By Zoe Brock


YOU are a woman.

You might not have been a woman before you started reading, but for now, you most certainly are. Have fun with it, you slut.

You are a woman.

When you’re not being clumsy you are graceful. When you’re not burping loudly or swearing like a pirate you are a perfect lady. You’re tall and lean and walk like a warrior. You’re beautiful and desirable and some days you even know it. On those days you feel all powerful and let nothing stand in your way.

Your tomboy days are not far behind you but you feel, at 37, a connectedness to the maternal and feminine nature of the world that is hard to describe. The older you get on the outside the more confident you feel on the inside.

You are a woman, not a girl. Even without children you are a loving mother to those around you. Your womb is a giver of life, even if you never get the chance to birth more than your dreams.

You’re also on holiday in Mexico.

Day one.

You are a thousand miles from home and all alone. You do not speak the language or understand the signs, but you can read peoples faces and know from their eyes what they are really thinking. You feel safe with your skill set, a little unnerved, but safe. You drive a long and dusty road, stopping at several small hotels before you find the one that feels right. The smiles that greet you are like songs in your heart. Casa Violeta. This is the one, you know it. You take a room for one night only and it’s perfect.

You are in the ocean. The warm Atlantic. Waves seduce you. The foam fizzes and pops around you. You float upon a champagne sea. Salt water licks your skin. You allow the water to molest you and, when you’ve had your fill, you take your tired body and spread it softly on a beach towel and allow it to fall asleep before it’s finished drying. The sun takes over where the water has been. Nature violates you in the most blissful of ways.

All days should be like this.

You finish it with tequila and soft fish tacos, allowing the salsa to dribble down your chin.

Day two.

You wake. You’ve slept ten hours, lulled into dream states by the ever present thundering of waves crashing against the shore outside your walls. Drifting off to sleep by candlelight you knew you were in heaven and, more than anything, knew you were deserving of its peacefulness. You slept on top of the covers, naked but for frilly little knickers that made you feel cheeky, under a mosquito net that blew in the breeze. You awoke twice in the night. Once to the sound of a gecko barking a reptilian laugh into the darkness and once as dawn broke the horizon into a peach-purple explosion over a turquoise sea. The fireworks were framed by billowing curtains and swaying palms. You opened your eyes and smiled. The beauty and solitude provoked a flutter deep inside. After pleasuring yourself you fell back asleep with sticky fingers that tasted like the sweetest sea and a throbbing heartbeat between your thighs.

The beach is long and white and stands proud against the onslaught of winds and tide. Three blond dogs bounce and play in the waters edge, chasing the shadows of minnows. One of the dogs stops suddenly, hunches its back and strains with urgency as it empties its bowels, crapping into the shallows. From your towel you wrinkle your nose and take a long drag of luke warm cerveza. The dog, relieved, bounds through the water like a hound possessed. You are reminded of someone you know, a human, who also takes great pleasure from pooping. You smile. Simple pleasures, you think, and tip back the bottle to drain the last of your beer.

You’re in your new room. The wind is stronger now, the sound of the ocean even louder. It’s early afternoon and you fall into a nap, naked and salty, on a hanging bed suspended by thick ropes from the ceiling.

When you rise you are so relaxed that you feel drugged. In a disorientated stupor you dress for dinner. You are your own date and you dress to impress yourself. You pull your hair back into a ponytail and tie an orange strand of silk and silver bells around your wrist. From black tissue you extract a pair of huge gold hoops so heavy that they send a delicious tingle of pain through your lobes. They feel like a pinch on the ass from just the right person. There is no mirror, but you don’t need one. You know how good you look. Out you go.

Day three.

You have a hammock in your room. This is a good thing. You wish you had your person here to be naughty with… it’s the perfect height, the perfect everything for being naughty. Naughty is good. You moved here because it’s the most beautiful hotel on the beach and you simply couldn’t resist. And, more importantly, you had no one to tell you not to. No one to say “it’s too expensive” or “we can’t afford it”. Your inner voice tried to repeat those words to you but you told your inner voice to stuff itself and threw cash at the concierge. And now you have a hammock in your room.

