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In Vietnam, all death anniversaries in the family are celebrated with a special lunch, before which fake money and cardboard replicas of things the dead might need: motorcycles, clothes, shoes, fans—are burnt. Many of my wife’s family members actually earn their keep producing those things. Depending on the importance of the deceased family member, between ten and 80 guests attend those lunches. The women do the cooking, while the men help with setting up the tables. Guests entering the house will put the small gifts they brought—packs of cookies or cans of soft drinks—on the family altar in the living room, light an incense stick, and pray.

Many of those lunches actually turn into drinking binges, which can last several hours. For me, there isn’t much to do during those parties, apart from people watching, eating, drinking, and smoking, as my Vietnamese isn’t good enough to just chat away. That’s alright though, as I don’t mind dwelling on my thoughts. Sometimes, I play a game with myself, trying to remember where a particular person fits in the family tree. Over the years, I’ve grown to love those wet lunches, as they tend to be quite boisterous, even though the occasion is rather somber.

Three weeks ago, I went to another of those binges; this time, the occasion was the 34th death anniversary of my wife’s cousin. The parents of that girl—who died when she was about 15—are already dead, too. Her mother was my father-in-law’s older sister, and I still remember going to the prayer lunch for her death right after I had met my wife five years ago. That was, if I remember correctly, when I met my extended family for the first time. As the older couple had died, the tiny house we were meeting at was actually unoccupied now, but we still gathered there for those prayer lunches, at a rate of once every six weeks.

When I entered the house this time, I couldn’t see Giang, who is probably my favorite young woman among the family. She is the daughter of my favorite cousin, Dung (which is pronounced ‘Yum’), who is a tailor. He has already made me a dozen shirts and pants and is an ebullient man with style. He lives by himself in a village, separated from his wife, who lives with Giang here in town. Dung and his wife’s older daughter got married in Saigon about seven months ago.

So Giang, which is pronounced ‘Yang’, wasn’t there. Bummer. As there was a little girl watching annoying videos on her dad’s phone, I stepped back out of the house immediately and went back to the place in the shade where I had parked my motorcycle. I lit a cigarette and chatted a bit with someone in the family who I didn’t really know. But just about when we were done smoking, a slim, young woman came ambulating down the street. She had her coat on her head to get some protection from the sun. Giang coyly said ‘hi’ from under her makeshift parasol and walked past us, smiling. Now that she was there, I went inside the house—and didn’t mind the little girl’s blaring phone as much anymore.

Once inside, I squeezed past the big round table and took my seat with my back to the wall, as was my habit. From there, I could see everything, and Giang kept looking at me inconspicuously. She was wearing a simple dress, which basically was a very long polo-shirt, which was salmon-colored with big red flowers and green leaves and a crocheted collar. Under her shirt, I could sense a slightly coarse, ill-fitting bra, and further down she seemed to be wearing little dark-blue shorts. Her thighs were pretty much perfect.

Recently, I had asked my wife what Giang actually did for a living. I could remember Giang being at our engagement party, where she must have been 14 or 15. By now, she had finished school, hadn’t she? My wife told me that she had ‘dropped out of school a while ago and now helps around the house and washes women their hair.’

There seemed to be consensus among the family that Giang wasn’t particularly intelligent and that she couldn’t be trusted with complex tasks. I couldn’t really judge that, but I didn’t think she was mentally challenged. She always knew when and how she could assist anyone during those lunches: she saw when someone needed ice or when she had to find something quickly that could be put under a hot pot that was being brought in. She seemed to be a good listener and was good with kids. She laughed at the right moments, and what I liked about her the most was that she was so wonderfully unpretentious. I rarely saw her look at a smartphone; she was just a good-natured small town girl with a balanced soul.

Anyway, at the lunch three weeks ago, where Giang was wearing her long, salmon-colored polo-shirt, we lifted our game onto a new level. Increasingly, now that she was 18 or 19, it seemed important to her that I was present at those lunches. Apparently, she had already been happy when she saw me in the street, and she sat down at the other table at the perfect spot, so that I could admire her perfect figure, including her long legs. I didn’t think she knew how beautiful canlı bahis she was.

