Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 1

A short time ago, shortly after Hussain’s son Amir had taken over the making of the much desired roti canai from his father, the two girls had discovered, quite by accident, a loose board at the rear of the lean-to where Amir wrestled with dough. At first, the loose board, hanging limp and uninteresting, held no interest to the two girls, but when Farah, the slightly elder of the two, approached the misplaced plank, it seemed somehow more erect. She managed to peer through the gap its displacement had made, and practically melted at the sight of the golden Amir as morning shafts of sunlight played across his hard-working form.

Hastily, guiltily, Farah wanted to replace the board. She blushed. She momentarily had been tempted to keep the discovery to herself; however, at Mira’s insistence, she let her friend gaze through the hole-into wonderland.

That adrenalin-pumping, pubescent hormones-raging morning, the two girls, now more than a little excited, giggled all the way back home and, later, giggled all the way to school on the banana-coloured bus. At school, they kept their warm, dark secret until it was time to catch the ancient yellow bus back home once more, then giggled and fantasised all the way back to their homes.

It was at that point that there was a knock on the door. ‘ Adik, what are you doing in there? You are so quiet.’ Self-consciously, Syafiqah dropped the book fragment to the floor, giving it a little kick so it slid under her bed-she was worried that her mother might catch her reading unsuitable material.

‘Nothing Mak, just tidying.’

‘Okay. Don’t forget that I will need help with the laundry later.’

‘No, Mak,’ said Syafiqah. Her mother had not entered Syafiqah’s bedroom, so, when she considered it safe again, Syafiqah got down on her hands and knees and dragged the tomb out from where it rested-under the bed amongst dust and black-and-white house lizard debris. With a tinge of excitement now, she began to read on.

The following day, each girl dared the other to spy through the gap in the wooden boards, but neither dared to as they were frightened that they would be caught-and what could they possibly say in their defence, if they were caught. Their secret remained between them, as tangible as the breasts that began to strain their blouses.

Some days and some warm, dream-filled nights went past, with the longing to spy on Amir becoming greater with each passing day, until Farah, untypically alone, stopped while walking to the lean-to for her father’s breakfast.

Carefully, she walked to the back of the wooden lean-to and, looking around to make certain she was not being observed, prised open the already loose board. The gap was ever so slight, but large enough for Farah to see what she desired to see. Cautiously, guiltily, she put her almond eye right up against the opened crack, and gazed into the musty depths of the wooden lean-to.

The beautiful young Amir, with his back to the intently spying girl, was intent upon kneading the soft dough for roti canai. Farah, dressed for school in her light blue-and-white uniform and carrying the payment for her father’s roti canai in her hand, had crept to the rear of the lean-to as carefully as she could, so as not to make a sound. She had prised open the hanging loose plank, making a gap between the wooden boards. Wary not to mark her school clothes, Farah had pulled over a discarded piece of paper to kneel on and gleefully nestled down to, once again, watch Amir.

Surreptitiously, enthusiastically, Farah observed the sweet morning light as it playfully kissed Amir’s toned body, lightly caressing him and alternately revealing his skin-golden in the morning shafts of light, then warm chocolate as he moved slightly into shadow. Amir stirred, pulling and pushing at his bread, his hard shiny muscles flexing and relaxing as he energetically twisted the dough before him.

Good grief, said Syafiqah to herself… and continued.

Next door, but a fluttering heartbeat or two away, the kampong corner shop was beginning to stir. The gnarled, ancient owner could be heard treading the wooden floorboards, almost dragging his slippered feet with his aged step, then unlatching the shop door from the inside, there was a sharp ‘clink’ as the rusted metal arm hit the top of the protective metal sleeve and ‘clunk’, as it fell.

Frozen with anticipation, Farah could hear the store owner moving back inside his shop, heading towards the now whistling kettle blowing its head of steam into the waiting morning. He needed to tend to the preparations for his customers’ morning tea, as soon, if Farah dallied too long, the shop owner’s customers would be milling around inside and outside of the kopi shop, too close to where she knelt for her comfort… and her reputation.

Sleek Amir breathed a little more deeply at his work. Flexing his slender, toned arm muscles, Amir plunged his strong brown hands deep into the resisting dough, pulling and stretching at the dough for as hard and as long as he could last.

Without pause, he pummelled the dough with practised, energetic fists, elbowing the dough with swift strong motions, twisting and manipulating the dough until, eventually, he was forced, momentarily, to stop, to take breath, glowing like a wrestler, sweat running in tiny rivulets down his smooth back.

Turning on the electric fan for a little air, Syafiqah eagerly read on.

Amir straightened to ease his back muscles. Suddenly, he thrust his head back, tensing, then releasing, tensing, then releasing the taut muscles at the back of his neck. Just for a second, Farah fantasised about Amir’s head movement, imagining it as mimicking that of an Indian starlet’s as she whipped her wet black hair back in an arc, the slight sweat in Amir’s hair resembling water spraying in some passionate, romantic South Indian film, to the weighty rhythm of a Tamil music director. Amir’s neatly cropped hair, however, was not the luscious tresses of a film starlet. But to Farah’s eyes, his gesture echoed the sheer poetry of the filmi moment perfectly.

Next, putting his hands on the top of his dhoti at his waist, thumbs to the rear while his fingers faced forward, Amir leaned backward and pushed gently but firmly against his back muscles, then repeated the same exercise forward, then to the right, and to the left, stretching and easing his muscles as he did so. There was a feline grace and choreography to his movements, and somewhere, deep inside, he was no longer Amir, son of Hussain, maker of roti canai, but the sprightly satyr Prabhu Deva dancing to the lyrical strains of ‘Urvasi Urvasi’ by the maestro A. R. Rahman.

Prabhu Deva? Ah yes, Mak used to like him, but Michael Jackson was better. Syafiqah continued reading.

Witnessing the beauty and grace of the young Amir’s movements, breathing in achingly short gasps, Farah’s budding teen chest rose and fell in helpless excitement. She pressed her young soft hand against her moist mouth, tasting the saltiness of her fingers as she tried to stifle her little involuntary cries, terrified lest the object of her awe hear her. Farah, inextricably caught between the wantonness of her nascent desire and her very real need for caution, found that she was unable to tear her eyes away from the movements of the exquisite Indian.

Guiltily, Syafiqah turned towards the door, checking to see that she had bolted it. She was excited, but a little wary too, lest her mother see what she was reading. Syafiqah had the distinct feeling that her mother would not approve. She turned her eyes back to the page she was reading.

The mesmerised girl watched the delicious boy as xanthous yellow light played across his graceful, sensuous, moving body. Pressing her eager eye against the hole made in the wood, as silently as she was able, Farah observed as Amir fluidly glided to music of sensuous beats obviously sounding only in his own head. Farah, if she had not been delectably awestruck before, was now as her eyes drank in Amir’s all but silent dance performance.

Ignoring the fact that ‘xanthous’ was not in her English dictionary, Syafiqah skipped over the word intending