The Bikini Prophecy - Part One

by Matt Kyler

  “God, I’m busting to go to the toilet,” says Emma. “I’ve been holding on for an hour.”

  Bernard’s brow furrows. “Why didn’t you use Bryan’s bathroom?”

  Emma squirms. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t.”

  “Really?” asks Bernard, in a tone that translates as ‘Don’t be so neurotic, woman’.

  Emma ignores him and directs her attention back to me. “I’m impressed you used the bathroom.”

  And there it is again … Impressive little me.

  This time, however, I know it isn’t sarcasm. I know Emma’s in awe because using Bryan’s bathroom was actually a difficult first step. It felt intrusive. Because Bryan is our new boss. Plus he’s outspoken, intellectually intimidating and physically imposing. All of which can unnerve any employee on their first day of work.

  Oh, and because Bryan is gay.

  Which is fine … because Bernard is too.

  And since it’s impossible not to have a melodramatic and complicated life within inner-city Sydney or the entertainment industry, it’s not enough for Bryan and Bernard just to be gay workmates, they have to be ex-lovers too. Which is also fine … unless you’re an anxious new staff member trying to work out what the fuck is going on socially, professionally and sexually between your boss, his ex-lover and the female co-worker you suddenly want to screw.

  The whole scenario had me almost pissing myself with fear.

  Which is why I had to use the bathroom.

  Of course, once I unzipped in Bryan’s private space, it became obvious that my self-confidence wasn’t the only thing that had shrunk. My dick had shrivelled too. And when I tried to piss, I couldn’t. I had stage fright. I felt over-scrutinised and began to wonder if my short-falls weren’t just professional, maybe they were physical as well. Then I began to wonder if I was as big a man as Bryan. Or Bernard. Or, more terrifying yet, if I was big enough for Emma.

  When I tried to shake the thought, it was no use. I couldn’t even think straight anymore. Eventually, I did the unthinkable.

  I sat down.

  And pissed.

  Like a girl.

  The action confirmed one thing: I was now less masculine than the most feminine gay man.

  Back in the foyer, I’m still staring at Emma.

  My bathroom insecurities return with a vengeance and all kinds of craziness begins to run through my head. I really want to impress this woman … just not with little things, like wearing a baseball cap or pissing with gay abandon.

  Of course, none of this makes sense. But nor does staring at Emma while visualising her going for pee in Bryan’s bathroom. Which, inexplicably, is what I do next. Inevitably this leads to me thinking about Emma being nude from the waist down. And before long I’m aware that I have managed to imbue a degree of neurotic sexual tension in an otherwise boring conversation that was—at least from Emma’s point of view—ostensibly about a hat.

  To over-compensate, I muster up the manly straight-shooter from within and get back to her original comment.

  I’m impressed you used his bathroom.

  “Nuthin’ to it,” I drawl. “When you gotta piss, you gotta piss.”

  I sound hugely impressive and very much like a real man.

  Tellingly, it’s the last time I will appear this way.

  UPRIGHT: Illusion, mad genius. I got a brilliant plan.

  REVERSED: Instability, confusion, distress. I got nuthin’.

  Of course, my transition into a dickless desperado didn’t happen right away.

  Like Claire’s emotional erosion over the years, it was gradual. It took ages and ages. At least a couple of weeks. And at first, my new life was amazing. It was coffee, donuts and 10AM starts. It was endless laughter with quick-witted people who got paid to make shit up. In fact, working in television was like one of those mythical jobs you only heard rumours about. A Chinese whisper that came from a friend of friend who knew some lucky motherfucker who actually loved Mondays.

  Well, I had become that lucky Monday-loving motherfucker.

  I had long lunches and early knock-offs. I had daily meetings where honest feedback wasn’t just welcome, it was expected. I had gay workmates whose joke-telling had no equal. I had a revolving door introduction to a dozen talented, lunatic writers who left me in awe. And I had a female love-interest who was humorous and brilliant through it all. All in all, I had the kind of job I didn’t want to leave, because when I went home I missed the creativity, the laughter and the cool chick who made me weak at the knees.

  And it got better before it got worse.

  In the following months Emma and I connected. We discussed movies and books and the writers of each. We listened to Bernard’s industry gossip during lunches, laughing in unison, thick as thieves. And when boredom arrived post-lunch, we regaled each other with tales about friends and their foolish misadventures with love, life and booze. Then after work we’d converse on the phone. I’d call her under the pretence of seeking advice and she’d duly play along. And slowly the line dividing private life and work began to blur. We talked about family, old loves and all the skeletons those reveal. We shared past regrets and future fears. And bit by bit, the chinks in our armour appeared. We were both hurt, both lonely. She wanted family. I wanted her. One night we kissed.

  Just once.

  But it was obvious to me that I’d do anything for her. Sacrifice any chance of fame, fortune and success, if it meant we could be together. Emma resisted, of course. Kept me at arm’s length. It was a self-preservation technique I’d never learned. So I soldiered on. Advancing constantly, desperate to conquer.

