Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2

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!”