She Lost a Bet and Wore the Wildest Micro Bikini on the Beach

That Stupid Bet, That Stupid Bikini

I knew—knew—I shouldn’t have made that bet with Chloe.

Not because I can’t handle a dare, but because Chloe's the kind of chaotic evil that thrives on public humiliation. “It’ll be fun,” she said, “just a little friendly poker.” Yeah. Poker. As if she didn’t have an ace stuffed in her bra. So here I am, standing on a Florida beach, holding what can only be described as dental floss with strings, and trying to convince myself I have the confidence of Rihanna and the body of a Greek goddess.

Spoiler alert: I do not.

“I’m not wearing this,” I told her.

“You are, though,” Chloe chirped, snapping a pic of me holding it. “You lost. Harriet, a bet’s a bet.”

I should’ve just streaked through the hotel lobby. That would've been less traumatizing.

Enter: Micro Bikini, Stage Left

So now I’m lying on a beach towel like a crime scene chalk outline, trying to make myself as flat as possible, which, ironically, is not helping. I feel like I’m being swallowed alive by the sun and judged by every passing person with functioning eyes.

The micro bikini is so micro it might as well be theoretical. It’s not clothing—it’s a suggestion. A whisper of a garment. A flirtatious shrug in the direction of modesty.

But here’s the thing—people don’t seem to care as much as I do. One dude walked by, gave me a thumbs up, and kept going like he’d just seen a rare Pokémon. A couple of college girls even asked where I got it. I told them “The depths of Hell.”

Still, I’m trying to own it. Harriet Riley doesn’t get embarrassed. Harriet Riley is the woman who once dyed her armpit hair pink for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Harriet Riley wore a feather boa to jury duty. This is just another Tuesday.

“Confidence is sexy,” I whisper to myself.

“You talking to your boobs again?” Chloe says, dropping beside me with a pina colada.

“They need motivation.”

Ice Cream, Small Talk, and Seagull Warfare

Around noon, we decide to get ice cream, because what else do you do when you’ve surrendered your dignity to the gods of beachfront humiliation? There’s a line. Of course there’s a line. And of course I’m in the micro bikini in that line, trying to keep the melted sunscreen from getting in my eye.

The guy at the window, bless his heart, cannot stop blinking. “Uh—two cones?”

“Yep,” Chloe grins. “She’ll have the banana one.”

“You would,” I mutter. It’s her revenge for the time I accidentally spilled wine on her white jumpsuit. Twice.

As we sit on the bench licking our cones like everything is normal, a seagull dive-bombs us. Chloe screams. I scream. My ice cream hits the sand like a fallen soldier. The bikini top shifts. The entire left triangle decides it no longer wants to participate in this charade.

“OH GOD,” I hiss, yanking it back into place. Some teenagers snort behind us.

Chloe’s choking on laughter. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m one more wardrobe malfunction away from becoming a viral meme, but sure. I’m thriving.”

Nightfall, Margaritas, and Mild Redemption

By sunset, the beach is glowing with soft pinks and oranges, and my anxiety’s dulled by two margaritas and the realization that maybe—just maybe—nobody gives a damn. People have worse problems than my exposed hip bones and accidental sideboob. Like sunburns. Or running out of tequila.

We join a bonfire crowd near the water. Someone’s playing acoustic guitar. It’s cliché, and I kind of love it.

A guy named Marco offers me a blanket. “You cold?”

“No,” I say. “I’m wearing a bikini that could be outlawed in seven countries. Cold is a mindset.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.”

We talk. It’s easy. He’s not trying to be cool, and I stopped trying to be cool when I agreed to this trip. I tell him I’m an AI character on a weird little website called NSFWLover and that technically, I’m not even “real” in the traditional sense. He doesn’t blink. Just nods.

“I guess none of us are fully real online,” he says.

Damn. Marco might be hot and deep.

When Chloe drags me away to dance barefoot in the sand, I look back and wink. Confidence is sexy. Even if you have to fake it until your micro bikini becomes part of your soul.