Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2, page 3
But this time the playing was over. She had signalled her permission. She had, in effect, surrendered any rights she might have as a young girl travelling alone in the night, a citizen of this country, a human being going about legal business. No, that was gone.
His strong hands pulled the black hem of her skirt up and took the elastic band of her panties and slipped them down. She gasped and wriggled. One of her hands dropped from the strap to curl behind her and place itself on the marvellous length of his dagger, and the feel of it was breathtaking.
The man was wasting no more time, an urgency was upon him, a grim need, as his hand took her wrist and assisted her in unbuttoning the buttons of his military type shorts with their safari pockets.
The buttons were swiftly opened and his weapon, smooth and helmeted, truly a warrior in the night, thick and veined, fell from his pants, jerking and twitching into her hand. She whimpered and turned and was lifted onto his suitcase, which was kicked under her by his booted foot, and she was now face to face with the enemy and her arms went around his sweet bony body.
She felt his ribs through the T-shirt and put her hands under the shirt to feel his muscular lean back, her hands hidden under the denim jacket … Oh, Jesus, he felt so good, his skin was like a baby’s, but so hot.
He was burning as she opened her legs like a shameless hussy, eager to be entered. His lips brushed her forehead and his fingers swept the black hair from her sparkling eyes.
She gazed with love, yes love, into his face, searching every wonderful imperfection of his features, her mouth hungry for the taste of his lips and tongue and … dear God … the helmet of his naked baton touched the soft hair of her snatch … the man was going to fuck her! Not here … please not now … we’ll be caught, she thought, her mind a turmoil. We’ll be seen.
The bus will stop, people will shout and point, the police will arrive and lock them up like animals in a cage, her picture will be in the papers, her mother, her sisters … no, worse, her poor father … will see her stupid face plastered over every journal in the land. She’d be a laughing stock, totally notorious like one of those starlets she liked to read about and criticize …
This was the end, she had to escape, she just had to, and … it felt good, so good, as the length of his cock slipped one inch into her open, pulsating love lips. She stood on his suitcase, eyes glazed, lips wet, and eased slowly onto his cock.
She felt the ramrod enter her straight and in command. She was but its subject, its slave, two inches, three inches, and more, please free me from this pleasure, and suddenly he was all the way in, who knew how many inches now, and she felt the bigness and tightness, and felt she might die. It was too big, was she to be slaughtered by this animal, this white bastard was going to kill her, and then she began to pump with him, for him, around him, tightening her wicked quim, stroking his back, biting his mouth till she tasted salty blood, kissing him so she couldn’t scream, her heart pounding as her orgasm came to her without warning.
Her round bottom, naked and squeezed and probed by the man’s rough hands, was whipping back and forth as her orgasm grew and spread like molten lava through the pit of her belly. She felt her juice flow down the slippery sides of her secret place, she moaned in ecstasy and passed out for many seconds.
She didn’t know and would never know how long she fainted because the bliss was so surreal, the delicious pain of it so maddening that she lost consciousness, and the man held her up, supported her with his wiry arms, one hand on her bare bottom, the other around her waist as spasm after spasm now hit him.
His froth flowed into her in creamy streaks, and because of their upright position and the laws of gravity, began to drip from her honey pot, overflowing from her forest of want, and streaks of it fell between their legs to land in drops onto the suitcase.
In their frenzied orbit of lust, she had stiffened at the feel of his hot come, her eyes rolling back to show the whites, and they hadn’t realized that the bus had stopped at a red light and was stuck in a traffic jam.
The interior of the bus was now bathed in patches of moving light, for they had entered the city. Their frantic coupling must end and the cruelty of having their pleasure so abruptly taken from them was acute, but his dong, sodden and still huge, slipped out of her while the walls of her pussy tried to hold and clutch the big guy on its way out, pathetically attempting to prevent its escape.
