Breeding the Help

This story is based on real events in my life. All characters are 18 or older. This is the conclusion of Breeding the Help.

*****

How true love waited after impregnating my family's young Filipino maid.

Bangkok, Thailand June 1997

The long black and yellow-trimmed polyester gown was stifling as I sat in the middle of three rows on the stage of the large school gymnasium along with my peers. Our tassels swayed gently as we were subjected to the final ritual of high school -- graduation. The walls of the gym, usually filled with the resounding thuds of basketballs and the echoing screeches of rubber shoes against the wooden floor, quietly reverberated with the droning platitudes of the head of school and the board chair. Yellow and black banners hung from the ceiling, framing the giant golden Hanuman medallion behind us. I never understood why the school's logo was a fucking monkey when the mascot was a panther. I sweated under the hot glare of the industrial pendant lights above as I stared straight ahead into the packed audience behind the student orchestra. A few rows ahead, all the faculty were seated. My eyes kept getting drawn to the top of Coach Venables' bald head, gleaming with sweat.

Everyone's parents were there, mine included. Although he'd managed to get himself into a suit and tie, my father's face was blotched and ruddy from the alcohol he'd pregamed graduation with; probably to get through sitting next to my mother. Mom had gussied herself up with her best Prada silk sheath dress, a bone-white thing that complimented all the jewelry and the French twist and French nails she flaunted. Mother kept looking back over at her Foundation friends in the audience, beaming and waving with the plastic, social smile she reserved for her public. She was so fucking proud, like this was

her

day. My parents looked like the perfect rich expatriate couple, but the tight, pinched look on my mother's face when she wasn't pining for attention and my father's constant fidgeting made it clear that the ugly tension between them was very real.

My father kept fiddling with his Rolex, probably planning his next drink or something. He tried to surreptitiously touch my mom's hand while it rested in her lap, but she jerked it away, glaring daggers at him and hissing something venomous through her teeth before the porcelain mask went back up. Dad didn't react, his expression stoic, eyes distant.

I glared hatefully at my mother. She'd made a cruel comment as she helped me into my gown, fussing over me so I'd look perfect.

"Look at you,

Princeton

," Mother had sighed with relief and self-aggrandizement as she fixed my lapels in the afternoon. "Oh silly boy, we did it," she'd said with a little vulpine look of triumph. "Of course I spoke with the dean of admissions at Hôtel du Cap last December -- we're old friends, naturally. She was willing to overlook all your..."

That deflated my teenage ego like nothing else. I fucking loathed my mother. I wished the ground would open up and swallow her for that, Old Testament-style. I'd almost accepted Duke instead, just to spite her, but Princeton's old money bullshit and connections were my best chance at a good life for Maria and our unborn kids.

I'd do it for them.

Maria was the only person who I wished was there for me. She was the one who'd supported me through everything, who'd pushed me to be better. It wouldn't have mattered who Mother was friends with if I'd stayed at the 2.6 GPA I'd had last year and wasn't at a 3.3 now. Without Maria? I'd probably have dropped out of school or worse. This was her moment as much as it was mine.

Instead, our 24-year-old Filipina maid was back at our villa, heavily pregnant with my illicit twins. At 8 months along, she was unbelievably sexy and so massively pregnant, her belly now approaching the size of a beach ball but slightly more oblong, protruding from her petite frame in such an obscenely arousing and feminine way. Her belly button stuck out from the tapered end of her abdomen, larger than ever. I don't know if it was from the raging hormones near the end of her pregnancy or the attention my hands and mouth were giving them every day, but Maria's breasts were even larger, swollen in preparation for two hungry mouths. Her dusky nipples engorged and perpetually stiff and eager, milk leaking all over her tits whenever she wasn't wearing her nursing bra and pads. Our maid's hips had widened to accommodate her growing belly and the new weight her petite 5'0 Asian body had accumulated in preparation for birth.

But besides her belly and breasts, Maria was just as lithe and slinky as ever, making her expectant form so incredibly erotic. Her hairy Filipina cunt was so swollen and puffy, her folds permanently plumped and parted, her clit erect and peeking out from the top of her labia, always moist with the slick juices her pregnancy was oozing. It was more of a broodmare cunt now than ever before, crowned with her black fur, fat lips pouted out with their deep, dark color.