Well, her face wasn’t as glorious as Nguyet’s or Tuyet’s, but her body was more stunning. She was about five-five or –six, perfectly trim, with slim ankles and perfectly shaped calves. She didn’t have an ounce of superfluous body-fat. But it wasn’t a body deliberately formed at the gym; she just led an active, diligent life—her mother certainly kept her busy at the house.

I liked the simple polo-shirt/dress she was wearing, as it left some room for my imagination, the way it spanned across her slim butt. Whenever Giang disappeared in the kitchen, she bent over in a way that I could either see her full profile or her butt, which was 12 or 13 inches wide, in all its glory. Which wasn’t an easy feat, given there were two door frames perpendicular to each other between us. From where I was sitting, the first door frame decreased my field of vision by 90 per cent, while the second one halved that again. And yet, Giang always made sure she bent in this narrow frame, like at the end of a tunnel, even though the kitchen was at least 50 square feet larger. Could that be coincidence?!

When I got married here in Vietnam five years ago, I received 400 family members over night. No one knew the exact number, and it had taken years before I had gotten a grip on who was who. Curiously, I had noticed Giang positively the first time when my students had reacted to her negatively. When I was showing my 8th-graders our engagement pictures, some girls started giggling and pointed at the screen. I didn’t know what was going on at first, but then they explained to me that ‘that girl looked retarded’. I looked more closely at the photo but only saw that Giang had her eyes closed while her mouth was wide-open as she was drinking.

Well, yes, that looked ungainly, especially since her mouth was still gaping in the following two or three photos. I still thought it was pretty arrogant and mean of my students to call a girl in my family ‘retarded’, and I told them so. Ok, Giang’s upper right eye tooth was also tilted backward, so it looked like she had a tooth gap there. And, yes, upon second thought, her mouth was open more than necessary. Perhaps she had problems with her sinuses? Giang also had some pimples but, otherwise, she was beautiful and imminently likeable. She always had her hair in a perfect bun in the back, which was probably better for doing house work, while her bangs were a little too long, but now they framed her face nicely. I really thought she was pretty. Gaping mouth or not.

Although my wife didn’t like Giang’s mother, even though they were cousins, they talked once in a while. Last week, my wife told me that Giang’s mother was worried about her. We were sitting at the breakfast table on Saturday morning, the only day during the week we could do that, as during the week my son goes to kindergarten, while, on Sundays, I work early. When I asked what Giang’s mother was exactly concerned about, my wife whispered, purportedly so that my son couldn’t hear it:

“She masturbates a lot. She diddles herself. All the time.”

I choked on my coffee first, but then laughed.

“Almost everyone does. People just don’t talk about it. And it doesn’t do any harm. Giang’s life isn’t particularly exciting. Just let her rub herself, please!” I added.

My wife knew that my views regarding sexuality were more liberal than hers—or any Vietnamese woman’s—so she notched up her game:

“Once, she had a candle in her vagina. About two or three inches …” my wife showed me with her thumb and index finger.

Well, it looked more like less than two inches. Anyway, I only said: “Holy moly!” in a mock-exasperated tone and reiterated:

“Come on … she’s a young woman in our boring town whose life passes in fairly lukewarm and shallow channels. So she spices things up by exploring her body. I do it, too,” I reminded my wife.

My wife knew that I jerked off sometimes, but she ignored that part for now and went back into attack mode. She leaned across the table, frowned, and whispered: “She was looking at a photo of you. One of our wedding.”

There, she said it. Oh. Well, that was piquant. Good Lord! I was inwardly happy but, naturally, couldn’t show my feelings at that moment. When I told my wife, however, that that actually was a nice compliment—also for her—she only said:

“One doesn’t do that. After all, we’re family.”

I didn’t know what to do or say. I reminded my wife that Giang and I weren’t related by blood and that she was ‘only’ looking at a picture of me, but that didn’t seem to comfort her. I suggested her mother leave Giang—who, perhaps, didn’t even have her own room—unsupervised for an hour or two every day, so she could discover her body and enjoy the pleasures of masturbation. To which my wife replied:

“You can’t really leave that Giang alone. I told you she isn’t quite right upstairs.”

“Nonsense,” I contended. “I know she has that reputation, but I’ve never seen her do anything that bahis siteleri would confirm that. Sure, she’ll never receive the Nobel Prize. But neither will I. Nor you,” I reminded her.

