Mike’s watch alarm obnoxiously started to yell at me in a very clock-like language. I looked at my own watch, three a.m., Myanmar time. “Mike.” He answered me with a snore. “Mike!” I jabbed him in the ribs for good measure.
“Hmmm? What?”
“We have to get up, it’s time to go on the fucking balloon.” Three a.m. was always good in theory, when you had to wake up for something exciting. But actually having to do it was a whole other story. I was regretful and angry. Screw you, Orwell and your Pegu cocktail. Screw you, gin. Shit, my head hurts. Why the fuck am I getting up at three a.m.? Apart from dairy farmers, I doubted any other humans ever woke up at this time, by choice, anyway. Even murderous psychopaths don’t wake up this early to go and hunt people. And if they did, they weren’t very good psychopaths, because no one else would be awake for them to hunt. Which, come to think of it, may have been a good thing.
I made a mental note to start drinking milk with a little more gratitude.
Mike raised a sleepy but gorgeous head. “Fucking balloons? I thought you wanted to go on these fucking balloons more than anything.”
“Shut up. It’s three a.m. Nothing is enjoyable at this time of the morning. We have to get up,” I said with no intention of surfacing from the silky sheets. “You get up first and show me how it’s done. I’ll roll over and get another five minutes’ sleep.”
A quick stretch of his well looked after limbs and Mike looked ready to face the day. I started to hate him a bit. Cocktails and jetlag go very well, but the next day they come together to wreak havoc on your mind and body. Exercise 1, gin-based cocktails 0.
“Come on, Rosie, you promised not to be grouchy.”
Had I? I didn’t remember making any such promise. It certainly didn’t sound like anything I would say.
“Coffee. I need coffee. Coffee, or the world will end. I’ll make sure it does.” Mike was not acting urgently enough, he was almost relaxed as he gathered his clothes for the day. I enjoyed watching his ridiculously tight butt from the luxury of satin sheets. It may be three a.m. but a sight that like almost makes being awake worthwhile. Almost.
“Okay, Lex Luthor, go have a shower, reset your revolting mood, and I’ll see what I can rustle up. I’m going to see what I can find in the way of breakfast, in about ten minutes. Do you want something?” He was doing push-ups. Effortlessly. This was turning out to be the best morning of my entire life. “I only eat organic when I can,” he said in between counting his push-ups. “I wonder if they have organic options.” He counted to fifty and was done. “Do you want something to eat?” he asked me again, standing up and stretching. Too many questions for so early in the morning. Too many muscles for so early in the morning, my mind was swimming, my body was reacting in an almost uncomfortable way. Stay cool Rosie. No gushing school girl here today. “You’ll feel better after some quality fruit.”
“No. Go away.” I pulled the covers over my eyes. “Organic? You only eat organic food?” That would explain why he didn’t eat any food on the planes. “Organic, as in without anything added it? What, just a peach or something? But if it doesn’t have any chemicals in it, how does it work?” Mike answered by throwing a pillow in my face. If it was any time other than three a.m. I would have been annoyed. Of course he only eats organic food. Even Frank was left songless, so I filled in for him, singing “I Get a Kick Out of You” as I clambered out of the comfortable bed I just shared with Mike. His side was still warm and I could still smell him on the pillow.
From the shower, I could smell the coffee Mike had returned with. “There’s a café downstairs, and yes, they have a proper barista. And even better, Rosie, they are open twenty-four hours a day. I got you a short black.” I couldn’t get out of the shower fast enough to taste my first coffee in another country. Australians are renowned for their coffee, ask any of us and we will tell you it’s the best in the world. But it was all I had ever tasted.
My first taste of Myanmar coffee, which I had read about in the inflight magazine, had recently begun being produced in large amounts of higher grade Arabica coffee. I took a sip. It had a good body. I took another sip. It was strong. I took a final sip. It tasted earthy, there were aggressive tarry flavours with a hint of what…I licked my lips, what was that flavour? Garlic? The local coffee was actually nothing short of spectacular. The elixir started to warm my bones, unfurling a deep energy reserve that no other drink could have summoned. I felt better and almost ready to get excited about our balloon ride.
