Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2

Scene 1: Sunset

Under corrugated roofs, silky bed sheets, her whispers and sounds are carried off in the hiss of traffic from nightfall towards dawn. Sun falls.

With it, streaks of fog lurk and hover over quiet alleyways. Mice skitter around plundering morsels of leftovers. The wasted moon overlooks. A drooping silent witness to the frolics… A watchful tower to the jealousies and rivalries spurred by her whimsical gestures that entice and provoke men who find in her both the goddess they worship and the witch they would torture and kill.

Kali Jodoh is rows of unlicensed shag houses along the heavily polluted Ciliwung River, somewhere in West Jakarta district. The river stench mingled with cheap alcohol lures bystanders and travellers alike. Curiously drawn to the bright yellow spots of kerosene lamps burning through gaps of asymmetrical doors (invitingly loose and fragile), motorcyclists buzz in and out of the alleyways while quietly picking up and dropping off passengers.

Further into the alley, in some hidden nooks and corners, are glimpsed silhouettes of luxury cars which at the sign of dawn would swerve quietly away, leaving their spots empty for food peddlers. It is also not uncommon to find police cars among these luxury cars.

The dense flow and murmur of old Ciliwung River permeates the night .

And as the moon wanes, the inhabitants of Kali Jodoh ready themselves for the judgment of daylight bursting through.

Scene 2: Domesticated

At night, he seeks the woman who tantalizes his cock with her tongue. He likes to fix his gaze to the clouds as she makes her way up and down, up and down.

His children call him ‘daddy’ the way Americans do to sweet, doting fathers. He bought them a puppy one occasion-less day, despite his wife’s approval of pets. He had come thrice inside her mouth that day. They named him Bruno.

He convinced his wife his wife children should learn the blessings of having other living creatures to add on to the joy of living. The same night he made love to his wife and unselfishly took him time waiting for her orgasm while all along reliving the memories of the tongue teasing, and teasing, and teasing. His explosions rapidly approach as her swift, unyielding embrace commands. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to be, but inside her.

Scene 3: Conquest

Soft undulations of mountains and valleys he caresses with his bare hands every day. His eyes are not as privileged as his hands—though you can argue such is his privilege. More importantly, however, is his gift of subtlety. He is quite used to women who are liars—when asked if they are comfortable, they say, ‘Oh yes, perfectly’, with their arms and legs pressed tightly on the side as though they were fitting into a tube. He would then cover them over with a piece of silk and let the slippery flow of the fabric persuade them to be just as airy and slacken their rigid pose. Soft feather works beautifully, too, for the more glamorous sort who are not ticklish and enjoy the voluptuous teasing.

He communicates mainly by touching. While his fingers massage, he listens to the skin as it contracts… softens… relaxes… opens… widens… quivers… twitches… jerks… and he responds to them appropriately, as attentive lover-devotees do. The shyest and most rigid in turn relinquish their defensive armor: unhook their bras, wiggle down their panties, untie their hair knot. Not surprisingly, they feel liberated in consequence.

Lying naked on the futon, his blindness emboldens them temporarily before they re-emerge in the outside world fully clothed and prim. Women such as these are usually his regular customers.

Desire is a thing disguised in various forms. He delights greatly in the hunt. Usually this means he needs to probe in so many ways under equally many pretexts. It is the fact that he sees with his hands that he would go beyond the border-climbing up on the mounds, delving deep into the folds—and is excused for it. He is not worried about trespassing. His main concern is the period of time he’s allowed within.

The moment he trespasses, every gesture and movement is critical. His touch needs to feign innocence (for how could he be excused otherwise?), but yet be calculated to catch it unguarded. He strives to stay, to linger, and to score. The ‘game of hide-and-seek’, he likes to call it.

A sharp intake of breath followed by a sigh, a groan—he wills and coaxes desire out of its cave. Behold the beautiful beast being exposed, reacting like a gnarling tigress, a strutting peacock, a bewildered dove, a hissing snake, a fiery lioness…

To each, he bestows a distinctive name wherein his victory is marked.

He selects these names with utmost care, for they represent that one moment of release and potential, never to be repeated. He is a proud keeper of these names—their ultimate sole guardian.

Little do the ladies of Jakarta’s most elite class know that the blind masseur they frequent regularly in one of Kemang’s exclusive spas (known and open to selected members only) is a father of three children and a respected member of his village near Malang—a man known for his quiet, elegant demure, eloquence and not insignificant contribution to the local projects (irrigation, mosques, schools) in the village and neighbouring regions.

Scene 4: Possession

Sometimes I really ask too much of you. I want to breathe you, I want to smile you, I want to linger you. It’s the sweetness of love that I lick and suck till the juices run dry. (They never do run dry, and I don’t ever get enough of you). You must be exhausted by me. I’m sorry for that.

I’m all yours completely and entirely—I like to say it though I don’t know what that means. I like the sound of it. I like the idea of it. I like the idea of you. And me. Being us.

Some days, I feel you are not quite with me and that’s when I scramble around fidgeting; what other things could you possibly have outside of me?