It was such a fucking turn-on. I couldn't keep my hands off her, and my mare couldn't wait for my big white cock to fill her and quench her need. At this late stage of her pregnancy, when my parents weren't around we couldn't keep our clothes on, and Maria couldn't help herself from dropping down onto her knees and sucking my cock, or getting on all fours, presenting her ass and cunt, ready to take me.

The thought made me hard under my graduation gown as I sat there and the endless bloviating dragged on.

I was crazy in love with Maria, with her body, with her. She wasn't just our housekeeper to me anymore -- she was my secret wife, the mother of my unborn children, my sexy Asian lover, the only person who understood me -- my everything. And she was waiting for me.

Every minute of this felt like agony. I just wanted high school to be over forever.

We hadn't even gotten through the head of school's opening speech yet. I guess it was supposed to be poignant and inspiring or something. Most of my peers were listening with rapt attention, but with the birth of my twins so close, graduation felt more like dragging myself across the finish line than the momentous-ass occasion in my life it should have been.

"...and as you step into the world beyond these walls, I can only hope you'll carry forward the legacy of this great institution--a legacy that has been shaped, in no small part, by the leadership here, who have stood on the shoulders of giants. We bear the torch..."

Jesus. Christ.

I'd smuggled in my Walkman, wearing my headphones around my neck under the collar of my gown. I fished out the headset with a hook of my finger and discretely nudged it up over my ears and sighed in relief as the speech was drowned out by top-shelf grunge.

'I don't care, I don't care, I don't care,

I don't care, I don't care, care if it's old

I don't mind, I don't mind, I don't mind

I don't mind, mind, don't have a mind

Get away, get away, get away goooo...'

No one seemed to notice with me in the second row. It was a subtle 'fuck you' to the institution I'd been trapped in, a brief rebellion against the oppressive, gilded system I'd been locked into since birth. After what felt like a lifetime, the head of school wrapped up his address and the board chair stepped in, followed by the high school principal and finally the class valedictorian, Margaux Bennett. Pretty-faced Margaux was a classic, prissy rich teenage white girl who'd worn her glasses today to look more sophisticated. She was part of the group of kids who had a prayer circle before every exam to ensure their academic success -- not like they really believed, just that they really wanted a good grade.

I didn't care what she had to say -- Margaux was a mean bitch who'd enjoyed bullying and belittling others who stumbled into her path, despite being so self-righteous and superficially religious. She didn't deserve valedictorian, but I'd learned early on that the wealthier and more powerful your parents were, the more shit you could get away with. Margaux was the fucking US Ambassador's daughter, of course, who was also on the school board. She was going to Harvard, where she'd probably be majoring in her father's credit cards.

'...Even if you have, even if you need

I don't mean to stare, we don't have to breed

We could plant a house, we could build a tree

I don't even care, we could have all three...'

After Margaux had her insufferably arrogant moment in the sun, the orchestra started playing the processional and our vaunted school leadership began giving out the diplomas. With a surname like Weiss, I'd be just about dead last, so I watched everyone else walk across the stage. My parents and their social circle were clapping politely as they called out the names and matriculation of their friends' children, furthering the competition between them. The students walked across in alphabetical order to the waiting principal and head of school, both older white guys in suits -- it was all highly choreographed. The head handed them their diploma, the principal gave a handshake, they smiled for the flash of a camera, and then shuffled back to the bleachers. The process repeated over and over.

I felt like I was melting into the ground; like my molecules were destabilizing from all the fucking pomp and circumstance.

"...Carlton Weiss, Princeton University."

The words registered, muffled by the music and the applause. Why'd they have to use my full name? I

hated

that shit. I took off my headphones and left them around my neck, slowly walking across the stage. My cheeks hurt from holding a smile and my palms were sweaty, but I did my best to keep my composure and play the role. Like an automaton, I took my diploma and shook hands. I could hear my mother's shrill harpy voice and my father's more subdued cheer in the background. Some of my friends whistled and shouted my name. I smiled for the camera, frozen in the moment. All I could think about was how some Native American tribes believed that taking a photograph stole your fucking soul.