Some cotton shorts and a light cardigan was the perfect outfit for ballooning, as discussed by Snip and I when I was packing. Mike had donned his usual shorts, t-shirt, and joggers. He looked pale though. Either the organic fruit or the excitement of our impending ride was wreaking havoc on his perfectly maintained body. Serves him right. No one can live without sugary sweets in their diet and not suffer consequences from time to time.
At three-twenty the front desk rang to say a representative from the ballooning company had arrived to collect us. Mike went even whiter.
“You okay, Mike?’
“Fine. Just hurry up.” And he had told me to reset my mood? Grabbing my bag, I raced out the door, my shorter legs struggling to keep up with Mike and his very clenched fists.
The very same driver who had collected us from the airport waited to take us to the balloon site. Was he the only driver in Yangon? Excitement was building, for me anyway. Mike was growing more agitated and moody with every turn of the car. Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart” twanged over the taxi radio. It was unlikely there was a more 90s song ever written. Man, I hadn’t heard this song in twenty years! Mike was unimpressed with Myanmar’s ability to stay locked in a decade that was a lot better than people gave it credit for. Although it was possible he wasn’t even hearing it. He seemed locked in his own world, sheltered from whatever was happening around him.
I rolled down the window and, sticking my head out the window, sang along with Billy Ray. It felt good to cut loose, to not give a crap about how I was presenting myself, what other people thought. No one knew me here anyway and Mike was too busy undertaking some sort of sulking fit to pass judgment. A shame, because I thought I was sounding really, really good, in tune and all.
I looked like a fool and no doubt sounded like one too, even if I was in tune. The driver turned down the radio. I returned to my seat, indignant but determined not to let his unappreciation of my newfound country singing skills to ruin my day.
It was still dark as we pulled into a flat plain, filled with four deflated balloons. A driver was stationed at each basket doing safety checks. As we stepped out of the car, our balloon driver introduced himself.
“Hello, I am Hlaing and I will be your driver today,” he said, shaking our hands.
Hlaing ran through some safety procedures as Mike became so pale I thought he might do his own impersonation of a 1920s film starlet fainting.
“Mike, what is wrong with you?” I asked. He was nowhere near as excited as he was supposed to be.
“Rosie, I don’t think I can do this.”
“What do you mean? Of course you can. Just get in the basket.” The sun was starting to rise, we were running out of time. Three other couples had already drifted off into the sunrise, sparkling wine in hands.
“No, I can’t do it. I’m terrified of heights.”
I swallowed a laugh. This was the toughest man I had ever known. He went to war, he did pull-ups in public places, but a balloon ride was going to make him fall apart?
“Just get in the basket,” I repeated, not wanting to indulge his silly fear that was going to ruin this once in a lifetime experience.
“You no worry,” Hlaing said. “Safe. No die.” He shook the edge of the basket, as if some woven wicker was going to make Mike feel safe. To his credit though, Mike tossed a muscular leg over the edge of the basket and scrambled in. I had to use a step-ladder to join him.
It took a good ten minutes to coax a pale and shaking Mike out from the ball he had knotted himself into. Slowly he stood, white as a ghost and visibly trembling. So this was why he had reacted the way he did about the balloons. Poor guy. Yet here he was, facing his worst fear to indulge me. I had never experienced a fear of heights, so I wasn’t sure what was the best way to help him. I opted for watching him out of the corner of my eye and not laughing. Here I was, looking after someone else. I felt like Mother Teresa, only without the religious drive.
Flying over the Bagan area, we may as well have been on another planet. The beauty and the diversity of the temples and stupas below were breathtaking. No picture could ever do it justice. They hadn’t. Mike was too busy focusing on his own breathing and hanging onto the edge of the basket for dear life to notice anything but the white light at the end of a tunnel, which he probably thought he was seeing.
