The Vietnamese Grass-Cutter Woman

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Big Dicks

This is a long story that covers a short weekend.

My name is Hjjer. I am the Regional Head for the Asia Pacific Region of my French engineering company, with regional headquarters in New Delhi, India. However, for the last couple of years I’ve been using our Hanoi office as my “temporary” base but I travel frequently to all our various offices across Asia, and of course make regular trips to HQ in Paris.

Now, almost three years later, I’m still in Hanoi, Vietnam. It’s the middle of January and I’m spending the weekend alone at my lakefront apartment in an area called Tay Ho (also known as Westlake) where most of the expatriates in the city congregate. Temperatures are in the mid-teens and the weather is extremely pleasant. I got up early this Saturday morning, cycled around the 17km circumference of the lake, and got back just as sunlight broke through. I had a shower, went to a nearby cafe for an indulgent breakfast and some great Vietnamese coffee, and am now back home at my computer for a couple of hours work.

I’m going through briefs, summaries, some presentations, a couple of detailed papers, and a host of emails that seem to have piled up in my inbox awaiting responses. Suddenly, on the top right hand corner of my Mac pinged a little box telling me I’ve received a new email. Glancing at the tiny window before it disappears, I notice that it says “Nefeli Comtois – Hi Hjjer, Please add me to your professional network”. It is a message from LinkedIn, the kind which I receive at least 20 of every week and so I just ignore it, telling myself I’ll delete it later.

I work through till hunger gets the better of me three hours later; finding leftover pizza slices in the refrigerator, I wolf down a couple and then feel like indulging in my favourite weekend cocktail – a gin a kilometre down the road that grazes the water are some kids trying to sail paper boats; on the right flank is a small lagoon on the banks of which three female government workers are cutting grass.

Hanoi can have a small town feel to it in the suburbs on weekend afternoons; right now, it’s all very placid and calm. A faint breeze begins to ripple the waters and carries with it a fresh whiff of newly cut grass as it cools my face. I take the last sip of my afternoon cocktail and contemplate my life here in Vietnam; I don’t usually get lonely but sometimes a feeling of aloneness overcomes me. This is one of those times; my close colleague and occasional sexual partner is on vacation, otherwise at moments like this I would have called her and maybe arranged a weekend tryst with her.

As the sun moves closer to the horizon with still an hour and a bit before it sets, I decide to go out for a walk before it gets dark and a little chilly. Ambling along the lake shore, I pass a couple of fishermen casting their rods and enjoying the late afternoon sun. An occasional scooterist, usually female, sputters past; a Japanese couple sit on the slanted bank of the lake, the gentleman with a long lens camera peering through his viewfinder. A family of ducks, with almost a dozen ducklings trailing, troop across the road as they cross from the lake to a lotus pond on the other side. A woman wearing a conical straw hat is hunched down on a relatively dry section of the lotus pond, seemingly planting or harvesting some saplings.

The hunkered down Vietnamese woman is wearing an olive green coloured shirt and baggy trousers of the same colour; her silhouette makes a sharp contrast against an almost orange sky. I pull out my iPhone from the back pocket of my Levi’s, turn on the camera app, and begin to compose the frame of what I think will make a beautiful photograph. Suddenly, two things happen that throw me almost literally off balance: first, viewing the full screen of the picture I am about to click, I see that the woman looks up from the ground and stares directly at the camera. And second, I realise that she isn’t planting anything in the ground; she is actually urinating!

I hastily stuff the phone back in my pocket and look away, feeling very embarrassed and silly at the same time. Standing against the railing, pretending I was only enjoying the scenery, I’m very self-conscious and uneasy so I decide to brazen it out and turn back and look at the woman. She’s still focused on me as she straightens up from the ground, but she has a grin on her face as she buckles her trousers. I notice now that she’s wearing ankle high boots, possibly made of rubber, and she’s walking towards me over the dry patch of land at the corner of the pond in front of me.