I was more relieved than fulfilled as I walked back to the bleachers, but with the weight of the diploma in my hand, I finally felt like something important had transpired, like I'd been released from prison or something after a long stretch. It meant freedom, but it also meant I was hurtling towards an unknown future that I had no idea where Maria or our kids would fit in.

As our caps flew into the air and the gymnasium filled with rousing music from the orchestra and thunderous cheers and applause, all I could think about was getting back to her.

****

I said goodbye to my friends on the stage, which was bittersweet as hell. I realized through my own life's drama that I probably wouldn't see most of them again after this. Stepping over a carpet of fallen caps, we hugged, shook hands, slapped each other's backs, and took pictures together. There was this Foundation graduation banquet afterward that I was being forced to attend by my parents, but the real parties were happening downtown, with most of my friends going to either the Den or Anthony's house in Soi 55.

After that though? Vincent, Stephen, Chizzy, and Ralph had all talked about doing a trip to Hong Kong in a couple of weeks and crashing at Vince's parents' place there, but I'd been noncommittal. I was still figuring out how to spend the most of the dwindling time I had left with Maria. My parents hadn't asked what I wanted to do with the summer before Princeton yet, but they would soon. It was a shitty choice between my best friends of the last 4 years and Maria, and I couldn't be in two places at the same time. Like everything in the life of an expat kid, impermanence was the norm. People came and went -- you just had to enjoy the moments you could share before they were gone. I couldn't let that be Maria.

I suffered through one last ceremonial disgrace in the foyer of the school where the families were gathered. The staff released doves to flutter out into the dusk while the school choir sang R. Kelly's "I Believe I can Fly" from risers off to the side. We'd all changed out of our gowns into formal wear with boutonnieres corsages, holding paper plates with candles on them while our parents looked on.

Like debutantes or prized livestock, we were paraded around and constantly photographed. The Foundation families had their own area where their sons and daughters all looked so proud of themselves, like the world was at their feet.

"My boy!" Mother exclaimed, her face beaming, as she favored me with a rare, suffocating embrace. I reciprocated warily, noticing that Dad was hanging back near the reception area with the champagne fountain, helping himself.

"Oh, Carl, I'm so proud of us, darling," my mom gushed, her eyes shimmering. She was in an exceptionally good mood, self-satisfied to the point of being unhinged with triumph. "We really turned things around at the eleventh hour, didn't we?"

"Yeah," I answered, trying to sound neutral.

Mother's smile faltered for a moment. She glanced around at the crowd and then leaned in close to me, whispering through her teeth. I could smell champagne heavy and sour on her breath.

"Your father is being very rude right now, Carl," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "It wouldn't kill him to spend a moment with us, would it? I'm going to have a word with him and see if he can't at least pretend to be civil. We need to keep up appearances for the Banquet."

God, the fucking

Banquet.

I played my part again and projected my own fake smile as Mother dragged me around to show off to her extremely rich white expatriate friends in their gowns and tuxedos. I'd changed into my suit, an Armani Mom had tailored for me for the occasion. It felt so gross the way that our parents were talking about us like we were long-term investments. Everyone was so fake and condescending.

"Oh, he's such a handsome young man," one half-mummified Foundation mother said, gushing over me, her husband nodding next to her. "What are you studying at Princeton, Carlton?"

I cringed internally at the name.

"Uh, Business," I replied, sounding practiced, my voice almost a monotone. "Investment Banking." I died a little inside every time I said it, like I was destined to become my father's clone.

"Wonderful," the upper-crust creature chuckled before moving on to Maximillian and his family who were standing nearby -- just a little bit more desirable and profitable than I was.

After a few more rounds of the same, Mother decided to drag me over to the champagne fountain, where Dad was smoking cigars with some of the Foundation fathers.

"Thhhere he is," my father slurred as he raised his glass in a toast. "You made it, Princeton," Dad said, a note of pride in his voice, clapping me on the shoulder. "I knew you could. Next stop, an MBA at Wharton, just like your old man."

My mother's eyes flashed as she pulled him aside and I made myself scarce. I eyed the foyer exit longingly. I desperately wanted to go, to escape, but I had to suffer through the added humiliation of the Banquet or Mother would make my life a living hell. I grabbed a champagne glass and helped myself to the fountain, downing the flute in one go.

