Saturday, 6 March 2010

"I Want Your Sex...(Not)"

Feeling in generally high spirits today because the husband and I have just made our very own first cup of FILTER coffee in several weeks. The friends of ours staying in the plush villa went on a road trip up north, and either grew weary of my incessant pleading or merely happened upon a store which sold cafieteres and Indian roasted coffee (literally impossible to find here down South) and took pity on us. (On second thought, maybe it's been my daily moaning about how awful instant nescafe is to a cappuccino addict such as myself, which brought about the detour and subsequent mercy mission to find this girl COFFEE...ANY KIND...AND ANYTHING TO MAKE IT IN)

Either way, with respectable daily caffeine levels now assured, we can get on with the sorry task of creatively amusing ourselves out here. Any thoughts of being original pioneers of the whole "let's bin our lives for a time and head for the subcontinent to write novels and live like yippee's" lark - were brutally dashed when the other day we met a random English couple on the beach who have, guess what, ALSO rented their London home, ALSO taken a year out of their lives and are ALSO writing a novel. Ho Hum.

Sometimes it feels like London central down here when you get a whiff of the Brit accents, see the young dolly birds with perfectly waxed pins, posing languidly on chaise lounges for the benefit of the uber-horny local Indian boys who can't believe their Hare Krishna luck to see such lithe young limbs covered by mere triangles of spandex and beads.

This is the first year I have noticed (and please don't call me a 'racialist' here, simply because I propose them to be of Germanic descent) the bevy of leather-hued floppy giant breast sacks being bandied about on these same chaise lounges by older European women who are in danger of being hauled away and hooked on a gigantic spit roast by some very drunk village men with rumbling bellies if they continue to blatantly fry their near naked 'meat' openly in public.

Often their sex is indeterminable, such are the lengths that these sizable breast sacks hang down on either side of their chest cavities. So if lying prone, skyward, reading a book, arms held aloft, the thick spectacles and short chopped grey tufts give little away. Only until you spot the gaggle of utterly disinterested men nearby, not even venturing a glance at their women folk, do you realise that they are here on holiday, have probably not the slightest intention of bedding their leather breasted wives even once while here, and instead are animatedly conversing about where they might procure the best beer, how much they are paying for their respective accommodations, and where one is likely to get the best deal on a rug to bring home.

You get the feeling that here in Goa, sexuality is quite low key. What is important is making money, and the pursuit of such in the short tourist season occupies even the most lustful of young minds.

The other day for example I was sat in my favourite place in all the area...'Sea Corner' as it's so charmingly called. On large cement steps which lead up from the beach to the only road going out of here, there exists a tiny shop with a sweet elderly man and his young helper who churn out countless cups of chai all day and night long to addicts like myself. I love nothing more that to lay claim to a portion of the step, write in my journal and sip the exquisitely sweet tea, while I take in whatever daily drama is unfolding around me.

Having figured out in early pubescence that I attract freaks like a moth to a flame, it was of no surprise to have my reverie burst by the Irish lilt of a loudmouthed woman sat directly on the stair above me. I counted to before I got any further she stood up, plopped herself down on my level, and started manically in with, "I just have to tell someone this or I'll burst".

In the presence of a seemingly total and utter loon, I had no choice but to reluctantly tuck my journal back into my bag, turn to her with what I hoped was a gracious smile and allow her to to continue on with her rant (I suspect even if I had donned earphones and looked the other way it wouldn't have made a sweet lot of difference anyway).

"There's this guy you see. He's Italian...good-looking I his sixties...not my type but okay....and he keeps giving me these looks - in front of his wife! And I just don't know what to do and it's driving me craaaaazy!"

I sighed. So she was not only mad but disillusioned. A horny housewife, kids flown the nest, has come here to 'find herself' and see if she can't bag herself a decent shag in the process.

I started to blah blah blah out some sort of semi-interested response, but before it got too annoying the husband fortuitously turned up, fell down beside me and watched with amazement as the woman jumped back to her step above and spread her legs, displaying her lady bits to the world at large.

I had noticed earlier of course. It was hard not to balk at the sight of her labia majora grinning gamely out from the side of her ill-chosen lime green too-short-shorts, which she had decided to don - for whatever reason - sans knickers that morning.

The husband was clearly fighting a range of confused reactions: fascination/horror/amusement/ name it. This, I noticed, he was at little pains to hide, and I have to hand it to him, he did keep up a decent couple of minutes of conversational dialogue with the woman, all the while trying not to acknowledge the outrageously proffered vaginal display.

At the first chance we made a hasty exit and exhaling loudly as we cruised down the beach, monsters in tow, the husband let out of groan of "Man! DId you see the SIZE of that THING?!!"

So nubile teenage sun worshippers aside, I think it's fair to say that at least in this part of Goa, it's a place where you come to perhaps escape, 'find yourself', explore your inner Picasso, Mozart or Henry Miller, ride a motorcyle helmet-less around beautiful outskirts of jungle, and indulge your palate with all things currified.

If you hope to pull, well you'll probably want to head for another beach - not this one. Unless of course my description of the middle-aged crotch-flashing Irishwoman piqued your interest.

In which case, look me up and I'll hook you up.

You'll find me round 'Sea Corner'...


  1. So paradise doesn't include a tour of an Irish lady garden then? Hopefully wont be seeing any of those at the Chelsea Flower show this year. Lovely to hear your rants Keren xx

  2. Bahaha too funny. Love to read about your dropout. Inspired me to choose a different vacation destination beyond the sunny south. Sounds like you're having a blast. Drink a G/T-listen to a New Order song and think of me! Karen

  3. No..i don't suppose the Chelsea Flower show is 'progressive' enough to feature the rare to spot and even rarer to grow Irish lady garden. Though for sheer size alone it warrants respect :)

  4. Good on you for venturing beyond the (I'm sure delightful nonetheless) sunny south. Life is too short and all that.... :)
    I will indeed drink a G+T (but do you mind if i make it my current fave: fresh lime soda w/ vodka? ) and I'm already on the New Order came on shuffle during my run this a.m. as I found myself lost on an village dirt road. I was amused at the juxtaposition of aural and visual stimuli :)


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