Dearest Lost Bikini Bra,
I wish I had the words to tell you how keenly I miss you.
We met at a hole-in-the-wall togs shop in Bondi Beach, Australia. The woman behind the counter took in my 34Ds with the cool appraising eye of a jeweler.
“This is what you need,” she told me flatly. “It’s this one or nothing.”
You were a feat of engineering to rival the Great Pyramids. Your genius was in your simplicity. With two wires, two teeny strings, and two triangles of cloth, you and I violated the law of gravity together. Fuck off, Mr. Newton. These apples are never falling down.
Look, Lost Bikini Bra, I don’t hate my body, but let’s be realistic: love handles here, a bit extra on the tummy there, and breasts that haven’t been able to pass the pencil test since junior high. But when you were with me … oh, boy, were my tits perfect. Nestled so close against my tenderest bits, you made me look and feel so sexy, like nothing and nobody had ever done before.
Sometimes, if I was feeling particularly cheeky, I would let a boy untie you before I sunbathed. They always liked that part. Then you would lie by my side as the warm Australian sun slowly turned my nipples from pink to brown and erased the white marks where your strings caressed my neck.
When I took you home to Texas, we swam through clear springs and rivers together, and you still looked as good as the day we found each other, unmarred by a single snag or fade.
And then … oh, it’s all my fault, Bikini darling. I should have taken better care of you.
My ex-boyfriend says he lost you in the move. A likely story. Where are you now? In a dark U-Haul box, stuffed between that ridiculous automatic bread maker and last year’s bank statements? Or are you stashed guiltily in a sock drawer, stiffened and stained by his sticky secret juices? Oh, that sick bastard. I don’t know which scenario is more heart-wrenching: you forgotten or you defiled. At least in the latter you’re getting a bit of attention.
You deserve my honesty: I went shopping for a new bathing suit yesterday. It’s not that I wanted to replace you, darling, but I gave up hope that we’d ever be reunited. Can somebody tell me why it’s so damn difficult to find a reasonably sexy bikini that fits me? Talk about four torturous hours of my life that I’ll never get back—much like my $100, which is also gone for good. Your replacement will do in a pinch, but it doesn’t hold a candle to your glory.
I have a photo of you that sums up how right we were for each other. You and me on the purest white sands of Sydney’s Pacific coast. We look so happy together, and, holy shit, did you make my tits look good.
So goodbye forever, my darling Lost Bikini Bra. We’ll always have Australia.