“You can take one of these girls home with you, if you wish,” I said to my brother Paul. I was being provocative and playful. My brother inherited a lot of the puritanical from our father. I’m more like our mother.

He looked at me with more apprehension than disapproval. “Rachel, please, I couldn’t do that.”

I reached across the table and patted him on the arm and said with a laugh in my voice, “I wouldn’t be offended. Believe me, all the men fuck bar girls in Thailand.”

Paul turned red with embarrassment. I realized that my brother, now nineteen years old, was uncomfortable with the subject of sex and the word “fuck.” I waved away the two scantily-clad Thai bar girls hovering over him. Paul was a sophomore at a small religious college. He had a more conservative outlook on life than I did.

We were sitting at a table in a sidewalk cafe on a narrow street in the beach resort of Pattaya. I was eating a plate of noodles and drinking a bottled beer and Paul was doing likewise, although with less enthusiasm. Hundreds of people on “Walking Street” flowed by where we sat. Young women were everywhere, some standing in front of the bars and massage parlors soliciting customers; others, freelancers, drifted along the street inviting attention, advertising their willingness with smiles and come-on eyes.

Among the women were men of every size, shape, age, and skin color: Americans and Europeans dressed in shorts and t-shirts; groups of polite and puzzled Japanese and Chinese; Thai touts and delivery boys, riding motorcycles and navigating around pedestrians. Walking Street was illuminated by garish neon signs advertising the “Happy a Go-Go,” the “Fantasy Massage Parlor,” and a hundred other businesses devoted to sex, food, and drink. I loved it! Walking Street had a pleasant sleaziness and open sexuality that appealed to me – and it was mostly safe, even for a farang (white) woman like me.

We finished our beer and noodles in silence and I asked, “Should we go back to our cabin? Or do you want to cruise the street?”

“Let’s go back,” he answered. “It’s been a long day.” It had been. Paul had arrived from the United States earlier that day. I had met him at the airport and we drove to Pattaya, one hour away via a chaotic six-lane highway. I was driving a BMW. Given our modest upbringing in Kansas, that was surprising to him. The car belonged to Tim, my mother Maggie’s friend and occasional lover. When I took my monthly week-long break from working in a refugee camp up-country, I stayed in Tim’s house in Bangkok with him and my mother. Tim loaned me the car to take my brother to Pattaya and introduce him to Thailand. This was Paul’s first trip out of the United States.

We would stay for two nights in Pattaya. The beach cabin belonged to Doug, another friend and occasional lover of my mother. Mom began her adult life as a preacher’s wife, but now she worked with an organization that helped refugees. She got me the job in the refugee camp after I graduated from college.

I fervently hope that when I am Mom’s age I still attract men as she does. I am polyamorous. Back in the States during my senior year in college, I had sexual relationships with three different men, all of whom were aware of the others and all of whom also had other sexual partners. Being polyamorous doesn’t mean, however, that I sleep with every man I meet. I’ve fucked only one man in the four months I’ve been in Thailand. My boy friend is about six-feet six inches in height, a basketball player, a graduate of an Ivy League University, and as black as a moonless night. He has a penis as long and skinny as he is. (Apologies for that – but this is a sex story!) Exotic appeals to me.

The beach cabin was a small, shingled house separated from the calm waters of the Gulf of Thailand by a yellow-sand beach. The house was shaded by coconut palms and surrounded by a hedge of red-flowered hibiscus. It had two stories. The first story consisted of a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and screened porch; the second story had two bedrooms. A shower was outside. The shower was half-surrounded by a chest-high plank wall on three sides and a missing door on the other side. Doug had not replaced the door because he, my mother, and the other people who used the beach house were not offended by the sight of a nude person in the shower.

I mention the shower because next morning I was showering when Paul walked out the back door of the beach house onto the brick terrace and saw me through the open side of the shower. He turned away quickly and muttered, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

I didn’t react in panic by covering my breasts and bush with my hands or turning away and trying to curl myself into a ball. “It’s a body with the same parts as all other bodies. No need to hide it.” I had taught myself to be unashamed when naked. Moreover, I’m proud of my body: large, pointy nipples, B-cup breasts, a narrow waist and hips, and long slender legs. My face isn’t bad either. My nose is a bit long, my lips a little thin, my eyes are mud-colored, but I have thick, straight light brown hair that now hung wetly over my shoulders down to the curve of my breasts.

I didn’t turn away from Paul. “Hand me that towel,” I requested. I pointed at the large beach towel hanging on a hook next to the shower. I turned off the shower.