We glided over some trees and Mike bravely reached over the side of the basket and picked a leaf for me. He unfurled each individual finger until the tip of his smallest finger gingerly let go. Having no idea what sort of tree it was, other than a green one, and not really caring, I tucked it into my bra, knowing I would treasure it forever. Mike had gone through a lot to pick it for me, it was priceless, assuming I could get it through Sydney customs. I might have to eat it and retrieve it later, which I would do if I had to. If it worked for heroin addicts, it could work for a chubby, leaf-eating cranky person.
The sun rose, painting the landscape a golden hue, and everything I cared about in that moment was in the balloon basket with me. It was pure happiness. I took Mike’s hand and he squeezed it in response. The fish in my blood started doing backflips, a huge feat considering fish didn’t really do backflips. But this was the effect Mike had on me. And I loved it.
***
Having to attend a conference after existing in a magical realm to watch a sunrise from a hot air balloon was a total letdown. It had been hard to come down from the experience, even as the balloon slowly drifted back to solid ground. In contrast, perched on cheap seats with itchy fabric and barely sharpened pencils was a world far away from the one we had floated over together.
“One of the best ways to be a great radio host is to be a good writer. You need a way with words and it needs to come naturally. Or at least it needs to appear to your listeners to come easily. It’s about perception.”
I shifted to the edge of my seat. My inner journalist was delighted. I could write, I was going to be good at this exercise. I grinned at Mike, feeling as cocky as I knew I looked.
The old speaker continued in his Australian accent. “Let’s do a writing exercise. I want you to think back to a moment in your childhood. Any moment. Now, I want you to write a sentence that alludes to the weather. The next will show something of the clothes you are wearing, the next, a hint to your psychological state.”
He meandered through the rows of writing attendees as he continued. “The point of this exercise is to get in the habit of weaving information into the story. We don’t want to be essayists, with a beginning, middle, and finish clearly defined. Background information can be peppered through your story.”
I was blank. Absolutely blank. Of course this would happen. My eyes searched the room looking for some sort of inspiration. Any inspiration.
Rob, the speaker from the University of Melbourne, hadn’t noticed the mouse running around inside the light on the ceiling above him. I was trying to write a masterpiece and show Mike that there were things in this life I was good at, but the scurrying of the rodent was distracting. If the little bastard managed to get out, there was going to be a lot of screaming and standing on chairs, and that would be even less conducive to writing my masterpiece.
I’d always fancied myself as the next Hemingway; if he was a cranky bastard and was a terrible writer who wanted to be a journalist but failed. And being the next Hemingway was one of the many reasons I wanted to be a journalist. A lot of journalists write best sellers, there was no reason that I would not have been one of them. Well, except for the fact I wasn’t a journalist. I wanted to be Hemingway except I couldn’t write anything or say anything on air that wasn’t a thinly veiled attempt at complaining. I’ll admit it, I couldn’t remember reading any Hemingway, I hope I did at some stage, but when people talk about writers, his name invariably crops up.
What a show-off. In the future, if people ever spoke about Orwell, I could at least say that I had been to Myanmar, which was possibly better than writing like Hemingway. Not really, but it was the best I could do. Stupid Hemingway.
The mouse was getting louder. Whatever he was doing, he too was winning, being good at whatever a mouse does; squeaking and scrambling about with a twitching nose. Everyone, every creature in the room was better than me. They were all too busy scurrying or writing, the humans unaware of the four-legged, near death experience that hovered above them, separated by a single sheet of some sort of plastic. Even Mike was furiously scribbling something on his notepad.
Time was running out and I had written nothing. What on Earth was everyone writing about? How were they so industrious? It was too quiet to think. The clacking of cheap pens on perfectly lined paper wasn’t helping either. I really wanted to get hold of the microphone and an iPod outlet and play the theme music to “Jaws.” Not because it would help me write, but it might help put the others off. I’m sure Frank wouldn’t mind if I substituted him for one of the greatest pieces of music written of all time. Three notes and the most terrifying theme music was written.