I’m like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to move or even decide what I should do; should I turn and walk away or should I bravely hold my ground? But in 30 seconds the decision is made for me while I stand, my feet seemingly rooted to the footpath. There’s a concrete bank that slopes down canlı bahis from the pathway to the pond, about five feet in length and at a 45 degree angle. She reaches the base and stretches one arm out at me; instinctively, without thinking, I reach out my own arm and grab her hand in mine, pulling her up the levee. She uses her other hand to grab one of the railings on the balustrade, lifts one foot over it, then ducks between the parallel bars and comes over to my side of the fence.

She’s about two inches taller than five feet and still smiling as she looks up at my face; then reaches out with both hands and takes one of mine between them, gripping it in a double-handed handshake. “I name Hoa. How you do?” I’m still a little stunned but manage to relax my cheek muscles and offer a tentative smile, nodding at her.

“You take photo no problem. No worry.” Saying that, she bends down and only then do I notice that three feet away from me is a large grey coloured plastic bag which the woman now picks up and starts walking. After taking a few steps, she turns around and beckons with her free hand, waving it rather imperiously, saying “Come! Come! We go.”

I stare for a second and wonder where she wants me to go with her, when she walks back and takes my hand in hers, pulling me along with her. We’re heading along the footpath back towards my house; I walk silently but deftly remove my hand from hers, looking around to see if there are any people looking at us. But no, there aren’t. The street is empty, other than the two anglers quietly plying their purpose. The sun is already below the horizon now and dusk is upon us, the breeze ripples across the surface of the golden pond on our left and the lake on our right.

Since we’re moving towards my house, I walk along with her without any objection, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the woman. Looking up at me, she says “Tôi c?t c?” and I infer that she’s telling me she’s a grass cutter. I smile back at her, nod my head, and am somewhat relieved because I now think she’s heading back to the group of government grass-cutters I saw near my apartment. Strangely, my mood lifts and I feel friendlier towards her as I walk briskly ahead.

She pushes the conical straw hat off her head and it hangs by a cord around her neck, bobbing on her back as she walks with short but quick steps to keep up with my pace. Her hair is straight and long, ringed by a small elastic band on top of her head from where the tresses hang down to her waist. Looking down from my height as she catches up, I see her breasts are fairly large and they stand out firm from her chest, probably supported by a 34DD brassiere. I can see the rim of her bra cups between the open collar of her shirt. I don’t think she’s a young woman, but then it’s very difficult to ascertain the age of an oriental just by looking at her face.

She’s yammering on about something or the other and I’m having a tough time catching some of the words so I can string together her meaning. But I make out “photo” and “ok” and “t?m r?a” which could mean rain, or shower. She smiles very sweetly as she talks and looks at me, her large plastic bag now slung on her shoulder. We’re approaching home, the sun has set, and the bunch of grass cutting women don’t seem to be around any more. I point towards the triple storied apartment block and say “That’s where I live, that’s my home” and she beams, exposing sparkling white teeth as her luscious lips part. I think she understands because she clutches my hand and pulls me across the road as we cross over to the opposite footpath.

She’s still holding on to my hand as we approach the glass fronted entrance to the apartment building and once again I’m at a loss as to what I should do. I stop at the door and look down at her, about to say good-bye, but she stares into my eyes and has that beatific smile on her face. I figure she wants to come in and so I take one of those impulsive decisions that have gotten me into trouble before. But I think there’s nothing criminal about her, and maybe all she wants is a chilled glass of water or maybe some hot tea.

So I punch in the security code on to the keypad lock and push the door open, allowing her to enter ahead of me. Fortunately, there’s no security guard on duty yet nor anyone to witness my return to the house, accompanied by a government grass-cutter lady. We walk to the elevator in a hurry, step in, and in a few seconds the car door opens into the foyer in front of my apartment door. I use an electronic key card to enter while Hoa removes her boots, leaves them outside the door, and follows me in barefoot. I step out of my walking shoes and leave them by the shoe-rack inside.

It is almost dark inside; just the feeble light of a purple-orange horizon filtering in through my plate glass windows that line the front of the living room which overlooks bahis siteleri the lake. “Noi tuy?t d?p” she whispers, marvelling at the beauty either of the apartment, or the scenery, I’m not sure. I walk to the various corners of the room, switching on pedestal and table lamps; then the concealed lighting in the kitchen. I turn to the woman and see that she’s removing her straw hat and placing it gingerly on a corner table. I ask her if she wants a drink of water, or tea, “trà?”

