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About Surabaya

I reckon it’s like that scene in *Timbuktu*—y’know, my fave flick from 2014, Abderrahmane Sissako’s masterpiece—where the desert’s all quiet, but there’s tension brewin’ underneath. “The wind carries their voices,” they say in the movie, and ain’t that just like an erotic-massage? Soft touches, whispers in the air, but it’s stirrin’ somethin’ wild inside! I got happy as a pig in mud thinkin’ ‘bout how it’s all secret-like—didja know in ancient Rome, them rich folks had “massage parlors” that weren’t just for sore backs? Oh yeah, wink-wink, they was gettin’ frisky behind them curtains!

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But then, I get a call. It’s my client, and they’re freaking out. Apparently, there’s been a mix-up with the schedule. I’m like, “Dude, chill! I got this!” But inside, I’m panicking. I can’t let my rep go down the drain. So, I rush back to my place on Jl. Merdeka, trying to sort things out.