But all men’s cocks eventually must leave that sweet wound between the female’s legs … oh, would that they could remain in the moist, sumptuous havens of pussies forever, never having to face the harsh world again.
But such a mean trick had been played, so the young buck withdrew from Lisa, pulled his whanger out and wiped it with the same dank cloth he had earlier offered to dry her weeping eyes. He released her. She stepped off the suitcase, pulled up her panties, pushed down her skirt, and tugged her red blouse together where the buttons had been torn off. Rivulets of perspiration coursed down her face. They stood there, dazed. The rest of the journey passed quickly.
The bus stopped at the main terminal on Avenue De La Paz. They waited until the other passengers had alighted. Several of the country folk who had travelled with them gave the couple curious looks. Was it possible their ardor had been less furtive than they had presumed? It hardly mattered now. No one had raised an alarm. They calmly stepped from the bus and wandered onto the wide avenue, which was quiet at this time of night, save for the occasional passing vehicle. A light rain fell, creating haloes of light around the well-spaced street lamps. They stood on the sidewalk holding hands.
About the author:
Nigel Hogge, born on the Isle of Wight in 1942, has worked as a fisherman and miner in Australia, a manager of a copra plantation in New Guinea, a tourist guide in Hong Kong, an English teacher in Tokyo, a bartender in Los Angeles, a seaman on a Swedish cargo vessel and a sales representative in Korea and Vietnam. He has been the ‘voice’ on over 250 radio and TV commercials in Manila and Tokyo, a character actor in more than 15 movies, he has written and sold four movie scripts, and he now lives on his 57-foot cabin cruiser in the southern Philippines. Max in Waiting is excerpted from the novel Lucifer Rising (Charleston: BookSurge, 2003).
Clean Sex
Ricky Low, Singapore
Hey, Jeff, what’s the matter? Why don’t you just get a maid in here, clean things up, lah. You can afford it now, man!”
Oh, please. Whenever my friends—or wannabe friends—have suggested this, I have just sighed deeply, raised my eyebrows in a cynical arch, and slipped into my above-it-all smirk—a look that says, “You so don’t understand what it’s all about.” It’s a look I picked up while studying at Stanford. They’ve really perfected that dismissive look over there. I can’t claim that I’ve mastered it quite as well as they do it, but I’m not at all bad.
While studying over there, I also learned the importance of self-reliance. For example, no real guy lets someone else do stupid household chores for him. Even when you get married, you work out a system, you share those duties. That’s what being a full, responsible adult in today’s world means: sharing all those stupid things that just have to be done. Having a maid is clearly a symptom of some weak strands in your moral fibre, as I have always lectured my lazy friends back here.
I’ve never told them the full story of why I feel so uneasy about having a maid. Some of it is that I am still embarrassed that my first erotic episodes involved the maid my family had when I was a boy. But there’s more to it than that.
* * *
Like all fairly comfortable Singapore families, my parents engaged a maid soon after I was born. Actually, they engaged a few maids, but it was the third one who stands out in my memory: Hazniya. She joined us when I was about nine. She was the most energetic of the maids and, if I remember correctly, the only one you could even charitably call attractive. Like the other two, she came from Indonesia, had an enticing coffee-with-light-cream complexion and truly captivating eyes. She also had a prodigious set of boobs, the kind that assured she would never need to worry about drowning.
I guess I was always attracted to Hazniya, though at first it was just that kind of little-boy, prepubescent crush. As innocent as a plate of overcooked oatmeal with pools of skim milk. The sex part didn’t seep in until I was about twelve. As is also typical of many middle-class Singapore families, Hazniya was often assigned the task of bathing me. I mean, like standing over me while I did a cursory job of swabbing myself in the tub, then telling me to stand up while she finished the job, making sure that I got all the “hard-to-reach” places.
Hazniya had been doing this from time to time, starting from when she first joined us, but one evening, when I was twelve, it all changed, changed utterly. I had already started thinking how really stupid it was having a maid bathe me at my age and was being sort of deliberately peevish as I washed myself down in the tub. Then Haz asked me sweetly to stand up, she wanted to see how I was doing. I groaned and made a face, of course, but that was the deal.
