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.
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.
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.
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?