He sidled up to the towel, his gaze avoiding my naked body standing before him. He extended a hand with the towel. I took the towel from him. “Why don’t you make me a cup of coffee while I dry myself,” I said. “Black, no sugar.” He turned away and went inside the cabin, his gaze still avoiding me. I wrapped the towel around myself. It reached from the top of my breasts to nearly my knees. I stepped out of the shower and sat down in a chair beside a table on the terrace.

A minute later Paul came out of the cabin onto the terrace, two cups of coffee in his hands. “Sorry, Paul,” I said. “I didn’t intend for you to see that show.”

His ears were still red with embarrassment. He set the coffee cups down on the table and sat down. “I, I…” he stuttered, “You’re really grown up...uh...beautiful.”

I laughed. “You’ve turned out pretty good yourself.” Paul was tall and dark haired, slender but muscular. I leaned forward, holding the towel against my chest (heaven forbid it should slip!) and kissed his cheek. He started with embarrassment.

“Do you have a girl friend?” I asked.

“No. I’ve never had a real girl friend. I’ve had a few dates, but nothing resulted.”

“You’re too shy. Just ask – and the girls will go out with you.”

“I’m not comfortable around women.”

“You’re comfortable with me, aren’t you? That is, if I have clothes on.” I laughed and he joined in.

“I was shocked. I apologize for over-reacting.”

“It wasn’t very flattering to me that you tried not to look,” I said with an arch smile and a wink. “I’m going to work on finding you a girlfriend. Are you still a virgin?”

“I am,” he admitted, after a long pause. “How about you, Miss all grown-up woman of the world?”

I answered him. “No! I got fucked the day I graduated from high school. Andy. Remember him? We fucked like bunnies all summer long..” Paul turned red. I apologized. “Oh, now I’ve embarrassed you again.” I stood up, holding the towel against my breasts. “I’m going to get dressed, fix us breakfast, and then we can go snorkeling. Good coral. Lots of fish. We’ll rent a boat.”

Paul had a big smile on his face. His embarrassment faded. His eyes strayed to my chest and down my body, all the way to my knees, looking at me as a woman, not a sister. I wasn’t sure how I should feel about that. Maybe I had provoked him too much.

***

We came back to the cabin in the afternoon, hot, tired, and burned by the sun. It had been a wonderful day of snorkeling together amid all the glory of the reef, drinking beer and eating fresh fish for lunch.

I’m going to take a nap,” I announced. I waved to Paul as I climbed the stairs to a bedroom.

The bedroom was hot, made more comfortable by a sea breeze coming through the screened windows and the coconut palms shading out the sun. I lay down on the bed naked and was instantly asleep.

Later, as I was waking up, there was a knock on the door. “Rachel?” It was Paul. “I’d like to go for a walk on the beach.”

I looked outside. The sun was low on the horizon, but it was still hot. “Wait a while,” I said, “until it gets cooler and I’ll go with you. Meanwhile, why don’t you bring me a beer.”

“Coming right up.” I heard his footsteps as he went down the stairs and again as he came up. “Here’s your beer. Shall I come in?”

I pulled the sheet on the bed up to my neck and said, “Yes, come in.”

Paul walked in with two cans of beer in his hands. He was shirtless, bare-footed, wearing only a pair of shorts. He handed me a can of beer.

“Sit down and talk to me. I’m still sleepy.” I patted the side of the bed and he sat down, his hips touching my legs which were covered by the sheet. “Do you remember that I used to sit on your bed and talk to you when you were sad or worried?”

He smiled down at me while I stretched luxuriously and then raised my head to take a sip of beer. I was careful to hold the sheet to my chest to keep my tits covered. “We were close then. We’ve grown apart. I miss having you take care of me as my big sister.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

I raised my arms to embrace him and felt the sheet slip away from my tits. I tried to pull the sheet up to cover myself again. Turning my head to look into his eyes, I said, “I’m sorry we haven’t kept up with each other.”

He leaned over me and I felt his head resting on my chest. “Just like I used to do,” he said.

I ran my fingers through his hair while I pondered the situation. “This is getting a little intense,” I told myself. “Have I aroused him from his sexual slumbers?” His hot breath was on the side of my face and I felt the friction of the hair on his chest against my tits. I gently pushed him off me and pulled the sheet over my bare breasts. “Let’s finish our beers and then take that walk on the beach you’ve been talking about,” I said. “I’ll put on a swimsuit.”

His expression was disappointment as he stood up, took another look at me sitting on the bed, and then turned and walked out of the room. “I’m ready to go whenever you are,” he said.

“Leave the door open. It’s cooler that way. That will let the wind through the house.” I could feel a rivulet of sweat running down the cleft between my breasts from the warmth of his body pressed against me.

We walked on the empty beach and sat on the sand and watched the sun set. It was glorious. I rose to my feet and reached for his hand. “Let’s go swimming.” I led him into the gentle surf and we played in the water, splashing, chasing and tackling each other. We were children again.