As I stood up, Hazniya bent over. I’m sure there was no intent behind it, but on that day, she was wearing this very low-cut shirt and a bra which formed more of a suggestion than a support. As she started wiping my arms and my chest, I was fixated on those munificent breasts, now a glistening coffee-gold from the light sweat the bathroom heat had worked up. I wanted to lean over and take them in my hands, rub them, kiss them, lick them, see if they tasted like the toffee my uncle often brought me from Scotland—or maybe the coffee ice cream I loved. They were, after all, roughly the same colour as those two treats.
And then it happened, suddenly, without any prodding from me, I swear: I popped the first erection of my whole life. At least, the first one I can remember having. This was a shock to me, and I mean a terrifying shock. I didn’t even know what it meant, except that it clearly had something to do with Hazniya, and her bathing me, and that it had made this strange transformation in tribute to her. I stood frozen for a few seconds, and it seemed to get even stiffer as she continued twirling soapy concentric circles across my chest with the washrag. Then she happened to glance down and notice my boner.
I was appalled, hollowed out with shame. I wanted to say something, come up with some excuse, but I suddenly went dumb. While I was still choking on some words to spit out into this frightening situation, Hazniya got there first. “Oh, my, my, what have we here? Our little man has suddenly become a really big man, hasn’t he?” She then gave me that warm smile that had sparked my puppy love for her. But the whole situation had changed radically. I yearned to grab her, to squeeze those fantastic breasts against me, to rub my new-found power tool right up against them. I wanted her to take off all her clothes, right there, then join me in the tub. I wanted her.
Of course, I couldn’t deal with this at all, being just a spoiled twelve-year-old kid. I mean, this was my maid, dammit, who just two minutes ago was bathing me like I was a little boy. So my lust was instantly converted into anger. I scooped up two handfuls of water from the tub and splashed them fiercely across her face and breasts. I wanted her to look shocked, then enraged, to slap me maybe. She did none of that. “Get out! Get out of here! Right now!” I screamed at the top of my high-pitched voice.
And she, damn her, maintained her usual good spirits—she just smiled and said, “Oh yes, let me get out; I think Jeffrey is big enough now to take care of himself. Oh yes, I see this clearly.”
As she made her way out the door, I shouted a phrase I had learned the year before in school and was just waiting for the right opportunity to use in social discourse: “Fucking bitch!”
I underscored the bitterness of that curse by hurling the washrag at the door she had just closed behind her. I then sank back into the tub and started crying, crying like an eight-year-old. I looked down and saw that my cock had just about returned to its normal shape and size. I felt … saved. But just as soon as that happened, I started thinking of Hazniya and those gorgeous tits and the damn thing started stiffening on me again. “Hazniya, you bitch!” I shouted out into the ceiling, hurt and anger intertwined in my timbre. I then reached down under the soapy surface of the water and gingerly touched the thing. I gently rubbed it a few times, as if to console it, to say it wasn’t its fault that it had caused me so much embarrassment. “You bitch, you bitch, you bitch,” I whispered as I consoled myself a little more.
Luckily, my parents were out that evening, so they caught none of my little outburst. Hazniya and I said nothing about it the next morning, or ever again. We pretended like the whole thing had never really happened. Of course, I never again let her near the bathroom while I was bathing—or even combing my hair, for that matter. She stayed with us for another six months and then was suddenly gone. She disappeared one week when I was off visiting an aunt and uncle in Hong Kong.
When I asked what happened, my mother shook her head sadly and told me that Hazniya had to leave abruptly because of some family crisis back in Indonesia. A couple of years later, my Dad confided that they had dismissed her because she had “taken some things that didn’t belong to her.” And some time after that, a close family friend told me he’d heard the real reason was that Hazniya got caught having sex on the living room couch with some guy while my folks were supposedly away. But I’ve often asked myself whether our little episode in the bathtub had anything to do with that sudden departure.
