I’ve been gone six years. A lot has happened. None of it as interesting as what happened in Bali.

I’m writing this from a cute little café in the heart of leafy Ubud, tapping away on my laptop, watching the rain pour down while the sounds of smooth, wordless jazz, motorbikes whizzing past and tourists laughing fill my ears. Rain is far more romantic when it’s 29 degrees, don’t you think? Not that fine drizzle Peter Kay once described, but heavy, tropical, relentless rain and yet I feel utterly romantic watching it from inside, sipping a hazelnut oat latte.

I’m practically Balinese now.

Once again I have found myself on the road, pretending to be a digital nomad whilst holed up in a three-star cottage with a pool view. The very same hotel I visited all those years ago. It’s Day Two, spoken in a Big Brother Geordie accent, and I have somehow managed to burn my tits even through cloud cover.

Where was I? Oh yes. Being oiled up.
By a Balinese masseur, to be precise. I lay there picturing him hard, wondering what he looks like beneath his uniform, wondering if this is arousing him. Wondering if he knows it’s arousing me. He asks me to turn over. With pleasure, I think to myself. Rolling over, he masterfully begins to work on my right leg. Oil and pressure, fingers moving over my skin, almost meeting the tops of my thighs. He’s so close. I can feel myself getting wetter, the rain outside suddenly feeling like a very unsubtle metaphor. All I can think about is his fingers slipping beneath the material. I realise I’ve started to murmur softly and his touch becomes lighter. His hands are warm. My thighs get hot. My clit is beating so loudly I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

He draws the massage to a close and fills the bath with flowers and oil, informing me I have thirty minutes. The scent of cigars and coffee drifts through the open window, mixing with the rain and something vaguely funky I can’t quite identify. Outside the rain intensifies.

I couldn’t have written this better.

That feeling, you know the one, when you think you’re about to blow. Is he going to sneak into the bathroom and bend me over the bathtub? It’s like he knows how unclean my thoughts are. So dirty, in fact, that I have to sit in a bath of flowers just to repent.

I lower myself in. Pink petals lap against my skin and I stroke my thighs slowly, fingers gliding through the oil. Like that scene in American Beauty. If I was wet. My clit still warm, still insistent, I dip my hand beneath the water , going boldly where no Balinese man dared to go, and touch myself softly. Just once. Then again. It feels extraordinary: warm water, flower petals, tropical rain, and thirty uninterrupted minutes.

And yet. I can’t quite get there. Not sure why. I suppose there’s a romance in that too. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it.
I get out of the bath and Dewa calls through the door to ask if I’m okay. Just taking a shower, I tell him. The join me is entirely silent as I picture him pushing the door open, one hand finding my breast while the water runs hot over my shoulders, the other hand reaching between my legs, finding the spot he missed, index finger gently massaging, dipping, entering. I grip his shoulder. I wet his t-shirt. I bite his collar.

I turn off the shower and brush my hair.
Back at the café now, rain still hammering down, unable to open the rather enthusiastic videos a man I once fucked has been sending me since approximately lunchtime. There’s something both deeply romantic and extremely stupid about arriving in Bali during rainy season without an umbrella or a mac.

If I ever leave this café, orgasming will be my first priority.

The jazz plays on. Nobody really likes jazz do they?

I might never leave. I might never touch myself again.

..