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Meet The Floggers

The Appetizers

Floggers.

It’s a term that will strike wholesome fear into the hearts of competent criminals and invoke lusty desire in the loins of the more sexually adventurous among us. For those unsure of what floggers are, allow me to summarize a couple of definitions, via Wikipedia:

• A disciplinarian who flogs, i.e. administers a flogging as a physical punishment;
• A multi-tongue whipping implement specially made to use for such fetish and/or erotic BDSM flogging, usually of the cat o’ nine tails-type; a miniature version for male genitorture is called ball whip

Goodness me. With an introduction like that, can anyone blame me for trembling with trepidation ahead of my meeting the floggers last Thursday evening?

Do not fret for my soft, pliable flesh though, my trusty readers — these aren’t any common floggers. Nay, these are Floggers with a capital F. So pray tell, you may be asking now, what does the letter stand for?

Fun, most definitely. Finicky, yes — given their very specific and hard-to-please palates. Famished, quite often, with their insatiable appetites. Filthy, if you have ever been party to their obscene and cheek-reddening conversations. Fantasy, why not? They sure do have a tendency to be lyrical and poetic at times, bringing on throes of near-orgasms in their legions of fans. But most of all, above everything else, Floggers are about Food.

Yes, food. Why else would we call them Floggers? Are they not Food Bloggers after all?

The Mains & the Desserts

One may surmise these are a species both enchantingly dangerous and charming like death… by chocolate. And indeed they are. So, when I received an invitation to attend a most exclusive dinner prepared lovingly by the infamous and elusive FatBoyBakes, how could I refuse the opportunity to be a privileged and pampered dinner guest?

Our esteemed host had warned us ahead of time that this is but a simple meal for friends. If one may take a peek at the menu for the night (carelessly reproduced below), one may infer that our generous chef is both a loquacious wordsmith and a beautiful liar. Most of us were going, “If this is simple, what on earth does he produce when he decides to try something more challenging?”

Of course, having a menu does save me, the poor and verbally impaired narrator of this culinary tale, the trouble of recounting the smashing dishes presented that night. Suffice to say, this non-flogger would attest to both the quality and quantity of the food available, i.e. it was very good and there was a lot of it.

Strangely enough, it’s never the food who is the main star of the evening. Nothing steals the show better than the Floggers themselves. Such an affable and gregarious bunch, always ready with a witty quip and a smidgen of the latest juicy gossip. I am afraid I am unable to repeat much of what was exchanged that night, not on account of a threat of violent physical torture by the other dinner guests, but mostly due to a faulty memory.

Or, as our brainybitchybenevolent host would put it, “They don’t make young people like they used to. Back in my days…”

The Menu

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Credits: Original photographs and other reviews by Paprika and Nigel A. Skelchy.

 

The Perfect Track

“Clouds” by Bjorn de Leeuw

Road trips are a sign of restlessness sometimes in itself. I remember when I was still living in Germany — how I would take the SchönesWochenende train ticket on a random weekend free from any plans or promises and just carry myself across different paths, across the Continent, with no clear aim or desire. No restrictions. No destinations. Just the trip itself, the traveling.

These trips are almost always a revelation. Much we can learn about ourselves when we abandon our normal schedules and routines. We forget to tighten our chests and our bodies remember how to breathe easily again. The mind is emptied. There is nothing.

And when we return to where we began, we can’t help but wonder if we ever left in the first place. Where did we go? Then we remember to stop asking so many questions.

Life doesn’t have to follow any perfect track. We just need to believe this.

 

The Sunday Husband

Sundays used to mean getting up at the break of dawn, for running up the steps at Batu Caves or hiking in the green-canopied hills of Bukit Gasing, and then the wonderfully greasy roti pisang and a cup or two of the most fragrant teh halia tarik in the world, which we lucky fellows can find right here, in our neighbourhood. And all this accomplished before ten in the a.m.

I used to be mad, of course.

I have seen the light, or rather, I no longer see the complete darkness of not-yet-dawn when I awake during the weekends. If it can believed, this Energizer Bunny now sleeps in. In fact, by the time we awoke this Sunday morning, it was barely morning anymore. And we almost didn’t get out of bed, the bed being so warm and enveloping, and the chill from the overnight air-conditioner so slumber-inducing.

But. My tummy was grumbling. Well, growling, rather. I am not called Zhu Bajie (Pigsy from ‘Journey to the West’, infamous for his gluttony, sloth and lust) without good reason. Last count saw me eating EIGHT times a day on average. And besides my less-than-lovely love handles, I’m all skin and bones. Sighs.

