It travels without destination. There is neither a point of departure nor a point of arrival, yet there is a point: wherever. Indeed, desire has no place, but it has a space, which is no-place, in the in-between place. Desire has no time or chronology; it is whenever. Now or later, today or tomorrow, this time or next, it is movement untraceable. Desire has no body. It isn't a thing but a what; it is whatever. Desire is wherever, whenever, and whatever. Flight attendants are agents of desire made flesh, though only momentarily so. They attend to transcontinental desire, the mobility of desire, the movement of desire, the velocity of desire. In its high-speed trajectory desire does not appear to move, but is moving all the while. In Young Chung's photographs, a young male flight attendant, stripped of his identifiable uniform, wears black briefs and a bleached white tank top. He is bound and gagged with safety belts of grey fabric and stainless steel. He is a site of desire, a triangulation of looking and being looked at, a non-stop trajectory with no destination. Bound up and twisted, he is a knot of desire. I don't even know his name, like so many boys in so many cities where I have had long layovers... wherever, whenever, and whatever. I know him without ever knowing him; I am bound up with him even if he appears here to be bound up alone. The white female attendant is mother. She is the nurturing, caring, giving mother who attends to every need and desire, yet she is an other who is so distant in her very presence. She is other for Chung, as he is other for her.