“Oh, can you stop defending her?! Once she forgot to turn off the stove, and the whole house almost burnt down,” my wife countered.

“Well, what do you expect?! If you keep treating her like a child … like she’s ‘retarded’, for the lack of a better word, how can she develop a sense of responsibility, huh?! And you’ve left the rice-cooker on as well,” I reminded her. “That can happen to anyone.”

I Knew I was defending Giang again, but not just because I fancied her but also as it felt unjust to label her as an imbecile.

Of course, in my view, Giang’s mother and my wife were kicking up a fuss for nothing. Giang was exploring her body functions? Oh, good Lord, she must have been sexually mature for about six years now. So it was about time. Millions of people masturbated every day. I did. Sometimes even with the image of Giang in my head.

Of course, I withheld that last piece of information from my wife and, instead, tried to understand why they were so worried. True, my wife had never masturbated, and it was still normal to this day that women of my wife’s generation, in their mid-thirties, remained a virgin until they got engaged or even married. One needed to know that to understand the two cousins. I told my wife again that the times were changing and that masturbation wasn’t going to harm her nor others. Her mother shouldn’t try to catch, nor forbid nor punish Giang.

We let the issue rest for a few days, but then I told my wife that Giang’s mother perhaps should give her daughter some money, so that she could go out with friends, provided that she had any. I wasn’t sure. She and her pals could go to a café and maybe find a boyfriend, I argued. But my wife played it down. She was twirling her index finger near her temple when she reiterated:

“Giang is a little simple up here; you can’t be sure what she’ll do once she’s out.”

“Well, yeah, if you keep her away from the world, she’ll never learn her ways,” I said again, before I mollified my wife saying that she was right in some ways. I didn’t want her to fall prey to some young, charming idiot either.

Indeed, I could imagine that any good-looking young man would be able to get our excited and sexually hungry Giang to do anything for and with him. But since I, as her uncle, didn’t want to press ahead to much, we let the issue slide for now. But I still jerked off two or three times with the image of Giang bending over in my mind.

Another week later, the cousins—my wife and Giang’s mother—had hatched a plan, which involved me. As her mother had caught Giang again with a big candle in her vagina, it was now time to find a valve for Giang’s sexual strain. My wife asked me, in all seriousness, if I couldn’t spend two or three hours with her once a month or so. We would have to keep that a secret, of course, as it would be, well, highly unusual. But, at least, the young woman wouldn’t be running around with some ‘shady characters who were up to no good’.

As rejoicing openly would have raised suspicion, I solemnly asked if Giang had actually agreed to that and if my wife and her cousin had thought this through. I didn’t want to be feel duped in the end. My wife told me that Giang had blushed at first, but then she had been really excited about the prospect of hanging out with me, so, yes, we had her consent.

Giang’s mother had been in tears, perhaps partially out of relief, as she was desperate and didn’t know what to do: obviously, she couldn’t ask anyone related by blood, as there was the incest taboo, of course. But she couldn’t think of anyone outside the family who she trusted, as the mere thought of asking around who could help one’s nympho daughter release some steam was so outlandish that it was hard to discuss, my wife told me. As Giang obviously had kind of a crush on me anyway, I was the perfect choice. My wife had already noticed how Giang made mooneyes at me every prayer lunch we had.

Just to be completely sure—and probably because I enjoyed the sheer salaciousness of such discussions—I asked my wife if Giang knew that once she’s at our house we would have sex. I found it only fair that Giang knew what the plan was. Otherwise, she might think it’s all about watching a movie or eating ice-cream.

My wife raised her beautiful eyebrows and frowned again:

“Well, we would prefer if you didn’t have sex with her, to be honest. Just spend a few wholesome hours together. I think she will like it if you, as a grown man, take her seriously.”

Well, it was true that no one had mentioned sex yet. But as endearing as my wife’s naiveté was, I had to tell her that it would be torture for both of us not to fuck. A simple spending-time-together wasn’t going to do.

“If we’re going to do it, then we’re going all the way if she wants it,” I said. “Taking her seriously means also taking her sexuality seriously. Obviously, bahis şirketleri she’s eager to finally have sex. I couldn’t just sit next to her, knowing she wants it, and not make a move.”