God, I hated sharks and the ocean and it was all that movie’s fault.
Concentrate, Rosie! My inner voice, the voice of reason as always. Concentrate? Thanks for pointing that out, because it hadn’t occurred to me that I was supposed to be concentrating. I hoped my inner voice could hear the sarcasm I was laying on pretty thickly. Between this annoying inner voice, my dad, and Frank, my head was getting really crowded. No one cares about your shark fear. Except you, of course. And don’t think about it at all, especially since you’re going to be swimming in the ocean. Don’t think about it. Change the subject, Rosie!
I glanced at the writing of the women next to me. A poet. Great. Of course, I would get stuck next to probably the only poet in the room. Why would a poet be at a radio conference? She was obviously a failed poet like I was a failed journalist, and was taking this moment to make the most of her stupid poetry skills. We seemed to have a lot in common.
Her scribbles were no help, no inspiration lay hidden in the tangle of messy words she was playing with. I hoped the mouse would fall on her, should it fall. That would give me something to write about.
“Pens down,” said Ron, his grey hair and age lines highlighted by the fluorescent lights, including the one with the mouse in it. I looked at Mike’s page. It was filled. His writing was impressively neat, not surprising. I looked at my page. I had managed to draw a picture of a shark. A stick figure shark.
The mouse didn’t fall and I didn’t end the exercise heralded as a writing genius. I had just spent forty minutes trying to participate in a crash course on how to write in order to be a better radio host and no one even died.
The stupid speaker went on and on and on. I tried to listen and learn, to be able to make the most of the money the station had spent, but old issues centered around a life lost had gotten the better of me. I was an unsuccessful, failed journalist. No paper took me on after Uni, not even for a cadetship. Okay, so I only applied for three, but ego was a powerful thing. I should have been at the New York Times by now. It was the first time in my life I suffered from rejection because it was the only time I ever put myself out there.
I heard bits and pieces of what the speakers were saying. “blah blah explore topics fully.” “Blah blah intellectual curiosity.” “Blah blah research.” Mike looked sexy when he was learning.
And finally, day one was over. One day down, one to go, and then Mike and I had two free days to explore. I really hoped we would be exploring each other. There was a rustling urgency as people collected cheap pens and perfectly lined papers and got out of the stuffy conference room.
“Do you want to go for a swim?” I asked Mike as we poured out of the conference room along with a hundred other stiff people.
“Yes! My muscles need to stretch, I haven’t sat that still in…geez, since school I think.”
I guiltily thought back to my days of watching The Walking Dead or Buffy. Days that could stretch into whole weekends and much worse if I was on holidays. Those were still some of the best days of my life. Just me and my pals banding together to fight monsters. Pals who didn’t care how many sugary cakes I ate, in fact, they encouraged me to eat as many as I wanted. They never actually said anything to me, I’m not crazy, but I could tell they wanted me to be happy. Isn’t that the whole point of having friends? So, they can encourage you to pursue what makes you happy without judgment. It would be the perfect scenario if my friends were actual people.
We headed to the elevators to get changed for our first swim in the Bay of Bengal. My first swim with Mike. My first swim in public since Uni. Did my thighs just start rubbing together? They felt sweaty. Yes, they were definitely sweaty.
The sea. What a rip off. All picturesque white sand and aqua blue water. The stupid white sand rubbed irritatingly against my feet, feet that were not at all used to being exposed to the elements. I felt the need to stop after every step and remove the unwelcome grains from between my toes, but I knew it would have been a moot activity. Mike was at home on the beach. His naturally olive skin and muscles were made for being bared to the fresh air and the other swimmers. He looked like he had just stepped out of a tanning lotion commercial. I cursed as I pulled at my sarong, which kept wedging itself between my thighs.
“Did I mention that I actually hate the ocean?” I asked Mike. Everything was making me irritated. I breathed in deeply and tried to focus on the feeling of the sun on my transparently white skin and the smell of the surf in my hay feverish nostrils.
