Lips Like Salted Egg Bakpao

LIPS LIKE SALTED EGG BAKPAO

by Audris Candra

(Content warning: abuse and transphobia)

My boyfriend is a dukun. He can break curses as skillfully as he casts them. He can pull spirits out of possessed people with just a swipe of his big, calloused hand. The very same hands are also experienced at kneading dough, shaping them into the softest, most fragrant of fresh breads.

Those very same hands, I can never touch. They remind me too much of my ex’s when he brought his down on me. Of my father’s, wrapped around my neck.

I sit on the kitchen island across from him while I watch him pour water into a mountain of flour. “What are you making today?”

“Bakpao. Not for us, but for our new neighbour.”

“What ails them?”

Ismaya grunts as he works the dough. A trace of faint golden light shimmers from his solar plexus and travels up his muscular chest and through his fingers. “A generational curse. But this will only help them alleviate the symptoms. If they wish to be free, they have to take the initiative.”

I lean forward, eyes glued onto the black bean paste he has ready on the side. Ismaya has never touched me, not unless I touch him first. But even then, every brush, every inch of skin contact, it burns like wildfire. Our first and only kiss was a flash in a pan.

I watch as he wraps the black bean paste and twists the upper part of the dough. “I’ve heard a story, where a man fooled with the daughter of a Dayak chief and broke her heart. The chief happened to be a strong dukun as well, so he used magic to steal the man’s dick, only to return it when the man grovelled in front of the daughter and swore to never hurt another woman.”

Ismaya only nods, waiting for my real point. 

“Can you steal a dick and attach it to me?”

Ismaya’s brown hands stop. He lifts his chin, and the soft hazel glaze of his eyes tells me his wish: to cup my cheeks and hold me close. But he doesn’t do that. 

“My dear, you’re not less of a man for not having one.”

In my mind, I know that. In my heart, however…

It’s why my ex and my father hurt me so.

“Besides,” he adds, “such magic can only be temporary.”

“Aw, dang. Imagine, though. Trans healthcare could go leaps and bounds. And maybe it wouldn’t be so expensive then.”

Ismaya simply smiles and steams his bakpao.

The next day, I wake up to a stiff object in my pants. Ismaya doesn’t say anything, but I notice that for the whole day, he doesn’t pay a visit to the toilet. Only once, and that’s to shower.

Curiosity begs me to play with myself, but I can't get my new member up. I can only think of Ismaya's sacrifice, how even if it doesn't hurt touching what's his, I'm still scared of touching him.

Another twenty-four hours, and my new member disappears. Well. It was nice while it lasted.

Our neighbour thanks Ismaya profusely for the bakpao. She said it brought back the appetite she had lost for years, if only temporarily.

Even if it’s only for a while. The words ring in my head. And it has to be me who takes the initiative.

Ismaya has made too much of the dough. It sits under a layer of cling wrap in the fridge, and I take it out. As if knowing that someone has messed with his magical tools, my boyfriend suddenly pops into the kitchen. “What are you making?”

“I’m not making anything. You are.” I push a couple of tosca duck eggs into his arms. “I want you to curse me.”

His eyes bulge wide. “What?”

“I want you to pelet me. Make me love you. Please.” I can’t be numb forever. I can’t be scared of love forever. I have to take the first step. I want to say all of these, but I’m choking on my tears.

Ismaya takes a moment. His confusion is now gone, and his gaze is firm. “Alright.”

I don’t watch him as he makes it. I curl up on the second-hand sofa we got off of a community forum. The salty smell of instant noodles and the sweet smell of his various breads have been baked into the sofa cushions, and I hug one tight as I wait.

Ismaya comes with a bamboo steamer. He opens it for me, and steam billows out before revealing three corn-yellow bakpao the size of my fists. I take one, and my teeth sink into the dough and the salty custard floods my mouth. The filling is slightly sweet, and it warms my chest as I slowly savour it.

My boyfriend doesn’t join me. He watches me, as he always does when he feeds me. “How do you feel?”

Slowly, I reach out for his hand. My fingers run over his bulging veins, my nails lightly scratching his skin. I trace the lines of his palms, and his pink lips curl upwards.

Even if the magic is only temporary. 

This time, it doesn’t burn. This time, I can hold it without crying.

This time, I lean in and kiss my dukun boyfriend. And his lips taste like salted egg bakpao.

AUDRIS CANDRA is a queer Chinese-Indonesian writer and editor. As a klenik, they’re always seeking to pour Indonesian magic into their stories. Their previous works have appeared in New Naratif and Haunted Hallways anthology. You can find them on social media with the username @audriserat.

Lips Like Salted Egg Bakpao was edited by Natasha Ramoutar. It can be found in Tales & Feathers Volume 3.