She follows me almost on tiptoe to the kitchen and sees an inexpensive bottle of vodka standing on a shelf; with an impish grin, she points at it and then directs her finger alternately at me and at herself a couple of times. I think she’s saying that both of us should have a drink of liquor. The sun’s gone down and in any case it’s time for evening libations so I agree. Reaching for the bottle, I pour about 60ml each into two large shot glasses and turn to the refrigerator to pluck out some ice cubes from the tray. Turning back to her, I notice she’s washed her hands in the kitchen sink and is now holding one glass in each hand and I drop a couple of ice cubes into each.

She has a wide, but very pretty, grin on her face as I take one glass from her and raise it in salutation, saying “m?t, hai, ba, vô!” and we both take a sip from the tumbler, mine a lot more tentative than hers. The liquid goes down surprisingly smoothly as I walk to the settee facing the lake outside. I’m not sure who bought this vodka, or when, but I suspect my day-cook uses it for some of the dishes that she cooks. The woman sits at right-angles to me on another piece of the sofa set and keeps looking at me. I’m still a little flummoxed at this entire situation but strive not to think too much about it; just go with the flow, so to speak. Another large gulp of the vodka helps!

“You no take photo? You like Hoa photo, no?” I really don’t know how to respond so I pull out the iPhone again and pretend to make adjustments, thinking I’ll just snap a few quick pictures and then we can move on past my returning embarrassment. When I point the camera phone at her, I’m in for yet another jolt of surprise. She’s unbuttoned almost the entire front of her shirt and I can discern through a two-inch gap in the frontal plackets a white brassiere, the cups of which hold obviously large breasts with a very deep cleavage between them.

I point the phone at her and snap a few pics, zooming in to get a better focus on her boobs which, hidden as they are, have me completely hypnotised. She turns to give me a profile view of herself and I’m convinced that her breasts thrust out almost six inches from her chest. The front of her shirt is now parted and the bra-encased boobs a lot more visible than earlier. She gets up and walks to the corner to pick up her conical hat, places it on her head, and then poses in front of the glass panels leading to the balcony. Although the lighting is dim, my phone camera does a decent job in adjusting its aperture and I’m snapping pics by the second.

I’m getting pretty excited with whatever is happening in my living room so I go to the kitchen counter and get the bottle of vodka. Pouring another couple of slugs into our glasses, I raise a silent toast to this rural beauty – she doesn’t look like a city girl – and we both take sips from the tumblers. I look at her face as I stand next to her and the ethereal beauty of the woman begins to sink in; despite the nature of physical activity that makes up her job, there’s something very delicate and sensitive about her features. Her eyes are almond shaped and large, in a very innocent way; her smile is tentative till it turns to an expressive full blossomed grin that crinkles the temples of her face.

“You’re very pretty, Hoa. Very beautiful. B?n là r?t d?p” I try saying it in Vietnamese and I think she understands because she’s very coy and a faint blush highlights her cheekbones as she lowers her head.

“You want mo picture of Hoa? You tell me how I stand. Or sit?” The vodka is having an effect on me; or maybe it’s not the vodka, it could be this very attractive and sexy woman that’s having an effect on me. I hold her by the arms and guide her back to the chair she was sitting on earlier, and pick up the iPhone again. As I look at her, trying to compose my next set of shots, she pulls off her shirt and leans back into the seat, still wearing her hat. That puts her face in dark shadow so I walk up to her and remove the headgear, placing it on a table beside her.

Her hair is still banded in a ring on top of her head so I fumble with the elastic, trying to slip it off but she helps by doing it instead. With one long smooth movement, she slides the band off her waist length hair, places the elastic ring next to the hat, and fluffs out the tresses. The silken black hair frames her oval shaped face as it bahis şirketleri falls over her shoulders and curves along the swell of her breasts before dropping to her waist. The lamps in my living room cast a golden hue over her face and the skin of her torso, her brassiere white in sharp contrast.

