Once upon a time there lived a girl. A girl full of grace, charm and wit. A girl beset with marvellous mammaries. Bosoms capable of turning even the most reticent of heads. In her little pocket of the city she stalked. Delicious eye-candy for the commuting masses. Where she headed each morning nobody knew. Only she was privy to the secret. But as she sipped on her morning coffee, seated in the corner of another lonely, nameless, city cafe, she forgot all about the world around her. For she was human after all. And like every other member of the species, she occupied herself with the very same questions. “I wonder if my man is out there?” , she asked. “What part of this big ol’ world is it that he roams?” Answers to which, plainly, nobody knew. Answers that lurked deep inside the cold, miserable earth. Deep in its unknown depths and gallows.
Recognisable story? Certifiably not. Why? Because it’s one of my own humble making. One, woven specifically, for the nature of this very article. Spun from the cobwebs of creative writing classes of yesteryear and every fetid fairytale I’ve ever read.
If you don’t like it, that’s cool. You’re welcome to go fuck yourself. I’m sure there’s plenty of other travel-related reads out there anyway. Ones too, no doubt, with much better constructed yarns than this.
But, pray I dear reader, hang back for just a moment. Permit me to explain its inclusion. For this story is a metaphor. A metaphor for that of my own. Selected, may I add, to guide you gently into an oncoming assault of soul-bearing and revelation that I appreciate, for some at least, may be too hot to handle. A précis, albeit ill-designed, as the soothing period of calm before a storm.
Substitute the protagonists boobs for a (very questionable) penis and we’re well on our way to unravelling this tale already.
I’m sure it’s not too difficult to imagine myself in this picture, sat crying, under the Mexican moonlight, with little indigenous people side-stepping all around me. There I am. Pining. Searching for a connection to the starry dynamo of night and questioning, in light of the broken boulevard of romances that lay out before me, where is it that my shambling love life all went wrong?
A sorry figure I must cast. And despite my best and earliest protestations, let me assert (for the older members of the audience among you) that I am indeed heterosexual. Nothing more than a man with a backpack. A lost romantic. A vagabond swept up in search of passion, NorthFace sponsoring the dull ache of my heart.
Just like our effete heroine in the story above, I too walk the streets of the towns, cities and countries I help to temporarily populate.
Just like her I ask the very self-same questions…
Where is THE girl of my dreams?
And is travel helping or hindering my search? Read More