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CHAPTER 26 – EIGHT TOOTHPICKS BATHE
It was the middle of October now, and Nguyet was going to give birth around Halloween. I was sometimes still tempted to visit her, but she was already back at her parents’ house, and I didn’t necessarily want to bump into her mother. And, obviously, it would be better to wait until the ordeals of being pregnant and giving birth were over. Tuyet was in Hue, studying pharmacy now and, as far as I knew, sticking to her books. Nguyet and Tuyet wrote each other almost every day now and seemed madly in love.
At our school, there were often new female assistants, who, after finishing their university degree, needed to get some work experience, before they would be appointed to teachers’ positions around the province. The language training here at our local university was rather modest, so working at our English Center boosted their skills. The university was only modestly equipped: I knew some of the staff and the equipment they used. Cassette tapes were still around.
Those young women who came to work for us were all unmarried. When they started here at our school, they usually knew the other assistants from back in college and reconnected with them, sharing houses and spending their free-time together. They all made barely enough money, but they knew that things were getting better from now on. Trinh and Quynh, with whom Nguyet and I had a foursome once, had started the same way. Trinh was engaged now, while Quynh had moved 40 miles west to the mountains and was working at a primary school.
Our assistants mostly helped inexperienced teachers with the younger students, from kindergarten to second grade. Those young ladies translated and made sure that the students were doing their work. My students were older, though, so that I never had assistants in my classroom. They only brought the attendance sheets and class notebooks. Sometimes, I chatted with them during breaks or in the reception area. Or during company parties.
Our young assistants were all pretty. At 21 or 22, they were sufficiently grown and approaching their prime. Their skin was smooth, their hair dark and long, and most of them had a winning smile and charming manners. Sometimes, they flirted a little: just last month the prettiest one had pressed her small bosom against my arm while we were looking at some paper together. It really seemed that she wanted me to take my time reading. Unfortunately, that particular young beauty got a position as an elementary school teacher somewhere in our province and, thus, is gone.
I don’t recall exactly how Ngan and I got closer. She must have been in charge of the upper floor for a while, as I saw her outside my classroom a lot up to until six weeks ago or so. We had chatted here and there during break, and I discovered that she laughed a lot. Unlike most assistants, who were a little too mousey and puritanical, Ngan also drank beer, which made her a good companion during company parties. Not that she got wasted, but with her, one could get down and have a ball.
Ngan was relatively tall, perhaps five-five or even five-six, and she often wore her hair like a woman from the 19th century: as a relatively loose bundle at the back of her head. Once or twice I actually had seen her wearing her hair in a large-meshed white net. Normally, however, she just pinned her hair back to her head under her ponytail, I guessed. But I had never seen another Vietnamese woman with such a hairdo.
Just like me, she had Wednesdays off, but then she drove up to her parents’ house, about 12 miles north. Once, she had posted on Facebook that she had been bored, as she couldn’t go anywhere in the rainstorm that was pounding the area, and we had struck up a long conversation, during which she told me everything about herself and her family.
She lived in an old, modest kind of rental property, which existed all over town. With their long rows of wooden doors and shutters, they reminded me of stables. Students and poor families rented rooms in those buildings for about 25 bucks a month. Judged by western standards, those places were certainly sparse, but I had always imaged them as cozy if one did a little work to the room. Even some foreign teachers here at our school liked them, as they ensured independence and were, obviously, dirt-cheap.
Ngan had an interesting body. Looking at her from the front or the back, she almost seemed boyish, as she was fairly slim and almost bony. Neither her hips nor her shoulders were much wider than her torso. But if you saw her from the side, her butt and her breasts were protruding noticeably. Her butt was actually quite round and perfectly shaped, if seen from the side, and one could say the same about her medium-sized breasts. The only thing was: it all sat about two inches too low on her body. It was like gravity affected her more than other people. Apart from sitting curiously low on her body, her butt cheeks also had an interesting shape: they were barely five inches wide, each, but about ten inches long.
