In Highly Flawed Individual, thirty-year-old eternal bachelor Archie Flynn has it all: a successful finance career, a beautiful terrace home in Sydneyās highly sought-after Rocks district, and a thriving sex life that James Bond would envy. In other words, life is perfect.
Until, the stunning Jezebel Ekas, an American professional mixed martial arts fighter, enters his life. Jezebel is a woman far superior to Archie in so many ways. When their paths cross, the life Archie thought so perfect is quickly turned upside down. Smart, funny, strong-willed, this is the woman he wants to settle down with, but she wonāt fall easily for his usual lines and his promiscuous past is about to catch up with him.
T.C. Robertsā debut novel takes a hard and honest look at the āmodernā man who might not be quite as cool and sexy as he thinks. With a knowing nod and a self-deprecating humor that draws you in, Roberts details Archie and Jezebelās whirlwind, almost-but-not-quite, romance.
In Highly Flawed Individual, thirty-year-old eternal bachelor Archie Flynn has it all: a successful finance career, a beautiful terrace home in Sydneyās highly sought-after Rocks district, and a thriving sex life that James Bond would envy. In other words, life is perfect.
Until, the stunning Jezebel Ekas, an American professional mixed martial arts fighter, enters his life. Jezebel is a woman far superior to Archie in so many ways. When their paths cross, the life Archie thought so perfect is quickly turned upside down. Smart, funny, strong-willed, this is the woman he wants to settle down with, but she wonāt fall easily for his usual lines and his promiscuous past is about to catch up with him.
T.C. Robertsā debut novel takes a hard and honest look at the āmodernā man who might not be quite as cool and sexy as he thinks. With a knowing nod and a self-deprecating humor that draws you in, Roberts details Archie and Jezebelās whirlwind, almost-but-not-quite, romance.
FuckĀ me,Ā whatĀ aĀ time itās been.
If I told you all that had gone down lately (which I promise I will), youād think I was so full of shit that even flies would drop dead on contact with me. But truth is stranger than fiction, as they say, so I need you to bear with me.
Most people report that when they turn thirty, nothing much changes. But for me, the shit certainly hit the fan, and then some. And itās all culminated in me being where I am now ā Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport, International Terminal, Gate 52, about to skip bail and flee my beloved homeland for a life ofā¦ who-knows-what. Think Iām gonna become one of those so-called digital nomads because, well, what other choice do I have?
I keep repeating, āThis too shall passā inside my ever-restless head.
I remember the day I learned about mortality. That one day, I too would die. I was about six, and Gramps had just passed. I asked Mum if she would die too one day.
āYes,ā she replied, ābut not for a long time.ā
After this deeply disturbing news sunk in and meddled with my still-developing emotions, I asked the inevitable.
āDoes that mean I will die one day too?ā
āYes,ā Mum replied, āwe all do. But itās nothing to be afraid of.ā
Nothing to be afraid of!?Ā I remember thinking. āWhat happens after?ā
āYou go to heaven.ā
Without getting all spiritual, letās just say I didnāt buy what Mum was selling. As a result, the great unknown caused me to fall into a deep sorrow for the rest of the day, a part of which I think still remains deep within my subconscious. I struggled to sleep that night. The next day, Dad sensed I was sad and asked why. I told him that I didnāt wanna die.
All he said in response was, āNever mind, son,Ā this too shall pass.ā
I didnāt ask him what he meant. Did he mean that how I was feeling would pass? Or did he mean us, our life, would one day cease to exist? Both were true, but the latter thought stuck with me to this day. Yet strangely, as I stare at my Boeing 747 getting ready to board outside the window, the idea still comforts me.
You see, Iām at a crossroads ā a real sliding doors moment. Can you relate? If so, you will know that it sucks balls. Itās anxiety-inducing. Another clichĆ© that keeps popping into my head is āa change is as good as a holidayā. Yeah, except if that change is a one-way ticket to the other side of the world ā no accommodation booked, no itinerary, no fucking idea. And everything you own, which isnāt much because you had to sell most of your prized possessions at the last minute on Facebook Marketplace at such a discount that makes your eyes water, is coming with you. The great unknown awaits. But itās all good becauseĀ this too shall pass.
