“Women” aren’t typically all that well-known for traveling alone or being adventurous in a way that isn’t carefully curated (you know, they need their toiletries, their access to a shower that isn’t merely a spigot and, most of all, a real pillow to rest their head on–any “woman” who tells you differently is a fucking liar probably trying to kowtow to her “man” du moment, e.g. taking up a sport just to claim having a similar interest as the object of her desire).
But that rare “woman” who does like to travel–especially alone–often has the tendency to boast about the number of foreign conquests she’s been able to include in her sexual passport. It’s as though, in addition to being able to call herself a “free spirit,” she can also lay claim to being a true “bohemian.” Minus the part where she actually does anything pertaining to being “an artist” apart from surrounding herself with faux aspirants (i.e. a guy who plays guitar near the Puerta del Sol at unpredictable times when it strikes him that perhaps he can make some quick cash for the bar later).
Her strange need to play the braggart doesn’t come from a place of wanting to reveal just how deep her passion for travel goes, but the underlying need to cling at any sense of being “rebellious” that she can. For once she hits the age of desperation (arbitrary in some cities and suburban milieus), she will immediately pack it up in a different way. Putting her suitcase back in her closet for good in favor of domestic, steady dick that she can at least fool into believing she was “wild” once and that he’s now tamed her. But if she could, she would keep on sampling all the flavors of the world, if only that thing called an expiration date on “female” desirability wasn’t so pervasive (and it’s an expiration date that only accelerates when a “lady” is always on the move without a proper skin care regimen).
Missing A Clit 