Whatever it was, we never engaged another maid after Hazniya left us. Physically left us, I should say. Her memory stayed with me for the next few years. During the high-tide period of my masturbatory youth, I would invoke images of Hazniya whenever I wanked off: those warm smiles, the bubbly laugher, the wonderful eyes, those fantastic tits. The fact that I had never really viewed those tits in their entirety only made them that much more fantastic in my wank-off reveries. Of course, the fact that she was a maid, a live-in servant meant to meet most of our daily needs, only exalted my fantasies about her. It would take me years to grow ashamed of those fantasies and the exploitative relationship that underscored them.
* * *
That shame happened when I was at university. Political correctness ruled supreme at my school, and it was especially dominant in the Sociology Department. From my professor, Kander, and those plodding leftist texts he foisted on us, I learned what an exploitative system was embodied in the whole maid-and-master nexus. This was especially true when the maids were plucked from nearby, “less-privileged” societies—as Hazniya had been. Of course, all my classmates and friends at the uni subscribed to this view one hundred per cent plus. So I never volunteered the fact that my own family had kept maids from the Third World when I was a kid. I only confessed it to my closest friends there at the uni, and then only as a sign of how much I had grown during my short time at Stanford.
When I returned to Singapore with my nice, crisp MBA tucked under my arm, I fancied myself a completely transformed person, one damn enlightened guy equally well versed in business and life in general. I was also vehemently committed to self-reliance by then. Anything I couldn’t do for myself just wouldn’t get done. Period.
Of course, an MBA from an elite American school guaranteed that I could just about waltz right into any high-paying job and find a stack of perqs to perk me up. Then, two months after I started working, I started looking for a place of my own.
The complex that I moved into, the Chateau de Luxus, was optimal in many ways. It was right across from a big bus terminal, about an eight-minute walk from an MRT station, another short walk from a huge shopping centre, and it was populated by swarms of attractive young women. Admittedly, some of them had husbands or kids in tow, but a lot of them seemed to be single. The problem was, most of these women seemed to be staunchly single.
Watching them go off to work in the morning, or come back in the evening, or head off on weekend activities was an exercise in slow torture. Here were these luscious babes, with expertly coiffed hair, long, exposed limbs, fall-on-your-knees figures, and yet they all bore a demeanour that screeched, “Keep your distance, dude!”
This was cold beauty in its purest, coldest form. I finally started thinking of them as just lovely works of art brought in to jack up the Chateau’s property values. Actually embracing one, I thought, would be like fondling a priceless statue or scratching on a painting in some museum.
Fortunately, this permafrost demeanour was only common among the sleek, polished women of my own class, mainly Chinese Singaporeans like myself. There was one group of attractive young women at the Chateau who were anything but cold; in fact, these ladies grew warmer and warmer after a few casual meetings and then regularly greeted me with a giggly friendliness. And in contrast to the cold, stiff beauty of the career women, these girls exuded an earthy sensuality that filled the air when you passed by them. I’m talking here about the maids.
Not only did the maids always return my greetings, before long they would initiate them, even move into casual conversation when the situation allowed. Which usually meant when their employers were not around. With the employers there, they’d revert to shy, conspiratorial smiles.
And I have to admit, I found many of these maids cute, some of them very cute. More importantly, for my tastes anyway, they were alluring in a thoroughly unpretentious way. Unlike the Chateau’s career ladies, these “domestic workers” were not shrewdly wrapped in the latest expensive fashions with a heavy measure of makeup fine-tuning their features. These maids were more down-to-earth—more real, to put it plainly. No makeup I could detect. And their standard uniform consisted of short pants which only made their way down the top third of their thighs topped by tight tee-shirts or breezy blouses. Simple, straight to the point. Which, in my view, made these ladies much more sensual and alluring than the pampered lovelies of my class and race. If the latter were cold works of art, the maids were rich folk art made flesh.