Letās just get the basics out of the way, so we can get to the juicy stuff. The nameās Archie. I turned thirty a few months ago. Thatās all you need to know about my background, for now.
Iāve done my research on this modern-day nomad life. Hereās the bag-packing essentials checklist from one of the many blogs I read in the past few days on the subject:
Laptop ā ā
Power bank ā ā
Power converter ā ā
Mobile phone ā ā
Backup charger for phone ā ā
Backup charger for laptop ā ā
Dual SIM card phone ā ā
Local SIM card ā X
And thatās it. Apparently, thatās all you need to live the life of a twenty-first-century digital vagabond. However, that list assumes you already have some online work to sustain you. Which I donāt. But Iām working on it. More on that later. I got other shit to worry about first.
Yeah, okay, about that. Enough holding out on you.
Youāre gonna judge me. Yeah, you are. As I mentioned, I am about to skip bail. But Iām no criminal by any means. Christ, Iād never been arrested until this year. But Iāve been thrown in the lock-up twice since. I know what youāre thinking ā how does someone who has never been in trouble with the law all of a sudden score a trifecta with the cops?
Well, hereās the first shit-sandwich ā it all started with an STD.
For those fortunate enough not to know what this acronym is, STD stands for Sexually Transmitted Disease. Or, Sexually Transmitted Infection ā STI. Both terms basically mean the same thing ā you caught some nasty shit through sexual activity. See, I knew you were gonna judge me. But hereās the thing ā it turned out to be not much at all. Itās totally gone now. But that didnāt stop it from royally fucking up my life.
So, how did an STD cause me to break a good behaviour bond and land me a day in court with a high probability of jail time? Luckily, I could afford a good solicitor and was granted bail. Not so lucky for the justice department, as they didnāt confiscate my passport because of my clean record and all. So yeah, I abused that privilege, but before you judge me again, I didnāt really have a choice. Firstly, if this went to court and I was convicted, the story would have leaked to the press, and I would have been painted as this church fetish pervert (more on that later). My life and career would be over. This is a big city but a small town. I grew up here, people know me. Iād be finished, as the priest would say ā excommunicated. Youāll meet Father Bob later.
Secondly, Iām not built for jail. Really, Iām not. Iām a lover, not a fighter. Fair dinkum, Iām such a lover boy that I like to love multiple women at the same time. But Iām not an arsehole. Well, at least I donāt think I am. Iām open and honest about it with all my girlfriends. But thereās a fair chance I have some serious love and sex addiction issues. I even went to a Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting once. Yep, it exists. But I stopped attending because while I could identify with other sex and love addicts in the group, this only made me build a rapport with the gay dudes. Thereās plenty of flamers in SLAAā¦
Now, where was I? I tend to go off on tangents, so bear with me. Oh yeah, Iām not cut out for jail. Iām somewhat handsome, if I do say so myself. Not in the classical sense, but more in an unusual, canāt-quite-pin-it-down way, if that makes any sense. Could be my strong chin, or perhaps my dimples when I smile. Whatever it is, chicks seem to dig me. I just canāt hold onto them. The point is ā I go to jail, I become somebodyās bitch. And thereās no way Iām getting bummed. Especially for something that wasnāt my fault.
So, now I have a one-way ticket to Colombia, of all places! Why the fuck did I choose Colombia? Because Colombia has no extradition treaty with the Australian Government. They also have this thing called a Digital Nomad Visa which I can apply for, and then stay in the country long-term. The cost of living is low compared to Australia so I can survive a while until I sort my remote income. Then I can begin my new life as a travelling fugitive cyber-gypsy. Thatās the plan, anyway.
Hang on, thereās an announcement over the loudspeaker.
