She smiles and giggles at how i repurpose my shirt ties into handcuffs and a blindfold with some basic knotwork.
She’s bound, tied and blind but not fearing for her life.
Curled toes and moans followed by grins indicate the reaching of a limit.
Excitement takes ahold and what escapes me looks like ropes across her body.
Further securing the visual bondage.
[inspired by true events]
I’m confined, vanished in mind and already lost the sense of time. I don’t know what day it is anymore because the diurnal routine is flavourless during quarantine. I roam within the two floors and four walls of my abode. Looking out my window I see that the trees aren’t casting a perpendicular shadow. “Sun must be head high,” I say in an unspectacular sigh and woo for another COVIDafternoon. “Work with what you got,” is a reminder I tattoo on my thoughts and I ought to find ways to entertain myself throughout this day.
I lay away and read to stimulate the brain, but then I hear a loud “thud” in a nearby gangway. I prop up to question the origin of this unknown commotion. Conducting a swift reconnaissance of the ground level of my fortress I discover no sign of a breach at its entrance. There’s no culprit to subdue, so I seek for clues and irregularities in my fixed surroundings. Ala “Dick Tracy” I inspect and wish to detect the perpetrator for this midday distress. Then, in the midst of my quest I recognize the soft whining of an old door’s hinges cringingly creaking and it’s paired with the gun-cocking-like clatter of an unlocking doorknob. I brusquely realize the clamor came from a space above and my CORONAimprisoned brain, that’s been marinating in everything “Mafia” on Netflix, jumps to conclusions claiming there’s been an intrusion.
I rush up the stairs determined to capture my potential invader and see the access to my bedchamber has been closed and secure. I swing open the entry, step in and scan the dormitory uncovering no trace suggesting a trespassing. It’s now in my best belief that, for the sake of my sanity, I must forfeit and retreat from this lunacy. I turn around to walk out of my boudoir when I’m abruptly put to a halt. Because in front of me is standing a seductive soul-snatching covert Burmese assassin. I do a fast “optical pat-down” to assess the gravity of the situation but there is no way a weapon could be sheathed beneath her tight and deadly black-laced-lingerie. The sexy intruder walks towards me, and I start backpedaling. She closes the door behind her quietly. A sly smirk oozes off her jib and then she provocatively nibbles at her lip. Wielding eyes that are lethally hypnotizing I feel her silently taunting me. I say a quick prayer to the gods of bedroom warfare and scheme for amatory victory. I’m confident that the sexucational films that I’ve study during isolation, tethered to my many years practicing martial arts, have prepared me for this very moment.
The sensual and consensual sultry wrestle begins, and this killer isn’t hold back. I remember that in judo we’re taught the martial-art’s philosophy of using your opponent’s energy to work against them, “Minimal effort, with maximum efficiency.” In order to discover her weakness, I must flow with the energy of her kinkyness. I cunningly perform an “Ōuchi gari” then cunnilingusly-attack this experienced ninja. Impressed by my technique she nods her head and grins signaling a positive critique. We constantly trade blows not giving the other a chance to catch they breath, both wet in pheromone-laced sweat. My heart nearly stops by her skills in the dark-fellacious arts and realize I can’t go easy on this crotch-wizard.
I’m more than sure that I can conquer her with my pure heart and will, but she’s a skilled, foxy, dick-slaying assassin, so I must work on a coquettish-strategy. Our bodies continue to clash and genitalia smashes against another violently. So far, it’s been a fair fight. But I’m out to win, so it’s time to “play dirty.” I quickly pass her guard and went straight into “Kesa-gatame,” where I then went full “Christian Grey.” While pinning her down I use my nearby shirt-ties as mock handcuffs and fasten her wrists behind her. Then the prowler bends over and submits, releasing a cute wince. The lustful assassin is now in erogenous bondage and devotedly helpless. She moans affectionately in ecstasy when I begin the blindfolding. I’m amazed that a smile never leaves her face. In a haste I pace around in search for a tool-of-arousal to help me slay this sexecutioner. “I have to work with what I got,” I laughingly say to she and begin to craft my improvised sexual weaponry.