Outside of us—don’t really know what ‘us’ means, though I like to stress it.

There’s only us and more of us to come. It’s an ancient thing, I know you would say, but so profound, isn’t it—you and me becoming us?

I know I’m idiotic, but I really can’t stand the idea of you not thinking of me, or not having me in your thoughts. How should that be allowed? I’m all yours completely and so are you mine. Just as we are one when we make love (how you embrace and grip me inside you!), why should it be any different when we are not in bed?

I don’t like, I hate, how you lean towards a person as though at any time he can swoon you helplessly away. Don’t you see my panic, my doom? I’m frantic; I know you will say that. I know half the things you will say—don’t you see how well I know you? I am you, I am you, I am you. Now you roll your eyes and look away, and I sigh deeply for I have lost you again.

‘Let’s go to Puncak?’ No.

‘Bandung?’ No.

‘Bali, Lombok, Medan?’ No, No, No.

‘Let’s get married?’ (Two scenarios. One: you bulge your eyes at me and walk away, I run after you, pretend I haven’t said anything. Two: you laugh and say ‘Sure’, I quickly get on my knees, kneel and kiss you all over.) Only instead: ‘Let’s catch a movie at Plaza Indonesia?’ and you let me grab your hand and lead you along.

Tomorrow, surely, you will be more mine than today.

Scene 5: The Sea

Once upon a time there lived a village in the Indo-Malay region who worshipped the Sea. The latter, with its tempestuous mood swings, is a vast forbidding presence to the villagers who cower themselves away upon seeing a sheer flash of lightning in its horizon. Trembling, they would cover their heads, shut their eyes tight, mutter prayers and chants. It is not obvious what it is of the Sea that they fear, for they settle quite a distance away from the coast and they certainly don’t rely on it for their living. They are neither swimmers nor fishermen.

But for every little disaster that falls upon them, it is the image of the Sea’s silvery claws crawling underneath and its thundering wrath that shake their conscience and make them kneel for forgiveness—though it is not apparent what misdeeds they have done to earn this reprimand.

Once the Sea stole upon them and took their animals, children, elders and weak ones. Convinced it was the end of their days, they waited for the Sea to sweep their remaining lot away.

Weeks and months passed without work, without sleep. But the Sea remained calm and unaffected. Coupled with clear blue skies twinkling shine on its undulating surface, it seemed content and pleased even.

Observing this agreeable mood, it was then agreed among the villagers that what they needed to do was offer gifts to the Sea. It was also agreed that it should be done at each complete cycle of the moon. With this resolution, the villagers recommenced their daily routine, taking comfort from the ritual sacrifices they communally made to the Sea.

On a slab of rock beaten by waves, kneeling over the sprawled lifeless body, he caressed and admired the soft features of her nose, mouth and cheeks. His palms pressed on her breasts, then her belly, futilely stroking and massaging them. As he entered her, he met his face with hers turned everlastingly silent towards the sea and whispered in his native tongue his desire and worship of her. He stayed with her till dusk fell, when he had to continue on with his journey southwards to his people.

She blinked to a ray of sunlight resting on her wet eyelids. Quietness surrounded her. For a long while, she lay, unknown to herself if she were living or dead. Gradually, she heard sounds coming from the Sea and felt the wind on her cheeks. She was soon awakened to her arms, limbs, hands and feet. The entire weight of her body came to her. Feeling cold, weak and thirsty, she finally gathered herself up and treaded her way slowly towards the island.

It was her mother who first saw and quickly covered her naked body with a large piece of cloth. The night she was to be given to the Sea, she had said goodbye to her only daughter. The woman she now saw was not her daughter. She knew this as she led her into the house and rested her in her daughter’s bed. The next day she was presented to the villagers who gazed at her with wonder and awe. Not a few thought of her as the incarnated goddess of the Sea or, if that’s too big a thought, at least as the one chosen and favored by the Sea—but to what purpose they were not sure. She was feared and admired all at once.

Months passed. The woman who was her mother continued to care for her until it became clear to the villagers that a child of the Sea was to be expected.

They built a tall house for her to live with her son, with an altar erected at the front terrace for the villagers to offer prayers and sacrifices. She chose its location, on a steep cliff jutting outwards to the Sea. Every day, mother and son would climb down the cliff to the shore. Her son was nurtured by the Sea and grew from the Sea. They shared and taught what they knew to the villagers, who remained timid but, all the same, curious. Eventually, many of them learned to swim and, with their fine carpentry skills, built rafts and boats to venture further into the Sea. In no time, the entire village was converted to swimmers and fishermen who no longer trembled before the Sea, but embraced her moods along with the riches she yielded.

Some nights lit by the full moon, the woman would be seen on the shore with her knees bent and spread wide apart. Waves, one after another, lapped in and out, over her legs, thighs and belly, as she hums her song of gratitude, homage and desire for her ethereal lover.

On these nights, many women lose virginity to their pining lovers and many widows seek comfort from friends and strangers alike. And the sounds coming from the Sea gently rock and cradle the villagers to sleep.