  “Come on, just one more dinner,” I plead over the phone. “If this one sucks, I’ll leave you alone.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Give me one good reason?”

  “Stop being so persistent,” she laughs.

  “I will if you give me one good reason.”

  “I already did: Never get your money where you get your honey!” She giggles and my heart swells.

  “That’s a shit reason. Give me a better one. I’m serious.”

  “I know you’re serious. So am I. I don’t want to mix work with pleasure. So you need to be an adult about this.”

  “What if I come over to your place right now and strip you naked. That’s pretty adult.”

  She groans in exasperation. “Really?! Is that your come-on line?”

  I let out a self-conscious snort. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear my come-on line.”

  “Try me,” she goads. I hear a hint of intrigue in her voice.

  “Nope. I’m trying to show some decorum.”

  “Do you use it on all the girls?”

  “All? We’re not talking scores of women here.”

  “So does it work?”

  “Depends on the woman. It’s kinda offensive.”

  “I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

  “I can promise that you’ve heard better.”

  “Try me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Come on,” she begs. “Don’t be a tease. Just say it. I’m not going to think any less of you than I already do.”

  We both laugh.

  I take a deep breath. “Look, it’s not even anything special. It’s just dirty talk. Basically, I’d just tell you what I want to do to you.”

  “So what do you want to do to me?” she asks seductively.

  The prompt is all I need. And for the next few minutes, I entertain her with a sexual fantasy until it reaches its natural climax.

  “The last bit about your pussy and arse is my come-on line.”

  “I so want to fuck you right now,” whispers Emma. Her breathless voice instantly turns me hard.

  “Give me five minutes,” I say. “To get there, that is. I only need three minutes for the other stuff!”

  Emma giggles. “I guess we’ll see how big a new talent you really are.”

  The comment throws me instantly and self-doubt leaps into my mind. If
she thinks I’m packing anything more than six inches she’s going to be sorely mistaken. Well, maybe not sorely. But certainly mistaken.

  “No … wait,” she says suddenly. “You can’t come over. We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

  “Stop stressing. It’s all good.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Seriously. Just chill and have some fun.”

  There’s no reply and with terror, I realise she’s doing the unthinkable: she’s collecting her fucking thoughts.

  “You still there?”

  “I’m sorry. But this is my career. I know you’re just starting yours but this is all I have.”

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

  “And what if it does? I can’t afford to risk this. You have family to fall back on. I don’t.” She pauses. “I have a mortgage.” She makes it sound like an incurable sexually transmitted disease and in a rare moment I’m almost lost for words.

  “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

  “It’s so unfair. I want a cute boy too,” she says and I almost choke. I’ve been called another word with the letters C, U and T. But it sure as hell wasn’t ‘cute’.

  “I’ll come around and we can talk about it.”

  “No,” she says firmly. “I don’t want you to come around.”

  “We can get the topic out there. Strip it naked—“

  “Matt, you need to stop.”

  “—and explore it deeper—”

  “Matt, I’m serious.”

  “—all night.”

  “Matt!” she snaps. “I want you to stop. Now.”

  I stop.

  But it’s too late.

  With or without sex, I’m completely screwed.

  Shit goes down hill from there.

  Emma’s rejection undermines my self-confidence and I begin to question whether her original interest was real or all in my head. In desperation, I make apologetic phone calls and send apologetic emails (not to mention flowers and love poems). I even make random unannounced appearances at her front door to apologise in person. Unsurprisingly, this quaint behaviour distances her even more! In response, I make more phone calls and send more emails to apologise for my previous phone calls and emails.

  Emma isn’t impressed anymore.

  To make matters worse, no one at work is either. And in a mirror image of my personal life, my professional life slides from the giddy heights of mediocrity straight into the gutter of utter crap. Rock bottom finally exposes itself one morning when the network’s aptly titled Head of Drama visits my office with an offer of coffee and small talk.

  “So, how are things going, Matt?”

  “Not good, John,” I reply, ashen-faced and sleep-deprived. “I think I’m in way over my head here.”

  John misses the subtext and glances at the TV scripts on my desk. “You’ll be all right. Just stick with it.”

  I smile grimly. “Actually, I’ve just handed in my notice.”

  A look of concern flashes across his face. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that,” he says in surprise and for a brief instant, I wonder if his drama background extends to acting. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Ironically, there is…

  I need a sounding board.

  I need to tell someone the same words I once hated hearing: That I can’t understand why I am so dependent on Emma; That I don’t know who I am anymore; That the person sitting here is not the real me; That I’m not usually this fucked-up, clingy, emotional loser; That I’m cooler, stronger and more confident than this. I need to say all of this … to someone … even if that someone is a high-paid executive from the country’s biggest commercial television network.

  Of course, I don’t utter any of that insane shit. Instead, I blurt out something worse.

  “To tell you the truth, John, the only reason I write is so I don’t kill myself.”

