A

lust

I land in Hanoi on a Tuesday around lunch-time.

That same evening, I am supposed to go out with a Vietnamese woman I had a promising phone-call with the week before.

But she forgets about our date. We delay it until tomorrow.

I don’t let that ruin my first night in Vietnam and fix a Tinder date.

She arrives half an hour late. Her angelic face is powdered white and she’s wearing a tight black dress and high heels. She picks the restaurant. We can only talk through Google Translate. While she’s serving my plate, I notice a foreigner and a Vietnamese girl sitting behind me using the translator as well.

I pay the bill. She wants to go to a bar nearby. Something’s off.

She orders drinks. I awkwardly catch the eyes of the guy who was sitting behind me at dinner and is now at the table next to ours. The waiter shows me the bill: a bottle of Jäegermeister, a Gin & Tonic, a cocktail, and sparkling water. I hesitate before taking my credit card. Then I walk out—alone.

That was close.

Wednesday comes, and I’m excited to finally meet A. We are texting during the day to make plans. One hour before we are supposed to meet, I ask her if she wants me to pick her up. She replies confused saying she thought I had cancelled the date because of some kind of misunderstanding between us in the chat. I try to straighten the situation: “I didn’t mean it that way. Can you still make it?”

“Yes. Let me just get ready quickly.”

We’re just going to be one hour late.

I pick her up in a taxi. The driver takes us to a Vietnamese restaurant.

We get to know each other. Then, she suggests going to the balcony and I light her super slim while she’s holding a glass of Pinot Noir.

The air feels light. She asks: “Why did you break-up?”

“We grew apart. She wanted safety. I wanted adventure.” I also tell her about my decision not to have children and the vasectomy that followed.

She says: “I want to have an open relationship with my next boyfriend. All men cheat anyway.” I tell her about the open marriage with my ex.

“Does this mean there is not going to be a second date?”

“Let’s not have any expectations,” she says. The air becomes even lighter. “As a woman, I can’t just announce that I’m looking for casual encounters without expecting any consequences.”

We are waiting for dessert. I suggest another cigarette on the balcony.

She is passionately talking about the design projects she’s working on. I’m barely listening. I keep watching how she holds her cigarette as if it’s an extension of her fingers. She sometimes glides her hand smoothly through her tiny curls. And every time she says something, her face is getting closer and closer to mine.

I can’t help myself and kiss her.

We finish the bottle of red wine, and neither of us wants to go for another drink. I ask her if she wants to come to my place which is really close to the restaurant.

She sits with her legs bent to one side on the small couch in the corner, her nicotine vape in hand, while I’m observing her from my bed.

We are drunk and high. The tension builds as she’s making me fight for her trust.

I pull her into bed. We kiss. My hand slides towards her breasts but she resists. I keep kissing her and work my hands before she allows for more.

And then, she let go.

She’s going up and down, her eyes are closed, as if she’s dancing to the beats of a song and enjoying the lyrics. Time is non-existent. Our minds are offline. There are only feelings and emotions and movements.

The lovemaking is more enjoyable than the actual fucking.

I can barely remember her body viscerally. The pot we smoked on the balcony before sex blurred my memory. I wish I could have recorded the whole experience in more detail. But it felt like some kind of premature love, even if it was just for one night. Or maybe it was pure lust, which is love without the past.

The day after, I figure there probably won’t be a second date.

confessions

But I try anyway: “Would you join me for a weekend somewhere in nature? I think we could really have fun together. And I don’t want to overthink it.”

“I’ve never travelled with a stranger before. Travelling together sounds super exciting but scary at the same time. Like…I only met you once”

We are texting back and forth for a few days. I’m not sure she’s actually going to come, but I keep asking. She warns me that she is going to be on her period and nothing can happen that weekend. I want to go with her anyway.

Finally, she agrees.

It’s Saturday. I’m trying to arrange a scooter. I didn’t bring my international driving permit, so I ask her if she can help. She thinks going by scooter is a bad idea. So I try to rent a car. Again, I ask for some support. She takes it the wrong way: “I’m feeling a bit weird…Did you invite me on this trip because I have a scooter and because I can drive a car?”

“Are you serious? Of course not. I just thought it would be simpler to get there with your license.”

“Simpler to use my labor?”

She was about to let me go on my own, hungry, and wondering.

I don’t overthink it and call her.

She’s coming.

I hire a driver last minute. Just before he arrives, I run around the neighbourhood to look for flowers. I buy the first ones I see from a street vendor. Then I realize they’re too plain and find a nicer store. I also buy a box of chocolates.

Once we both sit in the car, I ask about her week. She says she’s glad to finally relax, and leave that week’s tasks behind. I give her the flowers. She smiles.

While we drive out of the city, the landscape changes and the mood changes with it. I grab her hand and can tell by the strength of her grip that we are OK.

The cabin is nicer than I expected.

We sit outside for most of the time chatting and smoking pot. It’s easier to be honest when you both know there is no future.

She explains her recent break-up with a guy who kept living in the same building, up until a week ago. She felt obligated to keep paying his rent since he had no income. She adds: “I want a man to start a family with. Someone who can be a provider.”

The bottle of wine is empty and the lake in front of us is starting to disappear in the black of the night.

It’s almost 11 p.m. She steps into the shower while I fill the tub. I watch her rinse.

I light candles and place them next to the tub. I put on calm music. We get in. Nothing is awkward. We’ve already seen each other naked before, but this time, I want to remember every inch of her body.

She sits across me, her legs spread and stretched out, resting on mine so that I can fondle them slowly while we’re talking. Sometimes, my hand ventures patiently along her inner thigh, closer and closer to her sex.

Nothing is lacking and nothing is in excess. We soak in that tub for at least two hours.

Confessing our secrets had become a kind of game we played. I tell her about the sex club I visited with my ex and blurt out: “I might be slightly addicted to sex.”

She looks at me with naughty eyes, then says: “Oh really?”

She gets up and invites me to go to bed with her.

All desires are unleashed. I pull her tiny curls and her moaning gets louder and louder while my sweat is dripping on her ass. We do it on the bed, then she gets up and pulls me to the sofa. We take a break, she smokes another joint, and we do it again after. Then she asks me to take off the condom. I come inside her.

We wake up a bit groggy around 10:30 a.m. Have sex again. This time short and sweet. We pack our stuff and go out for a fancy lunch and a short walk at the lake.

The driver returns us home.

tenderness

We return on a Sunday, the day before my flight. She invites me to stay at her studio—in the building where the ghost of her ex used to dwell.

That day feels like any other casual Sunday. She feeds her cat and does laundry. Then, she starts rolling her joint of the day: “Guess the top three things I like most about you.”

She likes that I’ve been honest with her.

We’re watching a disappointing movie while lying glued to each other, her head leaning on my left arm. Sometimes, she drapes her leg over mine. Her cat is lying on the opposite corner of the bed.

“I’m planning to go back to France for a summer vacation. Maybe you could join?”

The morning after, I leave early. The goodbye is short and kind of awkward at first. Neither of us knows how to do it right. But then, when I’m almost leaving her apartment, she runs to the door and jumps on me, embracing me very tightly with her legs curled around my waist.

Going down in the elevator, I feel like descending from an impossible dream.