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I twisted clockwise the antiquated tap to release a splutter of cold water. Providing an echo to the splutter of the water was the final remains from my Dr. G shaving foam can. Purchased from Korea’s top dermacosmetic brand, I couldn’t help but be dismayed at the prospect of substituting back to a regular brand. There was no denying it. My skin had been glowing over the past few months. An abundance of vitamin D from the ever present sun light, coupled with my five step skincare routine. Oh, routine. I loved routine. Routine installs a sense of order, the principality of discipline, and most importantly, no surprises. Who needed surprises. I enjoyed knowing my days would consist of the morning crossword puzzle, a walk in the park, my daily ham and cheese sandwich, crusts removed, and bread cut into four equal sized squares. A little bit of mayonnaise, but not too much. It was necessary not to be excessive. The concept of marginal utility and all that. And finally, a glass of semi-skimmed milk with two chocolate chip cookies before bed. The razor therapeutically grazed my cheeks, removing the last few strands of stubble. I washed away the foam, and glanced at myself in the patterned oblong mirror. Today was a different day. It was to be a day to break from the routine. To do something, outside of my comfort zone. 

Growing up in the wilderness of Buckinghamshire, I had a simple upbringing. Whilst many a childhood involved televisions and gaming consoles, such appliances were banned in my household. My one hour of game time would be provided by a bag of marbles. Or a 1,000 piece puzzle of the London Underground, which I had completed 72 times, and a recorded a record time of completion in 12 minutes and 32 seconds. It was one of the greatest days of my life. The weekends would involve chopping and collecting wood for fire logs. I was a weak man and always struggled to wield the axe with any authority. Father lamented me for it. After working several years at the local Post Office, with my role to help distribute lost and misaddressed letters, I won a competition in the local newspaper. The prize, was a trip of a life time, to Guatemala. It wasn’t easy to convince Mother that I was responsible enough to go, but after agreeing terms, which included a curfew of 7PM, 3 daily phone calls, and a pre-planned itinerary, she agreed I could go. And now, here I was. In Lake Atitlan, Guatemela. 

My week so far, had been fairly unadventurous. Until, I met a man. His name was Michiel. Michiel was a tall man. So tall in fact, he towered over me with his 6ft 5 build. His athletic carves were something I’d marvel at. Height was not the only reason I looked up to Michiel, and when he asked me to join him for a boat party, I couldn’t believe it. A boat party! Originally I declined the offer, however Michiel imbued me with a sense of excitement and intrepidness. 

“You have to see the world” he remarked. “See it with me.”

Oh, Michiel, I would love to.

Michiel was right, and even if it meant my absenteeism from Mother would have consequences, I had a burning and passionate desire to experience, to feel, to live. 

“Michiel, I will join you on the boat party”, I replied, unable to hide my radiant grin, eyes dazzling with pride. 

I cast a look down at my cerulean Casio digital watch. 9:40AM. I had twenty minutes to complete my pre-party preparation before the required meet time at the departure venue. Smell. Smell, is distinctive, it’s unique, it’s personal. I removed my bottle of perfume from my turquoise toiletries bag. It was the same brand I’d had for the previous ten years. I had a peculiar, but ordered method of applying the perfume. I removed the cap, and applied one spray on the right side of my neck. Mirroring this, I applied a single spray on the left side. The next step was to carefully apply a single spray at the top centre of the torso. This was very important, to get it right. Because of my height, most individual’s noses would be aligned with the top of my torso, and so for a good first impression, my perfumed smell had to be ever present. Before pressing the nozzle, I paused. Today was a different day, as I had earlier commented. Routine was to be thrown out of the window. I removed the nozzle cap, and poured the bottle over head and shirt, drowsing the linen cotton in the fruit infused spray. 

“Just wear whatever you feel comfortable in” Michiel told me, when I quizzed him on the standardised fashion one should follow when attending a boat party. 

I decided to wear my favourite teal green shirt. I buttoned the shirt, all the way up to the collar. Mother would never let me leave the house without the top button closed. The long sleeved shirt would help be my guardian against the ferocity of the UV index. The collar grasped around my perfume lathered neck. It must’ve shrunk in the wash.

My phone chimed. A text from Michiel.

Where are you?! The party is getting started.

I rapidly responded.

I’m coming, Michiel! I’m so excited I could burst a grape!

