Splash.
Splash is the first high-end beach club in Lembongan. It’s sleek and expansive, full of grey concrete and silent water falls and palm trees lit up from below. Sun loungers line the azure pool, unoccupied for now but influencer-ready. It’s night-time, and from where we’re sitting I can see beyond the dark green shop-bought grass to the white sand. I can’t see the water but I can hear it go in and out, in and out, just like it’s breathing.
There’s a DJ in the main room with a Supreme bumbag strapped across his chest and a t-shirt that says CHANEL in over-sized writing. I can hear his hard, fast pop remixes through the glass double doors but the high-energy music only emphasises the fact that the room is vacant. The place is so impressive it should be jam-packed. It should be full of women sipping cocktails in intricate outfits and men in too-tight t-shirts ordering trays of shots. But, as usual, Splash is completely empty.
We’re sipping drinks on the terrace. Tonight I feel particularly close to sealing the deal with him. There’s a thick pull whenever he’s in the vicinity; my senses know where he is even when I’m not looking at him. It’s not a pleasant feeling. It’s stressful and intense and it’s easier to stay away, but it doesn’t make a difference if I do because that thick pull remains. I felt it like black magic when we met last Friday, and I’ve been sinking deeper ever since.
We’re talking about a promoter who has a bad reputation.
“Why?” He asks, blue eyes sparkling in the night. He holds the beer in his half-sleeved arm. A red spider web runs from his knuckles up to his wrist, then fades into chaotic, geometric shapes. They reach up to his elbow and don’t seem to mean anything. I’m not sure I like it.
“Because he said that female DJs only get booked because they’re women, not because they’re talented.”
“I agree,” he says. “I would never book a female DJ just because I’ve been told to.”
My stomach drops. He can’t be serious. I look at him searchingly. “Are you serious?”
“Yes I’m fucking serious.” He says, suddenly angry. “I prefer to book male DJs. They’re easier to get along with and they’re usually better. I don’t like the energy women bring. Sometimes, when I book them, they think it’s because I want to sleep with them. I don’t like their vibe.”
My head starts to ache, a short sharp pain that feels a lot like panic. My vision spins just once, flipping over like a pancake, which tends to happen when I’m dealing with sudden conflict. Perhaps my brain hurts because it’s adjusting to a new reality – that this hot, Dutch-American boy who’s part of the dance music community – a community that I trust to be open and accepting and liberal – is actually deeply and inherently sexist. Or perhaps my brain hurts with disappointment. I can’t be mates with someone like this, let alone hook up with him. This is just very, very bad news.
“Firstly, gender has no impact on a person’s ability to DJ.” I say. “Secondly, it’s only been acceptable for women to DJ in the last 10-ish years, maybe even less. If you don’t give women a platform to practice and play they will never be as good as men. It’s your responsibility as a promoter to book them.”
“Oh so I guess it’s kind of like a chicken and egg situation,” he says.
“I think it’s more like a dickhead and egg situation.”
“Well, women have another job to do,” he says.
“What? Cook?”
His response is worse.
“Reproduce.”
————
After our fight I go to the colossal toilets to calm down. I take a breath, walk past the rows of concrete cubicles and stare at myself in the full-length mirror. It’s high and wide and has a sign in the corner that says “I’ve seen normal, I don’t want that.”
I feel desolate and scared. I knew he was challenging, but I didn’t think he was sexist. I want to go back to before our conversation when we were joking about my choice of drink, or before that when I was on the back of his bike, leaning on his shoulders, riding a little too fast through the dusty Indonesian streets.
I pee and then I don’t know what to do so I leave my friend Anna a voice note. I tell her what he said. My voice is shaking.
When I go back up he’s sitting there, his face is dark and sulky but beautiful anyway. “I forgive you,” I say.
“I didn’t ask for forgiveness,” he says, but he’s half-smiling. We hug tightly and I feel instantly better. Like maybe the conversation didn’t really happen, or maybe those aren’t really his opinions, or maybe we can move past this. The hug is intense, like we’re both glad it’s over, like we’re both shaken up.
Afterwards we’re excitable and energised, as though the relief has amplified every good feeling we had before it started. I feel like he’s looking at me differently, with a new-found respect. I remember then how his smile got me hooked in the first place. It’s bright and seems to happen by accident. He’s laughing a lot now and so am I and all of my skin bristles every time our hands brush.
It’s colder than usual tonight. He’s only wearing a black t-shirt so on the ride back I put my arms around him as he drives. He leans back into me and the pressure feels better than anything I’ve felt in a while. When we get to my hotel I ask if he enjoyed our first fight but instead of answering he pulls me toward him. It was just after midnight then, but he doesn’t leave my room until 2.