Like a filthy “MacGyver” I forge a phallic-like venereal-dagger and hover over my romantic prisoner. She’s restrained, deprived of her sight and I can annihilate this quixotic-assailant now or I can take my time. I opt to toy and tease her as tender-torture, but the coitus-stabbing isn’t enough to massacre her. So, I pull her hair by the tips to bring her ear near my lips and say, “you’ll soon be finished.” Stepping back to rapidly examine the specimen, I decide my angle of trajectory and then reminisce of the wise words from my karate sensei, “A weapon is simply an extension of your own body.”
While my attached weapon has her gagged, I commence to thrust deep stabs her exposed Burmese-gash with the counterfeit-sex-armament. The bootylicious hitwoman undergoes an uninterrupted combo of attacks from every position and in amorous anguish she begs for her execution, to extinguish the repetitive impalement. I won’t fall for any deceit, so I dismiss her plea and don’t stop until she falls in defeat. All sides penetrated in unison and her hatchet-wound is now leaking profusely. During the final blows I rip off her blindfold to stare into the windows of her soul. I jab the prurient-bayonet and leave it stuck in her concupiscent-laceration. Libidinous tears roll downwards to the margins of her gapping smile as she topples over shakingly. I pull out the lascivious-carver and see how the slit spit like a geyser. She squirms in between her squirts before eventually perishing, like how one would bleed-out from a gushing perforated artery and I’m the final finishing winner. I stand over the intriguing bedroom-raider, continuously staring into her mesmerizing eyes and begin to unbind the securing ties. I make an abrupt exit and leave her kaput and lifeless. It’s now calm and there’s no disorder.
I’m back downstairs fixing myself a refreshing pint of beer. When I then vociferously hear, “O****R! WHAT THE F * C K , ARE YOU SERIOUS!? PLEASE TELL ME YOU DID NOT USE THIS M****R IN A CONDOM ON ME WHEN I COULDN’T SEE!” I spill my beverage because I’m laughing hysterically, slapping the counter and fall to my knees. Gathering myself while still chuckling, I pour another beverage and answer to the voice ahead, “Babe, during the heat of battle, it’s do or die, and you must improvise with what you got!” She is displeased with my response and piercingly rejoinders, “SERIOUSLY, A F*CKING M****R!?” My laughter never ceases, making it hard to sip my drink and I just stand there and think. I gulp down my pint and utter a late answer, “It’s just part of the ‘role-play,’ don’t worry you’ll be okay.” I try to come up with new ideas to keep things interesting during this bland quarantine.
Our time during this seclusion will only be tasteless if we allow it. So, I get freaky to keep things exciting and continue to flex my ingenuity. Remember that only the boring get bored…
“A M****R!?”
“Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.” -Bear Grylls
You choke the shaft of the brush,
wet the tip with what looks like spit
and begin to stroke.
I blush and hush my screams,
from seeing the streaking paint cream,
leaking onto your fists.
Yet you maintain a firm grip and
giggle at how I’m stoked
from your every brushstroke.
You’re talented, creative and reckless
when you allow the paint to spray onto your canvas.
You finger paint with the clumped up droplets and
smile at the masterpiece you accomplished.
While ignoring the paint sprinkled around your eye sockets.
Performing some of my joints regarding my recent travels to Europe and Indonesia. Started clean, ended dirty.
The similarities in our distinct histories are scary. The script conducting our lives seems plagiarized and this doesn’t feel like our first time. Though we reside in different continents our life experiences are of the same content. Mixed genetics label us ethnically ambiguous, we’re a pair of cultured artists with hearts of revolutionary activists. Identical backstab wounds explain our trust issues and I shake when we both say, “he/she was the same way.” We met at Cilandak for endless talks, sisha that we never got, drinks and planed to visit Kota Tua. Laughing and sipping whisky, i’m delighted by her presence genuinely and frightened at our similar life stories. We made good use of our time together, train tours and sight seeing, enjoying another’s company. Alcohol takes over and impairs what I see, my blurry vision is raising insecurities ‘cause the posture of the silhouette across from me is aggressively familiar. I’m loving but questioning her mannerisms and particular gestures. She’s able to finish each other’s sentences and I’m feeling connected in all senses. But its too familiar. It doesn’t help that her face and smile are similar even her posture and behavior. I’m pacing in my head, because I’m being reminded of who’m I dread. Usher’s tune “You remind me of a girl I once knew” talks truth he says, “It’s unfair to relate her ignorance to you, wish I knew how to separate the two.” He knows how I’m feeling. Because I hate that I’m looking at you but seeing her. Being reminded of the pain she put me through, I cover with a smile through our feast of food. Laughs are spewed and a few brews are had. We’re talking story and sipping glad. Through the jokes you say “You’re just like my dad.” Not sure what you meant by it I sit perplexed. Though I’m proud of my restraint for not saying, “you’re just like my ex.”
