Entanglement: Familiar Curves

For months after Joaquin Ibañez was posted to Saigon as economic attaché, he had no eyes for Western women. The exotic, humid paradise was swarming with motorbikes, ghosts and tiny Asian sylphs. They possessed none of the attributes he’d grown up thinking of as womanly. No hips, no ass, and tits so small he sometimes felt vaguely taboo when he covered one with this mouth. Its alienness was exhilarating.

As much as his education forced him to acknowledge that fucking the natives was both offensively colonial and frowned upon by the consulate, it was, in those first few months, beyond his power to abstain. It took time to grow jaded about the pussy on offer; it took experience to realize that, although not quite as transactional as prostitution, it was never as casual or as free as it first appeared. Saigonese women didn’t view mutual orgasms as fair recompense for their sexual favours; they wanted money, gifts, status and, most especially, relationships.

Not that Joaquin was a heartless bastard; he fully expected to settle down with a nice girl some day. But he was fairly certain those kind of relationships could not be formed without a good conversation about shared interests over breakfast, and that was not on offer. He nursed his hangovers with black coffee and the Vietnamese girls sipped tea and texted in silence. Their lightning fast fingers skittering over the screens of their slick, shiny mobile phones.

He had grown tired of that, and curiously lonely. The last memorable evening he could recall was a boisterous, drunken argument about globalization with an obese, middle-aged Australian woman in a backpacker bar. It was so vibrant, so energizing, he’d considered taking her back to her hotel and fucking her. But between the eight beers and her almost total lack of physical attractiveness, he’d decided that an erection was probably not on the cards.

So, it was with reluctance that Joaquin agreed to accompany his co-worker, Paco, to the grand opening of some pseudo-salsa bar recently established in the basement of the old opera house. They availed themselves of the complimentary tequila shooters offered at the door by Asian mini-babes dressed like porn cowgirls, and made their way inside the cave-like club. The smell of new paint, adhesive and cigarettes only partially masked the underlying stink of damp concrete. They found an empty black leather banquette at the side of the dance floor and snagged two more shooters.

“Damn, I wish I could salsa.” Paco shouted over the music.

“We’re Spaniards. We don’t salsa.”

“I can’t even do a fucking Sevillana.”

“Me neither. Why the hell did you bring me here?”

Paco pointed towards the lit-up dance area. “To feast your eyes on that.”

Almost dead centre on the floor, two identically dressed Latinas were dancing together. Joaquin had no idea what style of dance it was – fairly certain it wasn’t salsa. It mostly involved them humping each other’s thighs.

“Coño,” said Joaquin.

Paco shook his head. “De puta madre,” he muttered.

It wasn’t just that they were smokingly hot, or eerily identical, or that they were rubbing their crotches against each other’s hips in time to the beat; it was the shape of them. God, they had hips – wide, strong hips. And voluptuous, meaty asses that rolled as they moved. Their matching red dresses were tight, sleeveless and cut low to flaunt gloriously generous tits. They danced and their flesh moved with them.

He knew exactly what they’d smell like, what their sweat would taste like, what a handful of that ass would feel like: safe and familiar and true. A jagged pang of homesickness ripped through him.

“Screw the free tequila. I want some of that.”

Paco swept his hand towards the two women. “Go get it.”

“There’s enough for both of us,” said Joaquin. Even as he spoke, he was embarrassed by the adolescent fantasies brewing in his brain. Fuck it, he thought.

Paco liberated another shot glass of tequila off a passing tray, downed it and grimaced. “Fuck no. My wife would kill me.”

“More for me, then.” Joaquin edged his way around the table and set off under the glare of the dance floor lights.

* * *

Marta and Sonia, Joaquin found out, weren’t exactly identical twins. The Colombian sisters were born a year apart and, after an increasingly flirtatious three way conversation, lubricated with more tequila shooters than Joaquin could remember, he figured out that Sonia was the one with the mole just above the left corner of her mouth. Marta was the one with the kidney shaped birthmark on her inner thigh.

He noticed it when, after stumbling into a room at the Caravelle, and getting Sonia on all fours, he pushed himself between the burnished globes of her generous ass, watched as she spread Marta’s legs and moan into the dark, matted wetness of her sister’s cunt.

Despite the alcohol, his cock didn’t fail him. They smelled and tasted exactly as he’d fantasized they would. It was a relief to be physical with bodies that didn’t seem like they’d break under his thrusts, sweet to hear obscenities uttered in his mother tongue, with the growl and rasp of women who were hungry for pleasure and nothing else. Glorious to watch the two of them race tongues up the sides of his shaft and stage mock battles over who got to swallow him whole.

Joaquin had had a threesome before, but never with sisters. The incestuousness of it drove his hunger even harder than the pleasure of indulging in familiar flesh, of not being exactly sure which one he was impaling until he kissed lips and felt for Marta’s tell-tale mole.

They did this often, that much he understood. The more he thought about it, the stranger it felt. Or perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, the burned-out alcohol tainting his blood, or their curious familiarity with each other’s bodies. But slowly, he felt edged out, and subtly exiled to the position of a convenient cock. The last time he came, with Marta riding him and her sister sitting on his face, he felt curiously distant to it all. There was a union between them he was not invited into.

He never caught their last name, or why they were in Saigon, and they didn’t stay for breakfast.