His strong hands pulled the black hem of her skirt up and took the elastic band of her panties and slipped them down. She gasped and wriggled. One of her hands dropped from the strap to curl behind her and place itself on the marvellous length of his dagger, and the feel of it was breathtaking.
The man was wasting no more time, an urgency was upon him, a grim need, as his hand took her wrist and assisted her in unbuttoning the buttons of his military type shorts with their safari pockets.
The buttons were swiftly opened and his weapon, smooth and helmeted, truly a warrior in the night, thick and veined, fell from his pants, jerking and twitching into her hand. She whimpered and turned and was lifted onto his suitcase, which was kicked under her by his booted foot, and she was now face to face with the enemy and her arms went around his sweet bony body.
She felt his ribs through the T-shirt and put her hands under the shirt to feel his muscular lean back, her hands hidden under the denim jacket … Oh, Jesus, he felt so good, his skin was like a baby’s, but so hot.
He was burning as she opened her legs like a shameless hussy, eager to be entered. His lips brushed her forehead and his fingers swept the black hair from her sparkling eyes.
She gazed with love, yes love, into his face, searching every wonderful imperfection of his features, her mouth hungry for the taste of his lips and tongue and … dear God … the helmet of his naked baton touched the soft hair of her snatch … the man was going to fuck her! Not here … please not now … we’ll be caught, she thought, her mind a turmoil. We’ll be seen.
The bus will stop, people will shout and point, the police will arrive and lock them up like animals in a cage, her picture will be in the papers, her mother, her sisters … no, worse, her poor father … will see her stupid face plastered over every journal in the land. She’d be a laughing stock, totally notorious like one of those starlets she liked to read about and criticize …
This was the end, she had to escape, she just had to, and … it felt good, so good, as the length of his cock slipped one inch into her open, pulsating love lips. She stood on his suitcase, eyes glazed, lips wet, and eased slowly onto his cock.
She felt the ramrod enter her straight and in command. She was but its subject, its slave, two inches, three inches, and more, please free me from this pleasure, and suddenly he was all the way in, who knew how many inches now, and she felt the bigness and tightness, and felt she might die. It was too big, was she to be slaughtered by this animal, this white bastard was going to kill her, and then she began to pump with him, for him, around him, tightening her wicked quim, stroking his back, biting his mouth till she tasted salty blood, kissing him so she couldn’t scream, her heart pounding as her orgasm came to her without warning.
Her round bottom, naked and squeezed and probed by the man’s rough hands, was whipping back and forth as her orgasm grew and spread like molten lava through the pit of her belly. She felt her juice flow down the slippery sides of her secret place, she moaned in ecstasy and passed out for many seconds.
She didn’t know and would never know how long she fainted because the bliss was so surreal, the delicious pain of it so maddening that she lost consciousness, and the man held her up, supported her with his wiry arms, one hand on her bare bottom, the other around her waist as spasm after spasm now hit him.
His froth flowed into her in creamy streaks, and because of their upright position and the laws of gravity, began to drip from her honey pot, overflowing from her forest of want, and streaks of it fell between their legs to land in drops onto the suitcase.
In their frenzied orbit of lust, she had stiffened at the feel of his hot come, her eyes rolling back to show the whites, and they hadn’t realized that the bus had stopped at a red light and was stuck in a traffic jam.
The interior of the bus was now bathed in patches of moving light, for they had entered the city. Their frantic coupling must end and the cruelty of having their pleasure so abruptly taken from them was acute, but his dong, sodden and still huge, slipped out of her while the walls of her pussy tried to hold and clutch the big guy on its way out, pathetically attempting to prevent its escape.
But all men’s cocks eventually must leave that sweet wound between the female’s legs … oh, would that they could remain in the moist, sumptuous havens of pussies forever, never having to face the harsh world again.