As we walked back to the cabin, I asked him, “Would you like to go bar-hopping again, or shall I fix dinner at home?”

“Let’s stay in.”

I showered again quickly. I hate the feel of salt and sand on my skin. I put on the one dress I own in Thailand. It was a flowery sun dress with spaghetti straps over the shoulders. It billows out at the waist and reaches almost to the top of my knees. It had a low neckline and I pondered wearing a bra. “But, what the hell, it was a dress designed to be worn sans bra in the permissive atmosphere of a beach resort. He’s my brother, and we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

I fried fresh fish for our dinner and served it with rice and a fruit salad. I was aware when I leaned over to serve him at the table that my tits were exposed. I don’t usually worry about my tits, but tension hovered over us. I wished he had taken my suggestion the previous night to pick up a bar girl downtown. She would give him a lesson in love-making! And next morning I could practice speaking Thai with her over breakfast. Double benefit for one price! Ha!

We took another walk after dinner, he in his shorts and t-shirt, me in my sun dress. When we returned we kissed goodnight and went to our rooms. I took off my dress, turned the light off, and lay down on my bed. Without air conditioning, I sleep naked in Thailand. It would get cooler before morning and I would pull a sheet over myself.

I had fallen asleep when I heard a knock on the door, then another, and Paul’s voice saying, “Rachel, Rachel.”

I sat upright in bed. Had something gone wrong? “Yes, I’m here.”

“Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, of course. Come in.” It was a moonless night and pitch dark in the room. I didn’t bother to cover myself up.

Paul crept into the room, felt his way across the room, and sat down at the foot of my bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m having a panic attack. I’m scared.”

“What scares you?”

“This whole scene. I’ve never been in a foreign country – or anywhere. I can’t speak the language; the food is strange; I don’t know where I am or what I should do. I was in bed worrying what I would do if I got separated from you.”

I reached out a hand to rest on his shoulder. He was shirtless. “Don’t worry, little brother. It’s culture shock. You’ll get over it. And we won’t be separated. We’ll stick together like glue.”

“I just need to talk to you.”

“Talk. I’m here. As long as you need me.” It had never occurred to me to introduce Paul to Thailand slowly and carefully. Instead I had hauled him to Pattaya, introduced him to its riotous and scandalous nightlife, fed him noodles so spicy they made your nose itch and your mouth burn, displayed my naked body to him and joked about it, and even suggested that he hook up for the night with an exotic bar girl. It was sensory overload.

“I need to relax a little; I’m so tense; I don’t think I can sleep tonight.”

“Would it help if you stayed here with me?”

“I don’t want you to have to put up with my misery.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve had to put up with you. Lay down. I’ll give you a back massage – and if you go to sleep here, that’s fine. I don’t mind. Lay on your stomach and try to relax. I’ll be back in a second.” I picked my way through the dark to the closet, reached inside, and found a pair of shorts and a button-up blouse. I put them on and then walked back to the bed.

Paul was lying on his stomach. I sat beside him and began rubbing his back, talking to him at the same time. “Om mani padme hummm. Hummm. Breathe in. Now out. Focus on relaxing those muscles. That’s right.”

I continued. “I’m going to straddle you and massage all of your back.”

“Where did you learn to do this? And what’s that hummm?”

“Buddhist. They probably didn’t teach you that at your college.” I sat down on his thighs and ran my hands up and down his back from neck to buttocks.

“It feels good.”

“Relax, relax, hmmm.” I felt his muscles grow looser under my touch. “Turn over on your back and I’ll do your chest and arms and face.” I got off him as he turned over and then sat down on his groin. I could feel his penis. He was hard. I leaned over to press on his eyes and cheeks, down to his neck, each of his arms, his chest, and down to his belly button. He spread-eagled, his hands on my hips as I worked on his body. Through the cloth of his shorts and mine, his penis was grinding into my groin.

“Is that enough?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you, I feel much better.” He moved his hands up from my hips to my waist, beneath my untucked blouse, touching my skin, his touch light and tentative.

I leaned down over him and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, let’s go to sleep. You can stay here. I don’t mind.” I rolled off him and lay at his side, our bodies touching. His hand on my waist moved upward over my ribs, toward my breasts, unencumbered beneath the light-weight blouse.

I must have flinched, because he pulled his hand away and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“No harm done. Let’s go to sleep now.” I kissed him on the cheek and said, “I love you, baby brother,” then turned away from him and rolled over on my side. Things were getting a little too hot and heavy for me. “For Christ’s sake, he’s your brother. Get a grip on yourself,” I thought.

I attributed my responsiveness to a sexual drought. I hadn’t had sex in almost a month. Ordinarily,...