About 2.3Mil rupiahs was added to my hotel’s bill for “damages” that I paid for, cash, in Indonesian $krillz. Compensations for room reparations of a gazillion memories worth more than those indomillions. Never have I ever felt so confident to cop a bill containing so many zeros. But in Southeast Asia one can live like a “king” when holding even the least American green and with stacks of greenbacks imperialists can wreck shop in these metric barhops. I play tourist amidst the conformists in a city so polluted with beauty. My elated heart throbs asphyxiated by gorgeous mobs of hijabs that cover like a dense smog-like fog. With a dropped jaw and breath robbed, I’m stuck standing and waving to them saying “As-salāmu ʿalaykum :)”
Gallivanting open and loud through conservatively
quiet Indonesian towns, I stand out, I’m seen and unbeknownst to me my ethnic
ambiguity would lure those pursuing to savour a foreign {bule} flavour. With
GoogleTranslate as my saviour I begin to mingle with local singles carrying
unbelievably distinct and palatably spicy conversations; some lead to my
hotel’s damages and accusations. Though those claims made have only one culprit
to blame; the good times, now memories, shared strictly between my {*uhmmm*} “Tour
Guides” and I. Be judge free and trust me that only if a connection was made,
would I invite these lovely dames into my temporary sanctuary. But, when you mix
loose alcohol abuse and the use of Allah’s name in vein, that safe haven loses
its reign. Only after a consensual erotic wrestle may sovereignty be handed to
the last one standing or limping.
So, at the end of my Indonesian holiday the front desk clerk says with a smirk, “I see you have enjoyed your stay.” I giggle and he then strikes me hard with the bill and comments, “Sir, we require some reimbursements.” I solemnly say, “Ok, let me have it, what’s the damage?” He then holds up a tablet with images of the aftermath from what looked like a contained tsunami. He swipes through forensic scenes of debauchery and reads off a list “2,280,000 rupiahs, for the broken coffee table, the chair and sofa that was dowsed in squirt soda, bed sheets with no fix from spilt bloody mary mix, emotional distress caused to the neighboring guests.” I stop him from finishing off my list of sins and blurt out “Ok, ok. Let me just pay, so I can be on my way.”
“And will this be charged to your card?” He questions my payment.
I stare at him smiling and say “Nah, Is cash okay?”
“In Chengdu, it’s called
‘Marinating with the Chickens.’ So… ‘Cluck, Cluck’ and go get your wet wipes b*tch!”
– E. Huang
What’s cooking, good looking? From afar you got me shookt, flipped and dipped into a craze of lust. Don’t fuss, and trust that I’m not just looking to bust these * doors… To leave you floored, scorned, n sore. Begging for more, than just muscle spasms. I fathom to give you mental * stimulus… From this rigorous syllabus, you will learn how ridiculously I yearn to see you squirm in love, with me. Persuading thee using this boulder sitting above my shoulders. Heart trying not to smolder and melt at how your bravura is felt. I suppose to slowly disclose how badly I want to rip off your *insecurities… Using my linguistic dexterity, you foresee I wish to kiss your lips. Those between your hypocrisies… I’m being real, no fugazis or forgeries, allow my words to steal and kidnap your feels. The sap leaking out my face-flap is all fact. I seek to hijack the damsel in distress being fed to the wrong mattress. And treat you like a GODDESS because you’re no mistress.
Dissect the Dialect 