But such a mean trick had been played, so the young buck withdrew from Lisa, pulled his whanger out and wiped it with the same dank cloth he had earlier offered to dry her weeping eyes. He released her. She stepped off the suitcase, pulled up her panties, pushed down her skirt, and tugged her red blouse together where the buttons had been torn off. Rivulets of perspiration coursed down her face. They stood there, dazed. The rest of the journey passed quickly.
The bus stopped at the main terminal on Avenue De La Paz. They waited until the other passengers had alighted. Several of the country folk who had travelled with them gave the couple curious looks. Was it possible their ardor had been less furtive than they had presumed? It hardly mattered now. No one had raised an alarm. They calmly stepped from the bus and wandered onto the wide avenue, which was quiet at this time of night, save for the occasional passing vehicle. A light rain fell, creating haloes of light around the well-spaced street lamps. They stood on the sidewalk holding hands.
About the author:
Nigel Hogge, born on the Isle of Wight in 1942, has worked as a fisherman and miner in Australia, a manager of a copra plantation in New Guinea, a tourist guide in Hong Kong, an English teacher in Tokyo, a bartender in Los Angeles, a seaman on a Swedish cargo vessel and a sales representative in Korea and Vietnam. He has been the ‘voice’ on over 250 radio and TV commercials in Manila and Tokyo, a character actor in more than 15 movies, he has written and sold four movie scripts, and he now lives on his 57-foot cabin cruiser in the southern Philippines. Max in Waiting is excerpted from the novel Lucifer Rising (Charleston: BookSurge, 2003).
Clean Sex
Ricky Low, Singapore
Hey, Jeff, what’s the matter? Why don’t you just get a maid in here, clean things up, lah. You can afford it now, man!”
Oh, please. Whenever my friends—or wannabe friends—have suggested this, I have just sighed deeply, raised my eyebrows in a cynical arch, and slipped into my above-it-all smirk—a look that says, “You so don’t understand what it’s all about.” It’s a look I picked up while studying at Stanford. They’ve really perfected that dismissive look over there. I can’t claim that I’ve mastered it quite as well as they do it, but I’m not at all bad.
While studying over there, I also learned the importance of self-reliance. For example, no real guy lets someone else do stupid household chores for him. Even when you get married, you work out a system, you share those duties. That’s what being a full, responsible adult in today’s world means: sharing all those stupid things that just have to be done. Having a maid is clearly a symptom of some weak strands in your moral fibre, as I have always lectured my lazy friends back here.
I’ve never told them the full story of why I feel so uneasy about having a maid. Some of it is that I am still embarrassed that my first erotic episodes involved the maid my family had when I was a boy. But there’s more to it than that.
* * *
Like all fairly comfortable Singapore families, my parents engaged a maid soon after I was born. Actually, they engaged a few maids, but it was the third one who stands out in my memory: Hazniya. She joined us when I was about nine. She was the most energetic of the maids and, if I remember correctly, the only one you could even charitably call attractive. Like the other two, she came from Indonesia, had an enticing coffee-with-light-cream complexion and truly captivating eyes. She also had a prodigious set of boobs, the kind that assured she would never need to worry about drowning.
I guess I was always attracted to Hazniya, though at first it was just that kind of little-boy, prepubescent crush. As innocent as a plate of overcooked oatmeal with pools of skim milk. The sex part didn’t seep in until I was about twelve. As is also typical of many middle-class Singapore families, Hazniya was often assigned the task of bathing me. I mean, like standing over me while I did a cursory job of swabbing myself in the tub, then telling me to stand up while she finished the job, making sure that I got all the “hard-to-reach” places.
Hazniya had been doing this from time to time, starting from when she first joined us, but one evening, when I was twelve, it all changed, changed utterly. I had already started thinking how really stupid it was having a maid bathe me at my age and was being sort of deliberately peevish as I washed myself down in the tub. Then Haz asked me sweetly to stand up, she wanted to see how I was doing. I groaned and made a face, of course, but that was the deal.