The ensuing dinner service at the Oriental was the most pretentious event I'd ever attended, even by Foundation standards. It was a night of empty words, congratulations, and hollow praise; everyone pretended to like each other while their smiles were tight and their eyes cold and predatory. The speeches were endless, and for an organization supposedly based on charity, I had no idea who the fuck the actual beneficiaries were. As far as I could gather, if you could be seen getting your hands dirty visiting a Thai orphanage or a dilapidated rural village or something, you were part of the big self-congratulatory circle-jerk of rich Foundation assholes. Everything was about appearances, but if you even scratched the surface, it cracked into a miasma of hypocrisy and privilege. The food was predictably lavish, with local delicacies and a multicultural five-star chef's menu, including live lobster, imported caviar, Chiang Mai-style whole roasted duck, and a chocolate fondue fountain sculpted into a dessert replica of the school campus.

Sitting between my parents at our table like a neutral country or demilitarized zone, I found myself watching the Thai servers, all dressed up in bowties and vests or cocktail dresses and looking nervous as they ran around attending to every need of their patrons. I saw them being belittled and treated like servants while affluent guests gorged themselves on a meal that would probably cost the staff months of wages -- not to mention all the food that would go to waste after they left.

I never would have even considered that, or cared at all before Maria. I had no idea what our housekeeper was eating tonight, but it was probably leftovers, or maybe whatever she could scrounge in the pantry and fridge. It made me feel like a spoiled, pampered, entitled little shit.

Everyone here, this whole disgusting ritual -- it was

wrong

. My love for our maid had opened my eyes to the awful injustices I'd been blind and utterly apathetic to. It wasn't the first time I realized how much of a little fuckhead I'd been, weaponizing my privilege and looking down on everyone who wasn't in my social strata, but it hit me harder that night. All I knew was that I didn't want to be one of these soulless mockeries of a human being.

I kept thinking about Maria waiting for me in our villa, alone and heavily pregnant with my children, while I was stuck here, trapped. It was impossible to work up much of an appetite. I poked at my food and waited until I saw an opening to leave as some of my peers started to slip out to join the parties that'd probably already begun downtown.

"Mom, can I please go out now?" I leaned over and asked as the cheese course arrived.

"Fine, fine, go see your little friends," Mother waved me off, dismissively. "Just stay out of trouble."

"Be good," my Dad added, in an uncommon moment of intersectional parenting.

I slipped out into the Bangkok dust, the blood-red sun dipping below the smoggy, shimmering horizon. I felt like tearing off my suit like Shawshank Redemption or something and raising my arms to the sky, but I'd find plenty of catharsis buried inside Maria's welcoming Filipina pussy back home.

****

Downtown Bangkok was an assault of flashing neon and throbbing bass lines, streets filled with cars and motorcycles weaving through the throngs of pedestrians. I rode in the back of a taxi with my headphones on, watching the driver honk and swerve as the golden Buddha stared at me serenely from repose on the dash. Tupac thumped into my brain as I loosened my bowtie and unbuttoned my collar.

'...Now, if you wanna roll with me, then here's your chance

Doin' eighty on the freeway, police catch me if you can

All I want is money, fuck the fame I'm a simple man

Mr. International, player with the passport

Just like Aladdin bitch, get you anything you ask for...'

I pulled aside an orange foam circle from my ear and called my house from my Nokia cellphone.

"Hello?" Maria answered on the first ring in her Filipino drawl, her voice a sweet balm that brought me back from the brink. She swiftly slipped into Thai. "

Sawasdee ka, baan khong khun Weiss ka, mee arai hai chuay ka?"

"Hey," I said, breathing a sigh of relief just hearing her. "It's me. I'm on my way home, but the traffic is freakin' terrible."

"Oh, Carl, you call!" she answered in English, sounding elated. "I here, waiting you."

"How do you feel? Are the babies okay?"

"I miss you, Carl," she said, and I could hear her smiling on the other end, probably curling the cord around her finger. "You babies move around so much today, like fish inside me! Blaaump, blaump! And the boy still kicking me, aiiee!"