Oozing with exhilaration and bursting with adrenaline, I walked ever so quickly, each stride larger than the last, until I was running. I arrived at the meet, to the delight of Michiel. Michiel was a popular gentleman, and he had a lot of friends, and like himself, they were all Dutch. 

“Have some Tequila!” 

“Oh, I’ve never had any teq-“ I was interrupted as a nozzle drizzled the blue agave drink into my mouth. I coughed, and I spluttered, wiping excess drips away from my chin. A coarse inner burn grew within my body. A beer, and another, and another got handed to me. Within the space of 30 minutes, I had sinned. The effects of the alcohol were evident, and I stumbled my way from the meet onto the boat. 

The boat was unremarkable. It had two stories, and was worn and pallid. At the back of the top deck, were two large speakers, accompanied by a DJ. On the bottom deck was a makeshift bar, and possibly a bathroom. I followed the Dutchies to the top deck, and as we approached, and found a space on the dance floor to call home, the music began to play. 

Miley Cyrus, Katy Perry, and a seemingly popular musician by the alliterated name of Bad Bunny dominated the early proceedings, heavily supported by the youthful crowd. 

“Have you ever experienced anything like this?”, one of the Dutchies asked me.

I studied the crowd. 

“What costume are those people wearing?”, I asked innocently.

“Um, that, that is a thong.”

Confused, bewildered, and in shock, I gaped at the sight that beheld me. Attending an all boys school, I had never witnessed a breast in such close proximity. In fact, the only breasts I had ever seen, were that of an Iron Corset at an exhibition at Hampton Court Palace, the former residence of King Henry VIII. The exhibition had showcased Tudor period fashion, with the corset demonstrating the ability to emphasise the fullness of the female bosoms. But that had been a rigid Iron frame. 

 After partaking of the surfeit of drink tokens, Michiel turned to me. 

“Undo your top button, come on, relax!”

Undo my top button, Michiel? Be exposed and reckless? I pleaded my case to Michiel, but his charisma and insistence won me over. As I undid the top button, an ineffable crime, a zephyr tickled the now free skin at the top of my chest. A tingle chimed through my body, and a sensation of freedom fulfilled me. But it was not enough. I wanted more. I ripped open the shirt, sending numerous buttons skidding across the decking. The desire, the urge, to be free, to be more, it was powerful and it was something that I would not stop. I guzzled more tequila and overheard a conversation to my left.

“The water here at the lake is so blue.”

I leaned over, and delicately whispered with a soft and seraphic tone. 

“Do you want to know why the water is so blue? It’s due to the limestone rocks. You see, they contain calcium carbonate minerals which-“

The group frowned at me and turned their backs.

“Which reflect light.” I completed the sentence under my own breath. 

My phone had four missed calls. I could just about see it in the blur of my screen. Mother was concerned. I’d missed the midday check in. 

“Stop looking at that, get on my shoulders” said Stijn, one of the Dutchies. His friend Gijs helped me clamber on his broad back. Stijn raised me to the roof, and I was on top of the world. Cheers and screams were directed my way. The crowd had adorned themselves with t-shirts, celebrating my face and name. How and where did they get these? Before my questions could be answered, repetitive choruses of “Go Ravi, go Ravi” circled the boat. Girls smiled and boys waved. I shouted back, but I could not hear it. A bell. A distant bell in the background. And as the seconds passed by, the decibels grew more audible. Suddenly, the bells were sirens and I could not hear and I could not see. Everything was blank.

I awoke and turned to the alarm next to me, before switching it off. My mouth was stale and dry. My forehead was sore, almost indented, having been pressed against the surface of the desk. I looked around. Letters. Post stamps. Everywhere. I couldn’t, had I? I had fallen asleep during my shift. Two posters glared at me on the wall. A Dutch handball team game poster. And a Guatemala competition poster. A King Henry VIII themed pencil lay forth. A half eaten ham and cheese sandwich, crusts broken off, with a slither of mayonnaise, but keeping it controlled. The dream, had felt like an adventure. Were these fictitious friends, or would I meet them in another life. In some ways, I was relieved it was a dream. It was some life, but it was not mine. A new bag of letters were delivered to my desk. These letters weren’t going to deliver themselves, I thought. And this, was my life. A life, I was content with. And after all, at the end of the day, waiting for me at home, was a solitary glass of milk and two chocolate cookies.