  The comment leaves John stranded speechless. An awkward silence fills the room. It holds for what seems an eternity and looks set to continue that way, short of someone breaking it with forced throat-clearing or the sound of heavy footfalls beating a hasty hallway retreat.

  John quickly obliges with both.

  His departure leaves me truly alone. It’s barely six months since Bryan’s first congratulatory phone call. And since then I’ve gone from failure to success and back again, in record time. That fact alone leaves me to conclude that I’m just one poorly composed love poem or rock ballad away from suicide.

  Thankfully, my ray of hope enters the office before I can start typing a note.

  “Good weekend?” I ask.

  Emma mumbles a half-hearted reply as she strides to her desk.

  “That interesting?” I say dryly.

  Her response is caustic. “Did you want a diary entry?”

  The jab rattles me so I turn to my computer and get back to the task of deleting—possibly useful—penis enlargement emails from my inbox. Behind me, I hear Emma’s desktop chime into life. The sound is followed by several forceful mouse-clicks and a barrage of angry keyboard strokes.

  Then silence.

  “Megan and I went to a psychic,” she says brightly.

  My heart soars at the peace offering and I swivel my chair to face her. “On the weekend?”

  “Yeah. She read our tea leaves too,” says the love of my life with the most beautiful goddamn smile I’ve ever seen. “We found her at a tea and tarot place in Balmain.”

  “So are you going to be rich and famous?”

  “I didn’t ask,” she says, giving me a look that speaks volumes about our respective priorities. “But she told me something better.”

  “Spill the beans.”

  “She told me that I’m going to meet the love of my life by the end of the year.”

  Blood drains from my face as the words sink in.

  My heart is screaming “What about me?”. My mouth, however, stays silent. I stare slack-jawed at Emma and slowly begin to understand the truth: I’m not good enough for her. Not successful enough, not talented enough, not handsome enough, not rich enough, not funny enough.

  I’m still staring like an imbecile when she says: “Apparently it’s going to happen on a beach. And she said a bikini has some significance, but she wasn’t sure if I was the one wearing it.”

  “A bikini? On a beach?” I feign an incredulous tone in an effort to regain some dignity. “Jesus, how much did you pay for that prediction?!”

  “Twenty dollars!” says Emma, and we both laugh at the stupidity of it all.

  “Well, I guess I know where you’ll be spending Christmas holidays … sun-bathing on Bondi Beach.”

  Emma grins like a Cheshire Cat. “Nope. I’ll be in Thailand, remember?”

  On her end of year vacation. A six week adventure starting with a party-bus tour through Europe and ending with a New Year’s beach resort stay in Thailand. Immediately, that last destination conjures visions of Emma sunbathing alongside some windswept and interesting backpacker who is charming her out of a bikini.

  The vision crushes my heart all over again. And suddenly, nothing else matters in my life but winning over Emma. Not the TV show, not fame, not fortune, not anything. All I want is Emma. But I need something to convince her that we are destined to be together. Some sign. Like my own matching bikini prophecy from a tea leaf reading psychic. So I do the smartest thing I can think of.

  I book an appointment at Tea and Tarot.

  “This other woman … you must not hurt,” says Celeste.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I say, defensively.

  Celeste eyes me for a long moment as if weighing the sincerity of my words against the truth of her cards. The silent judgement makes me feel like a fool until, finally, she releases me.

  “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Back to Death.”

  And she does, explaining that Death is actually birth. That The Lovers are, in my case, an obstacle to love, happiness, healing, creativity … and a
ny other positive experience that makes life bearable. Then she reels off a number of details that nail everything about me, from my personal traits to ambitions, inhibitions and expectations. It’s all pretty disconcerting despite me not wanting to believe a word of it.

  After ten minutes, Celeste can see I’m shellshocked.

  “You have to remember that this is just in the cards,” explains the fortune-teller. “It’s not a pre-defined future. It’s more of an early warning sign. A reminder to set things right.”

  I stare vacantly at the cards for a moment. “So is there anything good on the horizon?”

  Celeste points to the Judgement card.

  “That’s what this is about. Your past and present are bookended by conflict. The only way to move on is for you resolve the source of that negativity by confronting it. How you do that is entirely up to you. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah.”

  But, of course, it doesn’t.

  Because I’m now so confused about my own life that nothing makes sense. No one wants to hear that their life is at a disastrous crossroad, especially someone whose life is at a disastrous crossroad. All I want to hear is that I will find true love on a beach at the end of the year, thus confirming a shared destiny with Emma. Instead, I’ve been presented with two Lovers seeking Death and Judgement with sticks and swords. And according to Celeste, this all adds up to a future of inner turmoil, low career outcomes and unrequited love.

  It must be the worst fucking fortune-telling ever.

  Plus it cost twenty bucks.

  Deflated, I leave Celeste to her herbal tea and verbal diarrhoea, and decide to take destiny into my own hands. Determined to write myself into Emma’s bikini prophecy of love, I vow to take leave of my dream job, my ambitions and my mind to spend the next three months making myself windswept and interesting.

  One week later, I tempt fate.

  And take flight.