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Hot Girl motorcycle
She told herself to ignore the urges; they would go away. First time in Asia, her first time out of the U. A year on, she let herself out the gate to her little house, into the little alleyway, and sat down to have a coffee at the local street stall. It had become a comforting routine now. Ellen would sip the sweet mocha concoction made with syrupy black coffee and thick condensed milk, smoke her single, time-allotted cigarette, and read the day-old International Herald Tribune. As she sat there on one of the low plastic stools in the cool shade of an age-scarred wall, her neighbors would trundle by down the narrow alley, treating her now as if she had been there always. She winked at the child. Ellen would get up, pay the equivalent of fifteen cents for her coffee, and walk to the mouth of the alley to catch a motorcycle taxi to the Language Institute. For months it was the same guy, Binh. On seeing her approach, he would shift from his languid position, draped over the frame of his bike, and start it up. Ellen would greet him, hop on the back and steel herself for the chaotic ride to work through the morning traffic. One morning in late September, after following the same predictable routine, Ellen walked to the corner. Instead a stranger, wearing a faded blue cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a pair of trousers two sizes too big, had usurped his place. He kicked the bike off its stand and smiled at her. You go to the Language Institute, yes? Ellen looked at him perplexed; unkind irritation bubbled up inside her. After so long, the routine that she had come to expect and rely on had suddenly and unfairly been smashed into nonsense. The main street at the mouth of the alley was a riot of bicycles, motorbikes and the odd car. Perhaps she should take a taxi, she thought. She glanced at her watch: A taxi would be too slow in this traffic. She looked back at the stranger, taking in his shabby flip-flops and dirty feet, examining his clothes again and finally staring him in the face. In her own country, the inspection would be considered downright rude; here it was normal. He tilted his head. You might be a bad driver. He looked down and finally nodded his head, kicking the bike to life. Xe oms were just one step up from the cheaper and slower cyclo—the three-wheeled bicycle taxis that ferried people and goods around the city—and the drivers held corresponding social positions. A cyclo driver was the Vietnamese equivalent of a street person in the West. Passengers never hugged the xe om driver. They pulled into the torrent of traffic, weaving their way between the other vehicles, passing a motorized aviary, live chickens flapping and clucking, hanging upside down by their scaly feet. Ellen tensed and held her breath as they drove within inches of two girls on a Honda carrying panes of plate glass between them on the seat. Suddenly, he gunned the engine to take a corner onto a small side-street. Saigon was a warren of tiny alleyways and winding one way streets. She was unable to tell whether he was telling the truth or not. They pulled to a stop at red light. He turned his head, giving her his profile. It was angular and exotic, skin stretched across his face so tight that it seemed a single cut might peel it open. I will get you to school early. He laughed and revved the engine again. Also, you talk like a teacher, foreigner or not. He pulled to an abrupt stop out in front of the school gates, causing her to slide forward on the seat. Her head jerked, narrowly missing his shoulder. Ellen rummaged in her pocked and took out some curled up bills, counting them out. He took the bills and nodded. Now you know me. She threw him a stern look and turned on her heel, walking through the gates. Cheeky bastard, she thought. She leafed through the day-old meager paper and smoked her one miserly cigarette. It was the new guy again. He stood and kicked the bike to life. Why am I even quibbling over a lousy ten cents? But his informal tone irked her. I only know you a little. Ellen stared at him, not understanding the gesture. She handed him the bag and he nestled it between his legs, hooking the strap over the handlebars to secure it. It only held exercise books, after all. Where was the harm? His full lips curved into a lopsided smile. She climbed on behind him and, as they pulled into the familiar and chaotic stream, she got the keen sense that something was missing. Then it hit her: Awkwardly, she edged along the seat backwards, widening the space between them. As he drove, she looked at his shirt. Today it was white cotton and frayed a little at the collar. But it gleamed bright in the sunlight against the ochre-colored skin of his neck. Above it, his hair was neatly clipped to bristle at the back and sides, curving over the bones of his skull which disappeared under a jet black mop on the top, a little like an Eton crop. Ellen peeked over his shoulder at the traffic ahead of them and caught a whiff of something delicious; it was the clean, tangy smell of warm skin. She stared at the side of his neck and, quite unexpectedly, got a vivid flash: He broke hard and Ellen skidded forward on the seat, sliding into his back with all her weight and, for a second, the scent overwhelmed her. She looked up and realized she had missed the whole journey. They were at the school gate. She scrambled off the bike feeling sheepish and plunged her hand into her pocket for the fare. She walked down the paved path to the main building, the hot, fresh smell of his skin still lingering in her mind, making her mouth water and her nipples ache. A year was too long— way too long to be without a boyfriend. Footsteps pounded the pavement behind her. Someone was running, perhaps late for class. It snapped her out of her daze. Ellen watched him go before walking on. This close to the equator, there were perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes of twilight before it got dark. Ellen chatted with some of her students as she strolled towards the gates, on her way home. Ellen could hardly believe her eyes. Balancing on the seat like a snake charmer, barefoot and cross-legged, he stood and slid his feet into the flip-flops. Kicking the bike to life, he plopped off the curb and pulled up in front of her. Ellen shoved her hands in her pockets, taken aback. Ellen sighed and climbed. The air was cooling down now and the traffic was thinning. She was relieved not to have to endure the smell of his skin again. The aroma of cooking overpowered everything else and made her mouth water. At every stop light, as the bike idled, she felt the rumble of the engine beneath her more acutely. It built as he geared up into third and sped down past the banana market, intensifying exponentially. Somehow and with no possible rationale, she was scared to death that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and feeling. Her arousal was so powerful she was convinced it could seep through her pores and betray itself to the man next to her. She scolded herself harshly and silently: What the hell is wrong with you? But the quiet desperation of the urges grew unabated. Her heart was thudding against her ribs and a creeping heat flushed over her skin. The bike screeched to a halt. She fell forward, her breasts crushed against his back, her hands clawing at his shirt for balance. The impact pushed the air out of her in a sharp gasp that must have seemed like a roar in his ear; her mouth was pressed against it. Fuck, he does this on purpose, she thought in a moment of clarity.
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