As I stood up, Hazniya bent over. I’m sure there was no intent behind it, but on that day, she was wearing this very low-cut shirt and a bra which formed more of a suggestion than a support. As she started wiping my arms and my chest, I was fixated on those munificent breasts, now a glistening coffee-gold from the light sweat the bathroom heat had worked up. I wanted to lean over and take them in my hands, rub them, kiss them, lick them, see if they tasted like the toffee my uncle often brought me from Scotland—or maybe the coffee ice cream I loved. They were, after all, roughly the same colour as those two treats.
And then it happened, suddenly, without any prodding from me, I swear: I popped the first erection of my whole life. At least, the first one I can remember having. This was a shock to me, and I mean a terrifying shock. I didn’t even know what it meant, except that it clearly had something to do with Hazniya, and her bathing me, and that it had made this strange transformation in tribute to her. I stood frozen for a few seconds, and it seemed to get even stiffer as she continued twirling soapy concentric circles across my chest with the washrag. Then she happened to glance down and notice my boner.
I was appalled, hollowed out with shame. I wanted to say something, come up with some excuse, but I suddenly went dumb. While I was still choking on some words to spit out into this frightening situation, Hazniya got there first. “Oh, my, my, what have we here? Our little man has suddenly become a really big man, hasn’t he?” She then gave me that warm smile that had sparked my puppy love for her. But the whole situation had changed radically. I yearned to grab her, to squeeze those fantastic breasts against me, to rub my new-found power tool right up against them. I wanted her to take off all her clothes, right there, then join me in the tub. I wanted her.
Of course, I couldn’t deal with this at all, being just a spoiled twelve-year-old kid. I mean, this was my maid, dammit, who just two minutes ago was bathing me like I was a little boy. So my lust was instantly converted into anger. I scooped up two handfuls of water from the tub and splashed them fiercely across her face and breasts. I wanted her to look shocked, then enraged, to slap me maybe. She did none of that. “Get out! Get out of here! Right now!” I screamed at the top of my high-pitched voice.
And she, damn her, maintained her usual good spirits—she just smiled and said, “Oh yes, let me get out; I think Jeffrey is big enough now to take care of himself. Oh yes, I see this clearly.”
As she made her way out the door, I shouted a phrase I had learned the year before in school and was just waiting for the right opportunity to use in social discourse: “Fucking bitch!”
I underscored the bitterness of that curse by hurling the washrag at the door she had just closed behind her. I then sank back into the tub and started crying, crying like an eight-year-old. I looked down and saw that my cock had just about returned to its normal shape and size. I felt … saved. But just as soon as that happened, I started thinking of Hazniya and those gorgeous tits and the damn thing started stiffening on me again. “Hazniya, you bitch!” I shouted out into the ceiling, hurt and anger intertwined in my timbre. I then reached down under the soapy surface of the water and gingerly touched the thing. I gently rubbed it a few times, as if to console it, to say it wasn’t its fault that it had caused me so much embarrassment. “You bitch, you bitch, you bitch,” I whispered as I consoled myself a little more.
Luckily, my parents were out that evening, so they caught none of my little outburst. Hazniya and I said nothing about it the next morning, or ever again. We pretended like the whole thing had never really happened. Of course, I never again let her near the bathroom while I was bathing—or even combing my hair, for that matter. She stayed with us for another six months and then was suddenly gone. She disappeared one week when I was off visiting an aunt and uncle in Hong Kong.
When I asked what happened, my mother shook her head sadly and told me that Hazniya had to leave abruptly because of some family crisis back in Indonesia. A couple of years later, my Dad confided that they had dismissed her because she had “taken some things that didn’t belong to her.” And some time after that, a close family friend told me he’d heard the real reason was that Hazniya got caught having sex on the living room couch with some guy while my folks were supposedly away. But I’ve often asked myself whether our little episode in the bathtub had anything to do with that sudden departure.