āFlight 374 to Santiago is now boarding. Group D, seated rows 18 to 34, please proceed to the gate.ā
Thatās me. Santiago, Chile stopover en route to Colombia. Am I really doing this?
My body seems to think so as I reach for my carry-on, stand up and join the queue to board Flight 374 to a country most famous for its cocaine. Soon I will be past the boarding gate and onto the plane. Once the plane takes off, Iām past the point of no return; officially a fugitive. Faaarrrrkk. My mind has been doing head-miles again over the past few months. I fail to hear the female flight attendant calling me forward when I reach the front of the queue.
āSir! Your passport and boarding pass, please?ā she says, her chestnut-brown eyes glinting and hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
I snap out of it, and hand over my passport and boarding pass. Only now I notice how attractive she is. Young, brunette, wearing the striking red Virgin uniform that always seems to raise a flight attendantās sex appeal a few notches.
āThank you, Mr. Flynn,ā she says flirtatiously, providing me a micro-dose for my insatiable appetite for self-validation.
I simply nod and make my way down the boarding tunnel, an umbilical cord leading me into a new world. Once the cord is cut, thatās it, thereās no turning back. It feels both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. A deep sense of guilt mixed with anxiety riddles me, engulfs my whole body, up the spine and swirls around my frontal cortex. Suffocating me. I feel dizzy as I imagine the police holding up the flight and pulling me off the plane, embarrassing me in front of all the passengers. Someone filming the drama with their phone, perhaps posting it online.
Look, they caught the church fetish pervert trying to flee!
I settle into my business-class seat and reflect on the past week. The shit really hit the fan after I woke from fainting inside Father Bobās confession booth in St. Patrickās Church. Slightly disorientated, the first thing I noticed was my arm entangled in the mesh separating the confessional booth from the priest, having seemingly punched through it with my fist. Thankfully, Father Bob was not on the other side. The second thing I noticed was my jeans and designer underwear pulled halfway down my thighs beneath a torn, open cassock! My dick was out, still semi-hard and drenched in bodily fluids. The third, and worst, thing I realised was that Father Bob was standing outside the confession booth door. His expression read somewhere between shock, confusion and utter revulsion.
Now, before you get all judgy again, itās not what you think. Everything happened fast from this point on. Instead of pulling my pants up, my first instinct was to ask Father Bob, āWhereās Jezebel?ā Yeah, I wasnāt thinking straight, okay. Of course, Father Bob didnāt answer, only turned away and disappeared. I knew what he was about to do. The same thing Father Bob did the last time I got my willy out in the confession booth.
I totally understand how this sounds. But this is not a story about a pervert. I wonāt lie ā I am a highly flawed individual, but a church pervert I am not. Besides, why would I wanna tellĀ thatĀ story? Just bear with me.
You see, Father Bob was gonna call the police. And rightfully so. I would do the same if I were in his position. However, that didnāt stop me from trying to persuade him otherwise. Only, I could barely move. I was still light-headed. It was like a long-dormant volcano had finally erupted in my groin. I was spent, and my legs felt like jelly. When I attempted to stand up, I got dizzy. So, Father Bob had to call the police. Heād had enough of my behaviour. And fair enough, I donāt blame him.
But I donāt blame myself, either. This oneās on Jezebel.
Jezebel Ekas, a devout church-going Catholic and a professional fighter. I know, talk about an oxymoron, right? St. Patrickās is her church, a historic cathedral in The Rocks. AndĀ sheĀ seducedĀ meĀ inside the confession booth. It was so mind-blowingly orgasmic that I passed out. And instead of helping me, Jezebel did a fuck-and-run, leaving me at the scene of the crime!
She could not face up to the shame, should word get out about what had taken place on that fateful day. But mostly, it concerned her burgeoning career which was increasingly attracting media attention. Just as I wouldāve begged Father Bob not to call the cops, Jezebel begged me not to tell them the full story. So me, being a fool in love for the first time in my loveless life, took one for the team. The old clichĆ©Ā aboutĀ āthe things you do for loveā rings true. Because now, I look like some kind of cassock-wearing pervert. All because Jezebel wanted to protect her precious reputation and career, which involves her beating the shit outta other women. She chose her work over me. Over true love. So, excuse me for sounding bitter but, yeah, that one hurt.