All escort dikmen assistants at our school wore burgundy-red polo-shirts. Ngan always combined them with something black: she had short, tight, knee-length skirts and several pairs of tight bell-bottoms. Any of those garments emphasized her butt, which I had been tempted to touch for weeks now. When she walked, she often moved her lower arms like windshield-wipers in front of her body, while she was looking at the ground, thinking or humming, and sometimes she held her middle fingers like she wanted to snap to some music any moment. I found both of these idiosyncrasies endearing. The best things about her, though, were her sense of humor and the fact that she wasn’t shy but somewhat adventurous.
When I stepped into the lobby of our school these days and she was there together with other assistants, she didn’t look at me or acknowledged my presence, which was the Vietnamese way of letting me know that she didn’t want the others to know that we knew each other quite well. She really seemed to like me but, of course, she knew she wasn’t supposed to flirt at work. And definitely not with married men. Naturally, she did it nonetheless when no one was looking. She had also come to my classroom to ask or bring something that could easily have waited.
During our long Facebook chat two weeks ago, Ngan had told me that she didn’t have a boyfriend right now. Neither did she want one. Her motto, she said, was ‘No boyfriend, no problem.’ She and her first boyfriend had broken up about a year ago, but I didn’t know why. I wasn’t going to ask either, unless we reached a point where she might want me to.
The time I had spent with Nguyet during the last two years was now at my disposal, as she was unavailable due to her pregnancy. I hadn’t heard from Thuy, but our rumpus at that model home where she worked at had been so exhausting that I thought we still needed a break. When Ngan asked to go for coffee and lunch one Tuesday morning, I couldn’t refuse. We had talked about one restaurant I liked but she had never been to at several occasions, and that’s where I thought we’d be heading.
As she didn’t want to go to some fancy new coffee house that was frequented by young people of her generation, I picked the old secluded café again, where Nguyet and I had so gloriously started our affair. I had thought about it for a while, but I couldn’t come up with a better place, as it was in an alley and hardly anyone drove ever past it. And those who did couldn’t see the patrons from the street. And as that café was so large, the waitresses were at least 15 yards away, too. I didn’t want to waste time looking for another place, as it was truly ideal for what we had in mind.
Well, of course, I couldn’t be certain what Ngan wanted, but just like every healthy human being she must have longed for tenderness—and also sex. That I was so much older hadn’t bothered her so far. Once, in one of our online chats, I had suggested that she start an affair if she didn’t want a boyfriend, as she kept insisting. She had ignored what I had said; perhaps because she hadn’t understood what I was getting at. And affairs or casual sex didn’t seem to be options for young Vietnamese middle-class women, such as Ngan. But perhaps she knew perfectly well what I had meant, and we were now starting up that path.
At the café, I sat down roughly were I had positioned myself when I had met Nguyet two years earlier. I took it as a good omen and again, sitting there, we could almost do whatever we wanted, as not even the wait staff was close enough to see us well. Ngan rolled in ten minutes after me. She was wearing a knee-long dress that looked like it was made of newspaper. The writing was blue, however, and the light dress, curiously, had long sleeves. Just as Nguyet and Tuyet, Ngan looked timelessly beautiful in her dress. She was wearing sunglasses, too, which she now parked up in her hair.
As it was the middle of October, the rainy season had already started, but that didn’t mean that it was raining every day. Today, the weather was friendly-grey and windy, but still warm. When Ngan sat down, a scud blew up her skirt, but she caught it in time and laughed. Her long, straight legs looked marvelous, even though her calves were rather skinny. I couldn’t have asked for a better start. A glimpse of her panties would have been nice, though. Well, that seemed only a matter of time.
Ngan hadn’t specified what the actual occasion was for us meeting for coffee and lunch. Two people being fond of each other was reason enough for me. I also liked that she didn’t use an excuse, such as ‘practicing English’. And if she was truly ready to embrace me naked, she couldn’t have said so, of course. I liked that little sensual tension and wasn’t mindlessly horny or completely fixated on sex. We’d see how the next couple of hours would develop.
Ngan looked graceful in her dress. She seemed pretty relaxed the way she was sitting across from me, and ordered escort elvankent tea with milk, which was the newest fad here in Vietnam. Every week, there another milk-tea bar opened, and all local girls would have given their left arm for a glass of cold tea with milk in it. She smiled when I lit my cigarette.
I pointed at her sunglasses up on her head and said: “Well, are those prescriptions glasses? Did you go to the optician, like I asked you to?”