My apologies; I digress.

With the threat of the day switching fast to the wrong side of noon pretty soon, we dragged ourselves out of bed (well, you forced me, rather) and freshened up quickly with the promise of a hearty brunch on our lips. The Lady Lemongrass had rhapsodised about this particular corner of Bangsar with prime meat for big appetites and away we went, to The Daily Grind. (Which was oddly named for this instance of us being as far from the daily grind of work as we could imagine. Little did I know the labour that would follow for poor ol’ me.)

Fresh and friendly faces welcomed us into the dark corners of the restaurant, so soothing after the beating of the stark, unfiltered sun outside. We melted into the soft leather seats and proceeded to order our coffees and our burgers. Ah yes. The burgers. Freshly made each day; even the chili sauce and ketchup were home-made.

(Friends and foes would know the story of how I used to consume tomato ketchup by the truckloads as a kid and avoid anything spicy like the plague; and then, upon hitting puberty, switched things around. Now I distance myself from all things ketchupy and worship the Spicy and the Pedas.)

I had this Japanese Yodel burger — a freshly-made beef burger (did I hear a plaintive moo! from the kitchen? oh dear, was that what they meant by a Japanese yodel?) with lush porcini mushrooms and portobello tempura, all lovingly layered with a creamy fondue sauce. Yours was Norwegian salmon delicately folded upon a mound of grilled chicken and lots-of-cravings-satisfying pickles. And the crispy, buttery buns! I could munch on the stuff all day, they were that good.

And you know what? I even had my fries with some of that ketchup. Who says my tastes never change, eh?

Of course, now I know I shall never attempt another bout of food-reviewing. I simply do not have what it takes, my friends. All I managed was a smörgåsbord of floury adjectives and cheesy clichés. I best leave this to the experts then. I shall stick, instead, to what I’m good at — a banquet of flowery adjectives and clichéd cheese. (Yes, there is a difference. Hmmph.)

Still, the day isn’t over. So I may redeem myself yet for this dismal mockery of food-blogging. See, while I enjoyed the day like a verifiable tai-tai, there was still dinner to be reckoned with. Who would have known that I would transform into a househusband in the evening?

Helping you to clean up the apartment? Check. A back massage with a soothing and relaxing concoction of essential oils? Check. Putting you to sleep, snuggly-wuggly? Check. Cooking dinner from scratch, something I have not done since my student days in Germany, when I hosted dinner parties of fifteen pax? Wha..?

Relax. I have everything under control. How difficult could this be? (Famous last words, eh?)

Let’s begin with a poor man’s version of the wonderful Tigerfish’s Soba Noodles in Tahini Sesame, Nori and Pork Floss. Poor man’s version for I couldn’t find any pork floss in Bangsar. (They must not have a chapter of Babitarians Anonymous. Pakcik Nik should do something about this, ahem.) And then my world-famous (well, in Munich and Milano, anyway) Enoki Chicken with Red Peppers and Dried Peppercorn. And to finish the meal on a sweet note, tong yun (sweet dumplings with peanut-filling) in a light ginger broth. (Which, to be honest, you made, but I did do most of the meal…)

To be honest, I could have been a little less generous with the tahini butter and I should have used more peppercorns to spice things up since we do like it, uhm, hot. Yet, the look in your eyes as we supped together, and the happy roundness of my never-again-flat belly, well, what more could we ask for from a quiet, slow Sunday spent together?

Baby, it was perfect.

Maybe there is something to this househusband gig after all…

 

Airports, Actually

I. Arrivals

I love airports.

They are the nexus between worlds, the centres where ley-lines of travel and commerce meet. (Whyfore then do we have ‘business’ class and ‘economy’ class if not for this? Money travels exceptionally well.)

Airports are also a waiting place, for us to renew friendships and family ties. Remember the airport scenes that bookend the film ‘Love Actually’? All those screams of laughter and warm tears of gladness, simple seconds before recognition and the heart is elated — she’s arrived, safe and sound, my baby’s alright — and fills up with indescribable joy.

There is so much love here.

And people. So many people. They pour out of the arrival gates like ants, first in a trickle (the scouts out to check if the coast is clear), then rapidly build up into a mad mass of heads and trolleys and giant suitcases (attack! attack!) till it’s difficult to separate them all.

“There! Is that her?”

“No, too gaudy. Rachel has better taste than that. Simple lines, clean colours. That one looks like an Ah Lian from Chow Kit.”

