I have alluded to you by my Sex in the Sixties tag that I did have a reputation for being a Tinder dating Queen. I’ve dated many men over the past eight years as I launched into being a single woman after 35 years of cumulative marriages.
Oh boy, have I had some incredible love affairs and I’ve met a range of both inspirational and confrontational blokes. I’ve had no fixed prototype and have tried to broaden my expectations to include all varieties of the male species - thin, fat, short, tall men, rich and poor, not so bright to geniuses—some who have broken my heart and others whom I have broken theirs.
I have sailed through these years, learning a lot about men. About my relationship with men and myself, in my sexuality, my sexual confidence and self-confidence.
I very much enjoyed my sexual freedom while living in Bali, and while travelling the world, I was swiping right on Tinder to meet interesting men wherever I landed. More often as a company, although some developed into memorable love affairs. Of course, I deluded myself thinking that my motives were to find ‘the one. Still, as time went on, more beautiful relationships slipped into days and weeks, not long term. Finally, I realised that I loved exploring and probably was not looking for ‘the one’, but the one for just now.
When I was stranded in Sydney last year during the Covid lockdown, lonely and unhinged, as habit solicited, I resorted to my good friend Tinder. But I seemed to attract men, previously successful and in control, now left powerless, stuck in limbo and disengaged from purpose. The few I became close to seemed to have lost their mojo. It’s much harder for a man to hide his fear and insecurity. I’d never had an issue with men not being virile unless they all secretly took viagra. I felt I must be doing something wrong, which didn’t help my already mounting instability. It also didn’t help with these few men who genuinely wanted a relationship that I was an unattractive proposition to emotionally invest in, with one foot in Bali and Sydney.
Finally, when I returned to my paradise island, it was no better. I tried dating but the men in Bali were different now. Unreliable and unresponsive. My usual 100% strike rate dwindled to three no shows and a cancellation. My ego was shattered. Too burnt-out to keep trying, I hung up my Tinder tag and it seemed that my only option was to practice some self-love ( and I don’t mean masturbation!)
I found peace in my newfound celibacy. My usually ramped libido, reliant on men’s adoration and validation, curled up and went to sleep. I found a different sort of confidence and space to be me. Women friendships became more important and I valued their energy far more than men and loved spending time with them.
But the universe is always conspiring to test your resolve.
Spending a work weekend on Nusa Lembongan, a tiny island half an hour by boat from Bali, I was with my girl team to do photoshoots. Amongst the girls, a man’s name kept coming up, “He’s old and nice; maybe Deb would like him,” she at 27 suggested. “How old?”I asked, thinking maybe wheelchair old. “I don’t know,” she said,” just old.”
A dinner was arranged for all of us that night after a full day of playing being a supermodel. I’ve never considered myself to be photo-worthy and was exhilarated as the girls inspired me to twist and turn with a big smile on my face, parading from the beach to the pool looking fabulous under their guise and the filter of the camera. We celebrated with a few drinks before this old man arrived to join us and was already in a happy place.
In bounced this super cute 45-year-old Aussie surfer. He was funny and brutally sexy with raw maleness. His body toned, fit and tanned and he casually exuded a naughty bad boy aura - the boy you know you shouldn’t get close to but want to. He swore a lot, talked loudly and passionately. He used Aussie lingo, abbreviating words and would slur them together as we do. He referred to places that only he and I at the group table would understand - like down south ( meaning south of Sydney) and the gong ( a town called Wollongong). I enjoyed the familiar banter and we connected effortlessly and even though every second word he said was ‘fuck,’ I didn’t mind. He had lived in Japan, Hong Kong and Europe and was a world-class chef, but he won brownie points when he paid the bill discreetly for four of us, including a bottle of excellent South Australian shiraz. He said goodnight and invited us all to his place the following night for dinner.
The young girls teased me the next day, saying how much he liked me, asking, would you, why don’t you questions. Although I already knew, given half a chance, I probably would, but pretending to be staunchly indifferent, I replied, “I’ve only met him once - I don’t know, I’ll see how I feel tonight.”