“Ok, I know, but be careful,” my wife relented surprisingly quickly.

“Sure. Don’t worry. Did you tell Giang that we will have sex, though, if she wants to?”

“Ben, how can we talk about this?! I can’t tell her that she will have sex with uncle Ben once a month from now on, can I?”

“Well, why not?” I asked rhetorically, before I summarized my point again: “I definitely don’t want us to go over her head in such an important, delicate matter. I know you think she isn’t the smartest, but I would prefer we put all the cards on the table.”

“Ben, sex is a huge taboo in Vietnam, as you know, especially among women. We can’t talk about these things with family. The best thing would be if you try to have a good time together and if it happens, it happens,” my wife urged me. “Giang has promised to stop masturbating, by the way, if she can spend an afternoon with you once in a while,” she added.

As I truly felt we had talked enough and didn’t want the whole thing to be cancelled the last minute, I kept still, even though I had more questions—like, when did she have her period the last time? But, in the end, I just gave in to the dynamics of life and began to look forward to seeing my young niece with the perfect figure, who probably instinctively knew already what the whole thing was about.

Admittedly, I also felt a bit queasy about meeting Giang. Releasing pressure with her was one of the best things I could imagine, but she didn’t speak English, while my Vietnamese was too weak to truly hold a conversation. So what could we do? I couldn’t really just wave her through to the bedroom and undress immediately, even though—knowing her—she may have even liked it. My wife had proposed to look at the 300 photos we had of our engagement and wedding parties. Giang could tell me who was who in the photos, my wife suggested.

My wife obviously didn’t want to be at home that day and just told me that her mother would deliver Giang to our house before she left. I clipped my fingernails, took a shower and shaved, even though whiskers would have been conducive to what we were going to do. Well, maybe next time. I promised myself to not overdo it and save a few things for the second time she’d come to my house. I still needed to find out when her last period was, though. But I liked the idea with the photos, which would give us some sort of basis. I had also bought ice-cream, which we could eat while we’re looking at the pictures. And, yes, sooner or later, we would probably end up in the bedroom.

Around noon, someone honked outside. Giang was sitting behind her mother on their motorcycle and was getting off when I opened the gate. I asked her mother if she wanted to come inside for a minute, but she only shook her head and quickly took off. As we were standing outside, I knew the neighbors would start gossiping the same afternoon, but running inside would only have betrayed us. So I just smiled and asked her to follow me inside, where I pointed at the large wooden sofa for her to sit down.

Giang was wearing brick-colored shorts and a dark-green T-shirt, under which I could sense her bra. Her shorts were tailored generously and not super short, but quite. Her thighs looked marvelous, and I have to admit I got an immediate erection. I asked her if she wanted some ice-cream but she declined a little sheepishly, saying:

“Not now.”

“Iced tea or a Pepsi?” I asked again, as I felt I needed to offer her something.

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” she said shyly and shook her head.

I still went back to the kitchen to get me a water but when I got back to the living room, she had sat down in the armchair, which offered only enough room for one person. What was I going to do now? My wife had said to ‘take it easy’. OK. ‘Perhaps it is already enough when a seasoned man spends time with her.’ Hmh. With all her horniness, I needed to remember that she was still a virgin, as far as we all knew. And this afternoon could set the course and the tone for the rest of her life.

As I was pondering our options, standing next to her, she got up and sat down on the large armrest of the chair. Well, that was a stroke of genius because, that way, we would sit even closer together than the sofa would have allowed us. So, I sat down in the armchair, and her gorgeous thighs were basically next to my left arm. ‘Sometimes, dreams do come true’, I thought to myself. I put the water down on the stool to the right and reached for the photo album on the table. And, sure enough, she immediately leaned onto my left shoulder, so that she wouldn’t fall off the chair.

Her skin smelled amazing. Or was it her hair, which was partially dyed and gleaming? Giang had attached her bangs to her hair with a silver hairpin on one side, and her bun was close to my nose. Her mouth was, yes, open again but she didn’t seem nervous or tense. We were browsing the album with the engagement photos, which I hadn’t looked at for a long time. To make a little conversation, I once in a while asked her who was who, even though I sometimes already knew the answer.

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