“Oh, there’s a whole bunch of them now. All Chinese girls.”

“The flight’s from Hong Kong, small wonder. Aiyo, so many… all long hair some more. Eh, help me out, I can’t handle them all; some are coming from the other end as well.”

Like ants. Like porcelain-faced maidens with raven-black hair. Like Jimmy Choo-strutting clichés from the Mystical Far East. So many, so many of them. How can one possibly differentiate one beauty from the next?

Soon enough though, the stream of passengers thin out. You and your colleagues would be the final ones to appear. (Your boyfriend, with whom I’m colluding on this little surprise, has sent me a text message informing me of this turn of events. Something about your colleague’s luggage getting stuck along the conveyor belt. Will be late, he tells me. All the better. Save the best for last, no?)

And then, you appear like a ray of light, in your yellow blouse and with your brilliant smile as always. You are a sunburst on a rainy Friday evening.

Chatting happily with your friends, you don’t notice me till I’m standing right in front of you with a huge wolf-eating grin on my face. I can’t remember if you screamed but I know you are surprised.

“Welcome home, my dear.”

Flabbergasted would be the term to use, no? Seeing how happy you were was worth the waiting and the devious planning. And for a second (perhaps even more unexpected) surprise I introduced you to the Devil Wears Prada. My sweet Angel meets my little Devil.

O how fortunate am I — a man surrounded by his dearest and his beloved! I couldn’t ask for more…

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II. Departures

I hate airports.

People leave you here, or you have to leave them behind. Even if there is a return date, that moment seems an eternity away, when you desperately do not want to be apart. Separation is Hell — for family, for blood brothers or sapphic, sorority sisters, but especially for lovers. Young lovers, at that. Fresh and still bleeding from the melding of two hearts.

This is damn painful.

I don’t show this, any of this, though, I won’t allow it. Buck up, I tell myself, be a man and bear with it. Tough it out. All you see is my smile.

We head to the check-in counter after I’ve seen Rachel outside to where her boyfriend is waiting in his car. It’s your turn now, except you’re not arriving. No, you’re leaving. It’s just Melbourne and Sydney. It’s just a week or so. It’s no big deal.

But it damn well is.

There’s just enough time for dinner before you have to head in. We decide on KFC, something reasonably unhealthy so we can both bitch about our virtually non-existent widening waistlines. We order enough food to feed a small village. For a week.

It’s not enough to keep our mouths occupied though, and we talk and I tell you not to buy me anything, knowing very well you will ignore this. What else did we talk about? Nothing comes to mind except you staring at me and whispering, “You silly boy.”

You can see it in my eyes. I’m missing you already.

And how could I tell you about the week to come? The days are duller somehow, without you here. Work is fine but to come home to an empty apartment once more — how did I ever manage to live alone before? How I craved for my privacy and my sanctuary. Now everything is lifeless without you.

You will tell me about the sights and sounds of urban Australia, and it is all muffled by occasional rain and the constant awareness that we are not together. When you check into the new hotel in Sydney and find out they’ve given you a complimentary upgrade, all you can say is you wish I was there with you.

You wish you had cancelled this trip after all. I wish I had said to hell with work and gone with you instead.

How do I tell you that I come home at night and I sleep now on your side of the bed? I don’t know why I do it but it has your warmth somehow. (And I imagine, a couple of timezones away, you are doing the same, and we are connected somehow, together again.)

We count the days together. Five more days. Only four more to go. Three..?

When you had gone in, past the gates, I walked away to the trains, to head back to the city alone. Sitting in the cold and empty carriage, I am so tired I fall asleep almost immediately. And all I can dream of is returning to the airport in a week’s time, to welcome you home, to you and me.

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Airport photographs by Nina Chantrasmi.

 

Lines of Beauty

“Afternoon Tea” by Lao Kuang (remixed by Kenny M.)

I.
I am terrible at remembering lines of poetry. They are like rays of light on a winter’s day. Here one moment, gone the next. You can’t ever capture them, not for long. They escape, always. But beautiful nonetheless.

(I have experienced Beauty even if I am unable to hold her in my dreams.)

II.
Do you long for me to recite verses of love to you? I fear my memory may fail me, but trust me, my dear, where words are forgotten and lost, I still know my way back to you. In this life, in dreams, always. I can only escape to you.

(I will pen no lines of beauty but for you. There is no beauty but you.)

 

[Part I inspired by Msiagirl and Nic (KHKL). Part II dedicated to The Devil Wears Prada.]

 

Fresh Strawberries & Vanilla Häagen-Dazs®