Music is his addiction.
Not the “I kinda like this song” type – nah, more like “inject it straight into my bloodstream” level.
He’s a club guy. A nightlife animal. And tonight? Same ritual. After downing a few glasses of liquid courage, he shows up at his go-to bar like clockwork. Tight shirt with birds printed on it, hair slicked back like he’s auditioning for a mafia role, perfume cloud trailing behind him like an expensive ghost.
No invite needed. All it takes is music with enough bass to rattle your soul, lights dim enough to hide regrets, and vodka strong enough to make your ancestors feel it. Boom – he’s in beast mode. Doesn’t even glance at the menu. Waitresses call his name smoother than Siri.
Tonight’s Ladies Night. Or so they say. Turns out it’s more like International Bros Conference 2025. The place is packed with guys from all over – tatted-up expats, digital nomads, crypto bros flashing coins and cologne. As for the ladies? A wild mix. Office girls still in pencil skirts, teenagers with enough makeup to qualify for Rap Viet season ̣̣88, and a few “midnight muses” circling the room, scanning for a spark.
But our man? He’s not here to flirt. That face? A mix of rugged charm and “bad boy with taste..” Eyes deeper than a tequila shot, lashes like imported feathers. He walks in and boom – lights go out, hearts light up.
When he’s not smiling, he looks like a Bollywood star dodging immigration. But when he flashes those two mischievous crooked teeth? Game over. Bar might as well issue a fire warning – too many hearts overheating.
But truth is, he’s not chasing skirts. He’s chasing sound.
DJ here? Next-level. Like someone poured truffle oil into your ears.
When the alcohol hits, the music doesn’t just play – it invades his bloodstream. He doesn’t just hear it; he dissolves in it. Every beat? A pulse. Every drop? A rebirth.
To him, the bar is a sanctuary. A zero-judgment zone. Each night is a flight with no boarding pass. A terminal where no one checks emotional baggage. Music is his tranquilizer, vodka his soulmate, and the dancers?
Angels in heels with the power to silence heartbreak.
He walks in like a VIP. Staff treats him like royalty. But he doesn’t sit. He’s here to let loose – uncork the chaos.
Smoke, beats, laughing gas, and his sweet-talking “babies” on stage. Each night is morphine in motion, numbing the old pain, the deep scars.
Sounds like a party guy, right? But nah – dude’s got weight on those shoulders. He’s a CEO. Hundreds of staff. Life? A spreadsheet of stress. Meetings are corporate cage fights. Deadlines hit harder than hangovers. But he’s mastered the art of “screw it.” Living freestyle. Employees might call him impulsive behind his back, but the company’s still standing – and this bar is how he balances the madness.
He parties ‘til sunrise. 3, 4 AM? Standard shift. Unless the speakers die, he doesn’t. Next morning? Sleeps in until the sun threatens to sue for harassment.
People judge. They say the bar’s a place for sinners. He laughs:
“Without folks like me coming in, who’s the DJ spinning for? Who the dancers shaking for? What’s the cleaning lady cleaning? I’m not partying – I’m supporting the economy, baby.”
He drinks, but he also watches. Eyes like thermal cameras – picking up sadness in the dark. The security guy standing still? Pretending to watch bags but actually watching heartbreak walk by. The waitress smiling wide? Eyes glimmering like she just played her ex’s voice message on repeat.
He sees it all.
But he plays dumb. The charming kind of dumb. The kind that’s seen too much but chooses silence over sermons.
Vodka’s his ride-or-die. He drinks anywhere. At work. In the car. Right after waking up. Eats little. Drinks plenty. Always floating a few inches above ground.
Sober? Life’s a boring silent film.
Tipsy? He’s Da Vinci with a hangover.
Boss by day. Poet by night. All thanks to Russian water.
Then she appears. Red bikini. Body shaped like the letter S, but bolder. Moves like a panther. Looks like a love song you shouldn’t play twice. She sits next to him. Talks soft, pours smoother. Every word’s a brushstroke.
He sighs.
“Yup. It’s gonna be a long night.”
But funny thing – The louder the music, the dimmer the lights, the deeper the drink… the emptier he feels. His chest? Cold like the ice in his glass.
He scans the room. Suddenly sees it:
This isn’t a party.
This is the penthouse of loneliness.
In the back, three foreign guys sit like ghosts, eyes empty, as if the world stopped texting them back.
Midnight hits. The dancers return. Sky-high heels. Mini skirts. Hair buns shaped like garlic but Drop-dead gorgeous. Costumes barely hanging on. Lights slice through the smoke, tracing curves that could stop traffic. Music drops.
Instincts rise.
Every hip sway is a declaration of war on the male mind. And yet, he watches with reverence. It’s not lust.
It’s art.
A friend once asked,
“You love the bar life. Why not open one?”
He’s thought about it. He’d build a bar so wild, NASA would track it. International beats. Dancers like Victoria’s Secret on steroids. Billiards in the back. A vibe so sharp, you’d bleed.
But then he laughs:
“Run a bar? Too much headache. I’d rather be the king in the room than stuck in the back counting ice cubes. I don’t want the worry: dancer sore feet? Ice in stock? Drinks delivery?”
For him, music and love are the two hardest addictions to quit.
Music? You can hit replay.
Love?
Don’t even go there.
He wants to drown in music like it’s the arms of a lover who listens more than she speaks. He needs love – but not here. Not in neon lights and fake smiles.
Bar’s for fun.
Love… that’s a different battlefield. And right now?
He’s not crazy enough to fall again.
Excerpt from “Music is His Addiction” – TT Ha Kim
Saigon, 2025
