In the span of five minutes–literally the time it takes to walk from my beach repose to the stairwell over the highway–men half my age, twice my age and everywhere in between hit on me like a hot cake.
Air smooches, stop-and-stares, come hithers and the infamous, “hey guapa!” I hear it all, the feel of eyeballs and sound of tongue swiping lips almost discernible over the ocean roar, and really, all there is to do is chuckle and smile away the attention.
And, I assure you, this has nothing to do with me, Gwendoline, and everything to do with me, woman.
Walking alone.
Because, you see, I wear a fake wedding band lent to me as a magical, traveling in-case-of-emergency deterrent by my Riddle, and frankly, the world over, it means squat.
Zilch.
Men, I notice, either barely spot the band or could give a rat’s ass, and this, I find, is equally true in Asia, where, interestingly, wedding rings tend to be worn on the right hand–yes, I change ring fingers depending on cultural norms–or not at all, as it is true in Sud America.
What does matter, though, is whether I am accompanied by an hombre, and seeing as how I am now freshly companionless, I am fair game.
Amazing, really, the difference between walking the beach with Graham versus not-with-Graham.
Once upon a time, I might have found the attention obnoxious, reductionist in its view of me as sexualized hunk of meat, but today, if I am honest, I secretly find it quasi-flattering and refreshing … cuz, honey, it’s nice to know that even in boring hiking shorts and an over-stretched and stained white tee, there’s still a dash of mojo.
Where In The World Is Gwendo? 