Obviously, I was arrested, and because I was already on a good behaviour bond for a series of other misdemeanours (which we will get to later), I was thrown in the lock-up.
I hired a lawyer, Frank Murphy, who I was fairly certain was on the gear and appeared to be in a mid-life crisis of his own. Frank advised I could be looking at five years unless I could prove Iām not a pervert.
The things you do for love.
Frank did, however, secure me a $32,000 bail, which I paid in cash. Thanks Jezebel! My court date was set for two months down the track. But I had nightmares about going to jail. As I said, I aināt cut out for it. I know that as soon as some big muscly bear eyes me up and down, takes in my semi-athletic 5ā11 dadbod, and then stares into my hazel-green bedroom eyes, Iāll be his bitch in less than a week.
Fuck that.
Of course, Jezebel was forever grateful, and tried to contact me to express her appreciation. Or, perhaps, to check that I was still sticking to my story of blacking out and not remembering what had happened. Not remembering that I made sweet love with Jezebel. Not telling the truth that, after Jezebel heard Father Bob enter the church, she tried to move me but couldnāt so she fled ā leaving me to literally clean up the mess!
No, I instead tell them that I cannot remember any of that, leaving them, and the judge, to assume that I was masturbating on my own inside Father Bobās confession booth, and then falling asleep with my dick still out.
Surely you can see why I resent Jezebel after all this. I told her itās best we donāt speak until this all blows over.
So, here I am on hot summerās evening, the Australian fortress borders having just reopened in February 2022, and Iām about to skip the so-called lucky fucking country. So much has happened ā lockdowns, the loneliness, an āSTDā, Jezebel, my father, my mother, me quitting my job. Itās all pretty overwhelming, to say the least. Never had I ever felt the need to fly the coop before. I know itās wrong. I know IĀ shouldĀ face the law, even if I am innocent.
Iām in my window seat now, in the emergency exit row. I consider getting up and running off the plane, but Iāve been too lost in my thoughts to realise the plane is moving down the tarmac. Before I knew it, the plane was tearing down the runway, and in seconds we are airborne. Oh, well, I guess thatās it then ā no turning back now. Iām officially a fugitive.
How the fuck did it come to this? It didnāt begin in the confession booth. No, the shit hit the fan way before then.
Archie Flynn works hard and plays hard. His life as a bachelor gives him the freedom to enjoy his true passions: women and sex. But that life comes to an abrupt stop when he is faced with a mysterious condition. In an ironic twist, Archie meets the woman of his dreams during the midst of his crisis, preventing him from taking their relationship to the next level. He soon finds himself on a journey of grief for the life he once knew and loved.Ā
Highly Flawed Individual is wrapped up in humor, romance, and drama. While the story itself has a comedic tone to it, thereās a much deeper meaning behind it all. Archie spends his life living for himself and never considers that thereās more to life than women and sex. But his āconditionā forces him into a life of celibacy and opens his eyes to a world outside of his little bubble.Ā
While Archie was definitely a bit of an arrogant womanizer, I did sympathize with him as he began to navigate his way through his new found celibacy. His desperation and dramatic response to his situation was at times a bit exaggerated, but it makes sense given the drastic turn his life was suddenly taking. Regardless of anyoneās circumstances, we all have different ways of handling grief.Ā
The ironic twist of meeting Jezebel at that time was the perfect way to demonstrate that life has a funny way of working out. While Archie might not have seen it right from the beginning, he would have ended up down a much different path had he not met her at that exact point.Ā Ā I admittedly couldnāt get a good read on Jezebel at first - she was a badass who obviously had interest in Archie, but I struggled to feel their connection at times.Ā
Overall, this was a nice, quick read. I appreciated the humor while also clearly making an important (and often overlooked) point on life in general.Ā