“Come now, Rosie, nobody actually hates the ocean.” In a fluid motion, Mike picked me up and tossed me over his shoulder.
“Put me down, you’ll hurt yourself!”
Mike picked up speed, splaying flecks of sand behind his feet, which were soft and smooth, it looked like he moisturised them. A few steps later and they were covered in water. The water was rising, heading towards his hips and my head. I squealed, sounding like a playful schoolgirl, but I was actually petrified.
Mike tossed me into the water and I took a mouthful of salt water. Wiping it from my eyes and spitting it out of my mouth, I glared at Mike, who ignored me by gracefully diving under a wave.
“Shit, Mike, you shouldn’t do that to people! Christ, I could have been eaten by a shark, you know. Or a blue bottle. Do they have blue bottles here? I heard there are giant squids too. What if one of those were in the area?” Trying to regain my composure, I thought, what would Buffy do? I couldn’t remember ever seeing her swim in the ocean. Not once. If the all-powerful defender of the entire human race, super hero woman didn’t swim in the ocean, I shouldn’t be in it. Mike clearly disagreed.
“Rosie, just relax. You’re fine, I’m fine, there are no dorsal fins in sight, or tentacles. Come here.” He pulled me to him and I wrapped my legs around his waist. This was better. Much better. I snaked my arms around his neck. The yellow in his eyes was gone today. He looked younger.
“Mike, I’ve seen all the documentaries about the ocean: Deep Blue Sea, Sharknado, Jaws, and I’ve read all the textbooks: Megaladon: Deepsea Terror parts 1 through 9. I know what can happen.” I was indignant, but he wasn’t listening to me. He kissed me and the pure pleasure of it distracted me for a moment. Just a moment.
“So, these documentaries and text books. I really enjoyed the fear they instilled in me and I learnt a lot about the ocean’s true nature. Bathing or showering is totally overrated. Living in fear is much more important.” Mike pulled me closer to him and his smell replaced the oceanic scent. His was a much nicer smell, safe, strong, masculine.
“As I was saying, the ocean is the devil’s playground. It is hell on Earth. Poets made a mistake when they wrote about hell being all fire and brimstone. It’s salty water and sharks that exist only to eat people.” Mike pulled me closer to him and kissed me again. I was surrounded by him.
“Why do you think the ocean has to be hell on earth, Mike? Mike? Are you listening to me? Land roaming animals have a nice planet.” I swept my arm towards the trees in the distance. “It is solid, not salty, and there are not weird creatures that can swim from nowhere and eat you.” Mike pressed my legs tighter around him. He was hard.
“It’s nice on land and the further away this land is from the ocean, the nicer it is. Once humans start getting close to the ocean, the land becomes discombobulated and sandy and this sand gets everywhere. It makes me dizzy and itchy and really scared.” He moved himself closer to me. Definitely hard. Very hard.
I continued, babbling on but completely aware of his hardness against me. “These feelings are a warning that the ocean and its horrid ways are close. WARNING: wrong way, go back.” What the fuck was I talking about? “WARNING: there is no exit here. Do a U-turn as quickly as possible.” Dear god, make me stop. “WARNING: no gods allowed.”
“That last one says it all, Mike, because the ocean doesn’t even accept dogs and—” Mike kissed me, preventing any more rubbish pouring from my mouth. God had heard my prayer. I forced myself to focus on the man in front of me, this man perfect in every way, who could have gotten erections over any woman he wanted to, was erect with me. For me.
Looking around to see the nearest swimmer was a good ten metres away, Mike tugged gently at my swimmer bottom. “How would you feel about stopping talking long enough for me to make love to you, right here in the Bay of Bengal?” An urgency built up between my legs. Suddenly, I no longer had anything to say. I tightened my grip around Mike’s body and kissed him aggressively.