She had told me she was short-sighted but—I suspected—too vain to get glasses.
“No, that’s just an old pair of sunglasses. During the day I see enough,” she insisted.
“Yeah, but six days a week you work ’til 9 in the evening, so I know you have to drive at night,” I reminded her. “I’ll come with you if you want. We’ll go together and get you glasses, “I suggested.
“I don’t want glasses, teacher Ben. It’s strange to look through a frame all the time,” she dodged the ball.
“You’ll get used to that. Do you know what’s even stranger: Having an accident because you can’t see shit,” I said impatiently. “And, just call me Ben, will ya?” I added.
“Ok. I’ll be alright,” she insisted, laughing. “And I don’t look good with glasses,” she added flirtingly, as probably the real reason why she was shying away from the optician.
“Until ten minutes ago, you were wearing sunglasses, which didn’t seem to be a problem,” I reminded her again, knowing it was probably useless.
“Yeah, but that’s when I’m driving, because of the wind. And my sunglasses look cool up on my head but not on my face.”
“You know that you’re beautiful. Glasses wouldn’t change that,” I insisted.
“Really? I don’t believe that,” she laughed again, bending forward, bevor her upper body snapped back.
I had already told her at work that she was beautiful, but one couldn’t tell a young woman often enough. Today, she had her hair open, and she looked really cute with her bangs. I looked at her legs again, as she slipped out of her shoes. Her dress covered about half of her thighs, and her skin had a pretty yellowish tinge.
Now, I was looking at her dress, trying to figure out the language of the words that were printed on the dress. It just looked like some made-up words, though; I didn’t recognize a pattern. I asked her, but she didn’t know either. All words were in Latin characters, at least, but then I saw one on her belt that we both knew.
“Look! There’s ‘Tam’,” I said, pointing at her dress.
She looked down on herself and giggled.
“Well, that can mean a lot of things: ‘eight’ or ‘bathe’.”
“Or ‚toothpick’,” I laughed.
“True. ‘Eight toothpicks bathe’,” she put the words together.
All three words had the same basic sounds, but the diacritics above the vowel were different. I liked her sense of humor. I had often put silly sentences together like the one she just said. Now, we talked a little bit about her university studies, and she told me that she actually had two degrees, one in translating and one in teaching. Her English was actually pretty good. She had me tell her how I had learned Vietnamese from my wife. And then we looked again at her dress to see if there were more words we would recognize, which gave me an opportunity to size up her bosom.
The wind was blowing through her hair, and she reached up to adjust her glasses. I still didn’t know why she had them up there but she looked good, true. We rummaged through our vocabulary, looking for more examples of words that are spelled the same, apart from the diacritics, but meant totally different things.
“‘Nam’ is another example,” I said.
“Yeah, that means ‘man’ or ‘masculine’.”
“But also ‘south’,” I added.
“And ‘five’,” was her answer.
“‘Mushroom’, too,” I knew.
“But also ‘year'” she replied promptly, before she burst out laughing. She was cracking up, perhaps because she had never realized how similar all those different words sounded. She also seemed relieved that we were having a good time, that there was no awkwardness, and perhaps that she could hold an amusing conversation in English effortlessly. I liked the way she laughed: she first bent forward and let her torso rest on her thighs, and then she let herself snap backward, lifting up her legs. Her teeth were perfect, too.
“‘Sua’,” was my next example when she had calmed down a bit.
“‘Milk’, of course,” Ngan said.
“Yes, but also ‘bark’,” I reminded her. “You know; the sound a dog makes.”
“And then when your motorcycle isn’t working … what’s the verb, again?” she asked.
As the waitress was looking in our direction, we ordered another round and continued. Ngan put her naked foot on the crossbar under the table and let her dress fall back into her lap, perhaps because everything was so wonderfully relaxed. I could examine her whole thighs now and felt my dick getting ready to pump itself up.
“But the funniest thing is ‘ma’, isn’t it?” I asked after the escort emek waitress had put our drinks on the table.
“‘Mother’,” Ngan said first.
“Sure. But also ‘cheek’.”
She cracked up again and threw her upper body backwards. I immediately thought of her butt cheeks and realized how hot her thigh looked. I thought of touching it; I would have gotten away with, I was sure. I mean, that’s why we had met today, hadn’t we?