I forget all about taking pictures as I stare at the apparition in front of me. Her bra is powder blue in colour, not white as I initially thought, with the top of the cups in a filigree lace and scalloped edges. The underwire support is a thin band of darker blue that match the straps and band of the undergarment. Through the lace I can discern deep brown nipples and well defined, almost perfectly circular, areola. She raises her arms and places the palms of her hand on top of her head, and I wonder if she’s just giving me another pose. I raise the camera and click a couple of shots, observing how her underarms are smooth and bereft of any hair.

Hoa, which means flower or blossom depending on how you pronounce it, stands up and walks to the glass frontage of the living room and looks out at the lake, perhaps taking in the dark solitude of the outside. I get up from my seat and go to where she is, stand behind her and look out at the street lights and coloured neon signs on the other shore reflecting on the shimmering waters. My chin almost rests on the top of her head and I am tempted to touch her body, run my hands over her skin, feel the pulse that must run through her veins.

Instead, I walk back to the settee, pick up my drink, lean back and enjoy the view of her rear. She draws her smooth tresses to her front and I can now see her neck and shoulders, sloping gently to her arms that are by her sides. The shape of her upper body is a perfect V as the flanks tuck in to a very slim waist before her hips swell out again. The straps of her bra come down from the round of her shoulders to the two-inch band that is clasped at the first set of hasps at the back. The indent of her spinal column is deep at the waist line, shadowed in darkness before it disappears into the top of her baggy olive green trousers.

After a couple of minutes, I get up to switch on another table lamp and add a couple of ice cubes to my glass. When I return to the couch, she’s turned around and faces the inside of the apartment, her back to the lakefront balcony. She’s not looking at me, instead her head is slightly averted and she’s looking down at the carpeted floor. “You very nice man, monsieur, I sorry for giving you so trouble. I very very sorry. I also never ask you your name and I come your house no invitation. So sorry. I stupid mad woman. Tôi xin l?i. Xin hãy tha th? cho tôi.”

I know she was apologising and even though I don’t understand the Vietnamese words, I’m sure she’s suddenly feeling terrible. “Please don’t be sorry”, I say, “My name is Hjjer. Tôi tên là Hjjer.” She looks up at me and has only the faintest hint of a smile so I know she’s understood my name.

“Hjjer”, she mumbles. But she still has a doleful melancholy look on her face. In fact I’m sure I can see the gleam of a teardrop beginning to slide down her cheeks and my heart goes out to her. She looks so innocent and fragile in her guilt and I don’t know how to placate her, what do I say that doesn’t sound platitudinous and unconvincing?

I put the vodka glass down on a side table and hastily go up to where she’s standing. Without thinking, I take her into my arms and wrap them around her; she comes docilely towards me, resting her head against my chest and I can make out she’s crying. A natural aroma of fresh grass and mild perspiration floats like an aura around her. She heaves as her breath catches in her throat, meekly speaking in Vietnamese, words I cannot catch and do not understand. I place a palm on the back of her head and caress her, holding her close to my body as she continues to mumble. I hear her say “sorry” a number of times but can’t comprehend the rest of her words.

She feels so delicate and vulnerable in my arms and I cannot fathom the depths of her guilt, or the need to be so apologetic. Does she feel she has violated some intrinsic sense of morality? Or, more likely, that she has invaded my domain and privacy without an invitation? But I know whatever she has done has been guileless and innocent; even if it has been a violation of my space, I see it as a minor infraction. I think of how much trust she must have placed in a stranger to actually come into my house and pose semi-nude because she thought I wanted to take pictures of her. And what has she asked in return? Nothing! Except for a couple of shots of cheap vodka.

After all these years in Asia, I am still astounded by some of the nuances embedded in their value system, particularly in the far east. As her breathing eases, Hoa puts her arms around my waist and hugs me tight, pressing her bosom against my upper abdomen and clinging on desperately. She bends her head backwards and looks up at me, her cheeks wet and her eyes glistening; “Thank you Mr Hjjer”, she whispers so softly, I can barely hear her.

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