Yan dismissed the things that excited him. Yet in the end both paths led to the same destination. Sexual climax was always impartial, granting nearly identical reactions to everyone. Watching Yin Yan slowly descend from madness, Lu Zhengming suddenly realized that he had brought him joy too.

“Thank you, Lu Zhengming.”

Yin Yan’s voice was weak and airy as he was finally carried back to the bed, lying face down. From his back to his thighs, his skin was covered in belt marks. Lu Zhengming suddenly felt an odd sense of empathy toward those imprints, as if his own body were also seared with needle-prick burns and fiery pain.

“Do you need ice?” He lightly brushed a reddened welt.

Yin Yan let out a muffled groan and shook his head. Under Lu Zhengming’s anxious gaze, he slid his wet fingers between his swollen ass cheeks, pushing them inside. Watching those two fingers sink in, Lu Zhengming could only think of a pair of legs struggling in a swamp, sinking and resurfacing in the flushed depths. His arousal was crushed and trampled beneath that repeated motion.

The whole night, his cock rose and fell. Sometimes provoked by Yin Yan’s drunken frenzy, sometimes dulled by his own overwhelming sympathy. But the moment Yin Yan softened completely, Lu Zhengming reached his hardest peak.

“You want to fuck me?”

“Fuck,” Lu Zhengming cursed, unable to hold back as he seized the invitation. But just before he entered Yin Yan, he made a mistake. One he’d regret for years to come.

Whether out of good bedroom etiquette or a subconscious craving for intimacy, the first thing he pressed against Yin Yan’s body was not his cock but his lips.

The kiss landed on a crimson whip mark. Yin Yan let out a pained moan, and in an instant, Lu Zhengming’s arousal drained away. He shut his eyes and panted.

“You’re hurt.”

If he had known this was his only chance to fuck Yin Yan, he wouldn’t have stopped. He would have given in to his most primal instincts, ravaged him, defiled him, swallowed him whole. But at that moment, all he had wanted was to give him the kind of beautiful experience that fit into his idea of intimacy.

It was the last thing Yin Yan needed.

Lu Zhengming hadn’t jerked off in years. His hands had pleasured countless one-night stands, but he had always refused to touch himself. When he finally wrapped his fingers around his own cock and started stroking, the sensation felt almost foreign. He closed his eyes and slowly dug through the hazy memories of his teenage years, searching for that forgotten thrill.

The images flashed through his mind.

Whether it was a sculpted, muscular tough guy, a slender and sensitive boy who came while crying, or a ballet dancer with a beautiful face and a flexible body, Lu Zhengming recalled every experience that had ever made his heart tremble. From real-life encounters to the bizarre plots of porn, he went through them all. But even as he rubbed himself raw, swollen, and burning hot, there wasn’t a single urge to cum.

His pants hung low on his hips as he lay on his back, panting, frustrated, and still aching. He flipped over, bracing himself on all fours, grinding his hips in a desperate mimicry of fucking, thrusting into his fist like it might make a difference.

He was panting restlessly from frustration. Furious, he kicked the stack of books beside him, sending pages and notes scattering across the floor. Sweat dripped onto the ground, mirroring the heat on his flushed face.

Still, nothing came out.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Lu Zhengming pounded the floor in rage.

That night, he had given Yin Yan pleasure, but he hadn’t come. He hadn’t gotten anything in return. And every night since, that unspent lust had gnawed at him, driving him mad. He wasn’t some horny teenager jerking off multiple times a day. After turning thirty, he cared more about quality than quantity. But he had never felt this fucking desperate.

His mind drifted back to Yin Yan again.

A body that showed signs of exercise but was far from muscular. Skin paler than most but hardly delicate. A face that could be called handsome, yet always wore that indifferent, almost frigid expression. Clumsy technique. Detached attitude. No matter how he looked at it, Yin Yan wasn’t exactly an ideal fuck buddy.

And besides, he had never truly had him.

Was that why he couldn’t stop craving him? Because he couldn’t have him?

Lu Zhengming cursed himself for being pathetic, but his mind refused to listen. Instead, it replayed the image of coming undone in front of him.

He had knelt there naked, that cold, distant face flushed a deep, unfamiliar red, his eyes unfocused, hazy with lust. If Lu Zhengming hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed how unbearably erotic that sight could be. And it wasn’t just the image. And that moan. Fuck. That moan danced against his eardrums like a striptease, peeling away every last shred of dignity, ripping it apart, scattering it like dust in the air.

His cock twitched against his foot, cum oozing between his toes, slick and warm, sliding across the arch of his foot in a way more erotic than a tongue. A slow, creeping heat soaked into his skin, slithering up his nerves, setting fire to every last sensitive inch of his body.

Lu Zhengming groaned hoarsely, spilling all over the floor.

But it wasn’t nearly enough. Not even close.

He cleaned up the floor hastily, head heavy and clouded, and walked to his workspace.

Shelves were lined with jars of finished paints, mineral pigments, and industrial color powders. The workbench was covered with bottles of medium, brushes, wide bristle applicators, and odd tools for creating textured effects. A two-meter-high canvas stood against the wall, with rough sketches and small color drafts hanging beside it, ready for him to begin at any time.

His Light series had already reached its 65th painting, a collection of bright, harmonious abstract works in light color palettes. Diluted pigments, mixed with varying thicknesses of mediums, created layers of translucent hues that bled into each other, blending and fusing. The surface had been meticulously treated to give it the soft, hazy texture of mist, resulting in dreamy, ambiguous visuals that overlapped like fragmented memories.

This series had not only allowed Lu Zhengming to develop his own artistic language in terms of material and technique, but it had also brought him commercial success. In contemporary art circles, he was one of the rare few who balanced academic depth with market appeal. Supported by enthusiastic collectors, his auction prices had, at one point, surpassed even those of Yin Yan.

Since his split from Yin Yan, however, that canvas had remained blank. Several times, he had mixed his paints, ready to start, only to be unable to bring himself to make a single stroke. Before he could even begin, a feeling of disgust would already set in.

In truth, he had long since lost interest in this entire series. Two years ago, he had reached the point where he could no longer deceive himself, nor continue to use these soft, cheerful illusions to fool his audience. All of the paintings that had broken auction records had been completed more than two years ago. Ever since Yan Yan’s suicide, every piece he’d produced had been little more than the dying gasps of an artist on life support.

That night, Yin Yan’s sudden reappearance had completely shattered the fragile balance Lu Zhengming had painstakingly maintained, leaving him unable to keep up the facade any longer.

A cigarette dangling from his lips, he stood silently in front of the blank canvas for a long time. The stark white surface almost burned his eyes. Finally, he grabbed a bucket of iron oxide red and poured the entire bag into the mix, adding a generous amount of medium before stirring it together until the paint thickened, taking on the consistency of blood.

Then, lifting the bucket, he flung the paint across the canvas.