He slipped a hand from my hips and tugged at my swimmer bottoms, removing them enough for his cock to slide in. “I’m going to fuck you, right here, right now, Rosie.” With my body pinned against his by the strength in his arms, he speared me, his huge cock filling me and taking my breath away.
“Take me, Mike, I am all yours.” I wanted it—I wanted him—and as he slammed into me again and again, I felt myself totally surrender to him.
His breathing became rapid as he orgasmed, shooting his load into me, his muscles convulsing around my waist. Watching his face as he reached climax, I joined him in ecstasy, completely losing myself to this beautiful and uncomplicated man. My muscles squeezed around his cock, shuddering with each thrill that coursed through my body. And when we had both finished, I went limp in his arms, feeling as though my bones had been sucked out of my body.
“Mike…” I wanted to say something but I had no idea what it was I was supposed to say, or what I wanted to say. I was afraid this would not be a good time to say something that would make me sound like a weirdo.
“Rosie, you don’t have to say anything.” He was smiling. “In fact, I know you, so please, I’m begging you, don’t say anything.”
“I was going to say,” I was indignant and at very real risk of rambling, but the need to keep my dignity and appear like a normal, intelligent person had never stopped me before.
“I was going to say that I hadn’t finished explaining to you why the ocean is the devil’s playground. But come to think of it, I think you just changed my entire, life-long perspective on the ocean. It’s actually not so bad, especially if you have a sexy ex-drill sergeant holding you up.”
With my legs still wrapped around him, I leant back into the water, floating, enjoying the sensation of salt water freely for the first time. Mike would have made me feel safe anywhere though, even in the middle of an erupting volcano, and even in a plane that was on fire and about to crash. Even, I held my breath, even in a sugar-free cake shop.
I turned to the beach, seeing the world in a new perspective. A small group of fishermen wrestled with an empty net along the beach line. I wondered how poor they were. I wondered if they were poor at all. Wealth was fairly relative, I was sure. Would they starve if they were unable to fill their net? Would their wives have to sell their bodies on the street to buy fish the men were unable to catch?
Everyone has a social issue that speaks to them, that makes them feel passionate and want to go on marches chanting angrily. My social issue is the sex slave industry. Slavery is more prolific now than in any other time in history and it’s because of sex slavery. I know this because I saw a speech made by Obama on the issue. The industry is not what it used to be, either. No longer is it filled with runaways and drug addicts. The victims are from all walks of life, usually lured away by promises of romance and love. I know all this because I am passionate about it, I’m passionate about helping these women. I am so passionate I Googled it once, I wanted to find ways in which I could help these women. But it was really complicated, so I gave up. I’m still passionate about it though.
After feeling Mike spurt his seed inside me, I was a changed woman and I decided I would once again Google this social issue. Perhaps this time I would be more inclined to click past the second page. I hoped so.
“Let’s go back to the hotel room, I’d like to take you out for dinner,” Mike said.
“I would like to be taken out for dinner, thank you.”
Mike theatrically threw me over his shoulder again after we put our swimmers back in place, and marched back towards the resort. My legs were still more like jelly than actual legs after our encounter. For the first time, I was relieved to have Mike carry me like an invalid, or cave woman, and to be taking the elevator. Poor Thomas had stepped in a moment before us and once again was stuck in the small space with us. I didn’t mind sharing the zone with him this time but I doubted he felt the same.
The elevator doors opened onto the communal living room, filled with people enjoying a pre-dinner drink. I was still enveloped in a warm glow of happiness, I was pleased to be surrounded by other people, probably for the first time in my life. People were marvellous! Elevators were marvellous! Life was marvellous! Everything was just marvellous! I gave Thomas a big cheesy grin and he quickly looked away from the annoying Westerner who may or may not have been on drugs. Drugs of love, Thomas.
“Nobody fucking move!” The masked gunmen came from nowhere. I froze, rooted to the spot, my beach bag falling to the floor in seemingly slow motion. It thudded onto the hardwood floor, just outside of the elevator door. I didn’t think I’d ever heard a louder noise in all my life.