Whatever it was, we never engaged another maid after Hazniya left us. Physically left us, I should say. Her memory stayed with me for the next few years. During the high-tide period of my masturbatory youth, I would invoke images of Hazniya whenever I wanked off: those warm smiles, the bubbly laugher, the wonderful eyes, those fantastic tits. The fact that I had never really viewed those tits in their entirety only made them that much more fantastic in my wank-off reveries. Of course, the fact that she was a maid, a live-in servant meant to meet most of our daily needs, only exalted my fantasies about her. It would take me years to grow ashamed of those fantasies and the exploitative relationship that underscored them.
* * *
That shame happened when I was at university. Political correctness ruled supreme at my school, and it was especially dominant in the Sociology Department. From my professor, Kander, and those plodding leftist texts he foisted on us, I learned what an exploitative system was embodied in the whole maid-and-master nexus. This was especially true when the maids were plucked from nearby, “less-privileged” societies—as Hazniya had been. Of course, all my classmates and friends at the uni subscribed to this view one hundred per cent plus. So I never volunteered the fact that my own family had kept maids from the Third World when I was a kid. I only confessed it to my closest friends there at the uni, and then only as a sign of how much I had grown during my short time at Stanford.
When I returned to Singapore with my nice, crisp MBA tucked under my arm, I fancied myself a completely transformed person, one damn enlightened guy equally well versed in business and life in general. I was also vehemently committed to self-reliance by then. Anything I couldn’t do for myself just wouldn’t get done. Period.
Of course, an MBA from an elite American school guaranteed that I could just about waltz right into any high-paying job and find a stack of perqs to perk me up. Then, two months after I started working, I started looking for a place of my own.
The complex that I moved into, the Chateau de Luxus, was optimal in many ways. It was right across from a big bus terminal, about an eight-minute walk from an MRT station, another short walk from a huge shopping centre, and it was populated by swarms of attractive young women. Admittedly, some of them had husbands or kids in tow, but a lot of them seemed to be single. The problem was, most of these women seemed to be staunchly single.
Watching them go off to work in the morning, or come back in the evening, or head off on weekend activities was an exercise in slow torture. Here were these luscious babes, with expertly coiffed hair, long, exposed limbs, fall-on-your-knees figures, and yet they all bore a demeanour that screeched, “Keep your distance, dude!”
This was cold beauty in its purest, coldest form. I finally started thinking of them as just lovely works of art brought in to jack up the Chateau’s property values. Actually embracing one, I thought, would be like fondling a priceless statue or scratching on a painting in some museum.
Fortunately, this permafrost demeanour was only common among the sleek, polished women of my own class, mainly Chinese Singaporeans like myself. There was one group of attractive young women at the Chateau who were anything but cold; in fact, these ladies grew warmer and warmer after a few casual meetings and then regularly greeted me with a giggly friendliness. And in contrast to the cold, stiff beauty of the career women, these girls exuded an earthy sensuality that filled the air when you passed by them. I’m talking here about the maids.
Not only did the maids always return my greetings, before long they would initiate them, even move into casual conversation when the situation allowed. Which usually meant when their employers were not around. With the employers there, they’d revert to shy, conspiratorial smiles.
And I have to admit, I found many of these maids cute, some of them very cute. More importantly, for my tastes anyway, they were alluring in a thoroughly unpretentious way. Unlike the Chateau’s career ladies, these “domestic workers” were not shrewdly wrapped in the latest expensive fashions with a heavy measure of makeup fine-tuning their features. These maids were more down-to-earth—more real, to put it plainly. No makeup I could detect. And their standard uniform consisted of short pants which only made their way down the top third of their thighs topped by tight tee-shirts or breezy blouses. Simple, straight to the point. Which, in my view, made these ladies much more sensual and alluring than the pampered lovelies of my class and race. If the latter were cold works of art, the maids were rich folk art made flesh.
