Is monogamy the most satisfying option for every free-spirited adventurous woman?
Removing slut shaming from surf travel
The dish is set in front of me with beautiful presentation. The flavor is perfect. I savor the texture on my lips. I swallow. And then it is gone…until the next time my hunger returns. In which case, there is always more ice cream behind the glass counter. The next dish might have a slightly different flavor but it is still rich and cold and sweet. I enjoy until satisfied. And then it ends. The difference is that the surfer boys also get to enjoy me. And I enjoy being enjoyed.
Brown colored surfer boys are my favorite flavor of ice cream. They feel good to touch. Their smooth skin tightly stretched over their muscle-bound frames. Being young athletes, they are ravenous. I love to see what they turn into when I give them what they want. They are like a kid in a candy store. I become a prize they have just won. We become each other’s playthings. Neither of us has hopes and dreams of the future. Nor do we have a history of hurt feelings that longtime lovers carry with them. There is just my skin on his skin, this moment which will be over before we know it.
At the buffet
So I find myself in Latin America, in front of the buffet. What do you get when you combine muscles, athleticism, testosterone, smooth dark skin, and Latino spice? Decadence. But instead of eating, I’m just looking. I’m flirting with the idea of eating although I know I won’t. Surfing communities are small and I don’t want to be slut-shamed.
I realize that if a male had written something similar I might be offended. “You are objectifying!” I might exclaim. So let me back up. I’m not suggesting one party uses the other for her own needs. This isn’t about judging someone’s worth based on what I find aesthetically pleasing. This is an equal exchange of energy where two adults get to view, touch and taste something they personally find pleasurable. Am I objectifying him? Not any more or less than he is objectifying me. We’ve both consented to limit this encounter to be strictly about enjoying one another.
Or perhaps I’m the one heaping shame upon myself? I enjoy them looking and chasing after me. And I do a little of the looking and giving googly eyes of my own. But I feel I should be saving my appetite for the big juicy steak promised by monogamy. I choose to sit with my hunger, letting myself salivate over it, enjoying the smell, the sounds from the kitchen and the presentation of the dishes. But I remain hungry.
I love male attention, as always. The guy who threw me a kiss after I exited the water. The guys behind the bar who invited me to smoke with them after I cracked a few mildly flirtatious jokes. The guy in the water who invited me to go dancing tonight. I can’t help but wonder if a large white girl is their favorite flavor? It all looks and smells so good. And sometimes that is enough.
Embracing my Desire
How could being fucked possibly be better than making love? Making love somehow feels more righteous. I guess I’m still working through shame. When I’m having a one night stand I’m already breaking the rules. So why not just break them all – let the beast out of the cage, cut loose and become a sex freak? If only misogynistic culture had not #slutshamed us into being so coy, all those men who made up all those religions might be getting a lot more ass. As much as I try to be good, I’m hungry for a fuck with power and athleticism until I scream.
Here is the deal. Those one-night-stands, they are fun. Sometimes more fun than others. Sometimes they last months, traveling to secret spots, surfing until your arms turn to noodles then ducking off to a hammock in the shade. But they are never fully satisfying. It is like ice cream. It was so tempting before you ate it, and so good while you were eating it, but as soon as it’s gone, you want more. My brown surfer boy flings always keep me wanting. If I truly was hunting for connection, I would be looking much more than skin deep.
Longing to Connection
A part of me longs for a much deeper connection than I can reach with the “catch of the day” whose language I struggle to speak, and whose country I will soon enough leave behind. Perhaps something more nourishing than a sugar high. Which is it? Do I want to make sweet love while I connect with another human’s soul, or would I like to be ravished like some kind of primal conquest? Truth be told, I’ve tried really hard at making love, but it just keeps blowing up in my face. I’d rather get fucked.
Back to the Buffet
Maybe I would like to have a real partner, someone who is like holding an empty plate at a 5-star buffet. Where to start? How about some fresh fruit to wet my appetite? And then a succulent lobster tail dipped in butter sauce accompanied by roasted root veggies and the creamiest of whipped garlic potatoes. After I’ve feasted on so much that I can hardly handle another bite, dessert is served. The richest of dark chocolate fudge brownies drizzled in caramel, topped with whipped cream and a scoop of coffee ice cream. By the time I’ve had four bites, my body writhes in so much pleasure that I have to stop. When I am away from him I have no desire to spoil my appetite with a little artificially flavored cake cone. The buffet of decadence is so worth the wait.
I wonder if I could ever feel that way about anything in life. Satisfied, that is. Me, the person who wanders the world in search of new adventures, never staying too long, always seduced by the next daring dream. I am a woman who has successfully avoided settling down, buying a house and making babies. And now at 34, I’m nearly past my safe reproductive years. I feel like I’m a different breed of woman. Do I actually want the juicy steak when it means eating at the same restaurant for the rest of my life? Is monogamy actually a virtue, or just something men made up to control women? Maybe it just doesn’t serve some of us?
These are questions I ask after two divorces. There are times in my life when a deep connection with a sexual partner is good and healthy for me. For now, I find my connection in the waves, in my friends and nature. With a ratio of 20 brown surfer boys to every female surfer on most days, I’m pretty content eating ice cream for now.