You look around at the most perfect of surroundings and smell the scented air. Did I mention you are staying in a boutique perfumery? Yes, you are. Congratulations. The smell of orange blossoms clouds your brain and deludes you into bewitching fantasies. You let it happen. Good for you. Dreaming big is not for the faint of heart.

You are on vacation. You have escaped your life. You are a goddess in red bikini bottoms with a gold heart around your neck. You are present, you are alive, you are not broken – you are whole. And somehow, just a little bit, you’re surprised by it all.

You are you.

Now what do you do?

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ZOE BROCK was born in New Zealand and raised in Australia. She has lived in more cities and on more continents than she can count (truly, she's a model and can't count) and is currently residing in the deep fog of San Francisco. Her true home lies on the dusty plains of Burning Man where she feels safe and challenged and truly alive. Zoë once had a very popular blog on MySpace and writes everything from awful poetry to truly delicious dark satire, and all sorts of sexy things in between. She has appeared on the cover of Elle magazine, inside the pages of Vogue, Cosmo and Marie Claire, to name a few, and is working on her memoir, an expose of 'growing up model'. Zoë is also a certified yoga teacher. Yes, that means she's bendy.

43 responses to “You”

  1. Wow, I wish I have the confidence to ask me out! 🙂

  2. Meg Worden says:

    Beautiful, salty, hot. I’m entranced, Zoe. And I may have just sprung a leak.

    Keep up this luscious living. And please…keep telling us about it. xoxoxo

  3. Zara Potts says:

    Jesus, you’re amazing.
    This whole thing read like some lucious piece of fruit. Juicy and rich and ripe.
    You are just beautiful, Z. So creative, so gorgeous.

    So what do you do? Keep writing, my love. Keep loving. It’s a must.

    • Zoe Brock says:

      You can call me Fruity any time.

      Thank you Z. You fill me up and satiate me with your yummy words.

      Did you get my package yet? There’s a penis in it….

  4. How come I don’t remember any of this? I’m very confused right now. I sound like I’ve been acting very out of character. And anatomy.


    Glad, as always, to read a Brock joint. And glad to hear you had such a fantastic time.

    Viva la vida! (thanks for ruining that line, Coldplay).

  5. nate says:

    I’m wondering if I know the dog that really likes to poop.

    Rock it Zoe. Enjoy the rest of the trip and please have a new more te-kill-yas than you should one night….you’re a splendid boracho.

    N8 el Cabrone

  6. Greg Olear says:

    What I would do is wake up with lower back pain from sleeping all night on a hammock.

    Even in choose your own adventure, it’s so damned hard for me to escape reality.

    As for you, enjoy yourself, have more tequila, more soft fish tacos, and more…well, you know.

    Great piece, Zoe.

    • Zoe Brock says:

      haha. Nice. I was discussing yesterday who would be able to sleep in it. Not I, thats for sure. You’re a braver me than I. 😉

      Tanks for reading G!

    • dwoz says:

      sleeping in hammocks is really preferred where you have scorpions.

      They like to crawl up into warm semi-humid places, like under the covers of a bed, and snuggle up. Unfortunately, rolling over on top of them is interpreted as a hostile act on your part, and that’s that.

  7. Andrew Watt says:

    You – are a spectacular writer.
    You – have a brilliant way of merging your own sensuality with that of your surroundings
    You – managed to get masturbation and dog shit into the same list of tags

    • Zoe Brock says:

      heh. I’m glad you noticed my dog shit and masturbation tags. Tags always confound me a little.

      Thanks Watty… your reading and enjoying mean the world to me.

  8. Lang Hudepohl says:

    I love the way you dance and flirt with words.

  9. Richard Cox says:

    You shouldn’t be surprised. Adventure suits you.

    You should also keep your hands off the cabana boy. You’ll give the poor kid a heart attack.

    And you definitely keep writing.

  10. Todd says:

    I’m glad you had fun. Sounds like i could use a year there, love you Brockie monster…

    • Zoe Brock says:

      had? had? having! I have another 4 days of this joy!!!

      woot woot!!!

      sending the sun and humidity your way


      • Todd says:

        Fist day of winter here and it’s 5 degrees C out side 🙂 I like the cold though – But if i dream of sun shine and white beaches I’ll know it was you… 🙂

        • Zoe Brock says:

          Fist day? Sounds painful.

