When I re-enter the steam filled sauna a few minutes later and settle myself again, with them seating on my right of the C shape sauna benches, and take in her gorgeous naked body, almost flawless silky smooth skin, her slender but curvaceous and tall frame with long legs parted slightly to the air and propped up above the lower stoop of the benches, her firm and the conical breasts and dark tuft of pubic, not your untended big bush of sprouty curls grown out in each every direction, but a carefully groomed and manicured slim black patch laid down like a narrow runway, did I have a sudden déjà vu.

Must have been over a year or even two ago, perhaps not too long after I had moved into my apartment complex when I frequented sauna on a regular basis that I had encountered three women entering the cabin, of what I perceived to be three generations. Still pretty and dignified, the oldest one must have been in her late fifties or even well preserved early sixties, with still firm breasts, if drooping ever so slightly, flat stomach and her pubic area not so shiny and smooth, but dry and brittle like dark saffron. Sitting next to her was Marion. The youngest one I thought to be possibly her daughter first, turns out to be her older sister’s daughter. The girl in her early puberty with mosquito bite of breasts and just a furry fuzz between her legs. The image I have never forgotten. A classic study in the generational evolution of the human female anatomy. I was amazed at how natural and comfortable they were in their nudity and unconscious sitting there together in the middle of mix company. I remember even having had a conversation with them, and the oldest one having introduced herself along with her daughter and the grand daughter. And I remembered the name Marion Jaspers.

No wonder it rang the bell. But for the life of me, since the earlier encounter while crossing the street, I just couldn’t remember where and when I had seen her. But now that she sat there in direct line of my vision, that slender body, the conical breasts and a long strip of pubic confirmed that it was the same Marion Jaspers I had met and talked to. For some reason, neither of us mention the encounter of a year or two a go. She tells me that the young man with her is her brother, and that it’s their sister who lives here in Munich but they are actually from Holland and are just visiting. That answered her permanent and natural tan and that of rest of her family’s. Probably the result of some frolicking between the Dutch and the colonial Indonesians of some generations past.

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks       

Related Stories

THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

HUNTING FOR THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

MY SWEET LORD

THE TALES OF TWO PLAYMATES

The Site

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ON FRIDAY, JANUARY 24, 2014

WHO’S EVER SEEN GOD?

One thing I always shy away from during all my travels is visiting churches, let alone actually attend a mass. Even though our real destination that Sunday is to spend the afternoon at Cuernavaca’s world famous Las Mañanitas garden restaurant, our publisher in Mexico, Carlos Civita wants us to first attend the mass at Catedral de la Asunción de María. And I am glad we did.

Pages: 1 2 3