“But ‘ma’ also means ‘cemetery’ or ‘grave’,” Ngan reminded me now. “And ‘ghost’,” she added quickly.
“But also when you cover something with gold or silver … ‘platinize’, I guess would be the word.”
“Ha. Yeah, that’s true. I never realized that. And here’s another: ‘whatever’ or ‚anyway’.”
While she was having another good laugh now, a gust blew into her hair. Her glasses were about to fall, and so she reached up on her head with both hands. She leaned backward a bit, but while her skirt was undefended, another powerful gust blew it up and exposed her lap in its full glory. My eyes traveled up her legs, focused briefly on the smooth flesh below her bellybutton, and then stopped at her dark, slim triangle, which was showing nicely through her underwear.
She was wearing light, lacy, see-through panties, which she must have picked on purpose this morning, I immediately thought. Just like her butt cheeks, her furry triangle was longish and slim, but as her panties were even slimmer, there were some curls sticking out of them left and right. Desire washed all over me like an avalanche.
The black triangle in the center of this beautiful young women, half covered and half framed by her light panties offered a breathtaking contrast to her light legs and dress. My pulse climbed to 180 immediately, my mouth got dry, and the mood at the table tipped unstoppably. I couldn’t turn my gaze away from her stunning body. I was absolutely mesmerized by this graceful creature and couldn’t think straight anymore.
Yet I didn’t have the impression that she was embarrassed at all. She seemed to think that what the wind had done was more like a stroke of genius. ‘Serendipity’ wasn’t quite the word but it was something like that. She, of course, didn’t know what I would think of it. She had covered herself after about a second-and-a-half, but I was still dumbfounded by the sheer sight of her black bush between her yellowish legs, under her lovely dress. I knew that we couldn’t sit here for much longer. We also had to postpone lunch.
Ngan had blushed a little and was quiet now. At first, I wanted to ask her to lift up her skirt again for a few seconds, so that I could enjoy the sight one more time. I dismissed the idea, however, partially because I didn’t want to superimpose anything onto this memory. It would also have meant to pour a catalyst into an ongoing reaction, which was completely superfluous. I also wanted to spare her any embarrassment.
My dick had grown in my pants almost instantly, for the first time in twenty-five years. She had seen it, I was sure. Now, she seemed stunned by the sight, and I was torn between saying something about it or just letting it go. Should I ask her to lift up her dress once more? No, instead, I twitched my stiff dick a few times inside my pants and watched her mesmerized gaze.
“And then ‘ma’ also means ‘horse’, doesn’t it?” I asked lamely, knowing that our fun conversation about the quirks of the Vietnamese language was over.
“True,” she only said quietly and nodded.
After she had finished her tea, she played with the remaining ice cubes at the bottom of her glass, and we both knew that there was no point in staying here at the café.
“Ngan, let’s saddle our horses?” I suggested, pointing over to the parking lot with my chin.
“Ok. We can eat at my house,” she suggested. “I have noodles and meat.”
The ‘I have meat’ was nicely ambiguous, of course. Anyway, I was glad that she had offered we go to her place. Driving around town looking for a place to eat would have killed the tension and our sexual energy would have dissipated. The wind had lifted us up to another plain, another level. The eight weeks we had talked to and known each other had just culminated.
I was driving behind her on the main road in our town, going south. I tried to imagine how she must have felt at the moment. Were we even going to have sex? What made me so certain? Well, there was the fact that she had asked me out. And she had chosen that particular pair of panties. Sure, she didn’t wear lacy underwear every day, did she? And she had invited me to come to her place now. Did she have condoms at her house, though? I doubted it. But then, I needed to ask when she had had her period.
We stopped at a traffic light, and she looked at me, laughing: “Eight toothpicks bathe,” she giggled and grinned before she started to drive again when the lights turned green.
I had never had introduced a young colleague, who I didn’t know well, to sensual pleasures, but it seemed inevitable today. Nguyet and I had known each other for years before she gave in. She had known what I wanted, and after months of mental and emotional struggle, had relented. Ngan mostly seemed curious, and I didn’t know if she knew exactly what she wanted. But that was what made this adventure so precious.
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