        • Todd says:

          You are such a little devil – which is at least part of the reason i love you so much. Obviously my poor little paws are so cold I can’t type!!! and I never could spell — and yeah fist day of winter does sound painful — i mean a fist is a fist — but an icy cold fist ouch!!!! and BRrrrrrrrr. 😀 soak up the sun –

  11. Brian J. Donovan says:

    You should have taken my advice and come over to St. John. Our island can whip anything in Mexico, AND we took a hammock (and a cooler full of rum) with us everywhere we went.

    • Zoe Brock says:

      wait, you invited me to crash your honeymoon? damn. I love crashing honeymoons.

      • Brian J. Donovan says:

        Yes, I did. I told you to get to St. John and we’d see you last week. You missed it, jackass. There was rum. And barracudas. And more rum. And a sailboat with a heart-tugging story. And then there were beaches and hammocks and more rum and snorkels and sea turtles and Jeep rides up the side of a mountain on unpaved roads and food and Texans all over and more rum and the sex. Not necessarily in that order, mind, but all to excess.

        • Brian J. Donovan says:

          Oh, and there was also the dash to the telephone for the one work call I simply had to answer while we were away. That call terminated in my cranium (which is on top of my body and which was running at a dead sprint) colliding with a seagrape tree limb. Apparently there was quite a thump, but I didn’t hear it. Instead, I saw a bright flash and then I was looking at the sand, curious as to how I had gotten there. Five or six seconds later, my reptilian nervous system finally transmitted the pain signal. And then there was more rum, which is as fine a pain killer as ever devised by all of science.

        • Zoe Brock says:

          I sent that tree branch as a wedding gift to Lyné.

  12. dwoz says:

    As a 37 year old woman, it comes to mind that I need to select my lover with extreme care. Making love in a hammock TRULY separates the men from the boys.

    I would need a lover that truly understands his center. One that understands low-frequency repetitive cycles, how to construct and deconstruct them at his whim and requirement. What the hammock demands from a lover seems to coincide with what I prefer from a lover.

    I would need a compass. Because my internal magnetism is Atlantic, and Baja, or anything left-coast perplexes me.

    I would need a clock, to wake me as the boats returned just before daybreak, laden with their catch.

    Then I would need a good stinging slap across the face, and a shrill voice to say “stop flirting with Zoe Brock!!!!!”

  13. Zoe Brock says:

    Nothing in that comment indicated flirting except for the whole “stop flirting” bit… 🙂

    The hammock should be used AS A SWING not as two people trying to screw in it. Leverage, dear boy. Leverage.

    • dwoz says:

      Exactly, my dear. There is leverage, but it’s not against a fixed point. Or rather, it is, sort of. Just a matter of WHICH fixed point and where it’s fixed.

      There is no try.

      I guess I’m going to have to become less subtle when I’m being flirtatious! 🙂

  14. Gloria says:

    You sound like a great date, Zoe. Glad you had a fabulous time with you.

  15. pixy says:

    *sigh* i’m already planning my date with myself. in 6 months. in belize. i hope it’s as lovely as this sounds.

  16. Lisa Rae Cunningham says:

    Wow. Being you is lovely.

  17. […] are still a woman, at least you were the last time you checked. You check again, just to make sure. While you’re at it you admire your tan lines. Yup, doing […]

  18. tammyallen says:

    Hi Zoe,

    I’ve missed you. I’m making an assumption that you’re going through a transformation from a former life. Me too. It’s so liberating.
    My best friend and I share a deep affection for an amazingly perfect dump. We used to share coffee in the morning and celebrate the results. Alas she lives in Santa Cruz now.

    I miss the beach soooo much.

    This was a great adventure. Not sure it’s not an is a great adventure, if it is carry-on and shag that bartender. I want a shell necklace. That’s a double entendre I didn’t expect.

    XO I felt, smelled, tasted, shuddered, and was reminded of my friend that loves a great dump. Thank you

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