We arrived at his place late in the afternoon and he immediately suggested a walk to the beach to see the sunset. He took my hand, a beer in his other hand, whispering how gorgeous I looked while guiding me down the path to the beach, bypassing our friends.
“I want to show you something special,” he said excitedly, already leading me towards the rocks that scalloped the headland to a secluded beach. The surf washed up against the rocks wetting my silk dress. I felt naked with the wet dress clinging to my body; he clearly noticed. The beach was etched into a cliff where a tiny temple was housing the effigy of the god Barong Keket, the dragon-like creature renowned for good times.
“I have him tattooed three times, look, here, here and here,” he said wide-eyed with pride, “ He’s my man.”
He watched me walk around the little open temple encased by a low stone wall. There must have been a ceremony recently as offerings were strewn on the sand. He retook my hand, possessively, with lingering glances and led me back into the shallow water to see what looked like a ragged rock protruding from the ocean.
“Can you see it?” he asked.
“No, what am I looking for?”
“Look into the hole,” he instructed, standing behind me holding my shoulders. I felt tingles at his touch on my bare skin.
I scanned through a hole in the rock; it was like looking into a kaleidoscope with the magical image of Bali’s Mount Agung framed by the perimeter of the hole with the sunlight casting a hallo over its peak. I looked back at him in amazement as a wave gently pulled me towards him. Shafts of the fading sun caught the silver threads of his beard as he pulled me towards him and kissed me, a soft, sensual, dreamy kiss. He tasted of beer and sweat and masculinity and as his arms held me as I almost swooned, falling into the ocean.
I was giddy and excited and drank a lot during the dinner that was just a pause in the inevitable. And when asked, well stated, “You’re staying?” I nodded submissively.
The chemistry between two people is always unpredictable. But his kiss was the prelude to what I imagined our chemistry to be like. Everything about him was intoxicating; even his loudness and our apparent incompatibility were alluring. I completely surrendered; it had been a year since I felt that fire of sexuality flowing through my veins since I felt a man’s weight against my body, hair, muscles, smell, and outward strength that balanced my softness and sensuality and inner strength.
We made love over and over again; my body was totally receptive and willing to be explored and devoured with pleasure. I was delighted that I remembered what to do! Finally, we fell asleep in his bed, and when I woke the next morning, I looked over at the man beside me and giggled to myself- there’s a man there - it wasn’t just a beautiful dream.
I knew he wasn’t the one or even the one for now. He was just a sensual holiday gift. He had plans to get back to Europe and in the light of day, I saw a troubled man with no synergy with my life and spiritual growth. But that didn’t stop the teenager romantic in me from fantasying about round two.
I woke up Monday morning, back home and alone in my bed, with a shocking case of cystitis. I had only my gluttony to blame for my bodies reaction to this indulgence after such prolonged abstinence. I texted him and his immediate reply was soothing and remorseful. He sent me songs and pictures of the temple and the kissing rock - he was soft and romantic. He wanted to see me again, as soon as possible. The feeling of being wanted is addictive and fuels the ego, regardless of sensibility.
Only a few days after this romantic interlude and still enduring the discomfort of cystitis, going back and forth to the toilet to pee every few minutes what felt like fire, Tania pulled me aside.
“Deb are you texting him?” she said in a lecturing tone of someone who loves you and can see you sometimes better than yourself. I nodded contritely.
“ He’s not at your frequency; you’ve done so much work on yourself don’t allow him to bring you down. He has anger issues; he’s probably an alcoholic, and who knows what else. You know you’re an enabler; you like to save people; please don’t repeat the same mistakes.”
I sat there like a docile lamb knowing she was right but feeling the ache of desire burning, literally, in my body. For a second I felt victimised; why did I break my drought for someone so unsuitable. I knew everything she said was true. Would I ever meet anyone suitable and at my age? I continued listening to her voice of reason like white noise and let the better wiser part of my brain take control. I picked up my phone and sent him a text, a kind and definite text saying thank you and goodbye. Immediately he replied. He sent me a picture of our Temple God and one word - goodby- with an emoji sad face.
I have no regrets, only lessons to learn, experiences to share and droughts to break!
Hugs
Dich will ich