I walked our dog along Matosinhos beach today.
Women of mating age:
playing volleyball,
laughing,
scrolling,
resting.
Bikinis constructed to guide the eye
to waxed pussies,
to breasts exposed to gravity.
I see it in my daughters.
We raised them shameless.
We raised them in a house where, on family days or holidays,
me and my daughters asked their father to carry our supplies in the backpack he carried for us:
- Mints
- Tampons
- Gummy bears
- Menstrual pads
- Power banks
- Lip gloss
- Sunscreen
- Hats
- Wet wipes
Ordinary. Never hidden.
I married a man raised by a woman who knew.
I married a man who carries a backpack for his women.
A backpack he fills with the things we hand him.
When women stand at the beach, almost naked,
they are not ashamed.
They are not apologising.
They are not gagging for it.
They are standing as nature wired them:
choosing,
selecting,
owning.
They play
unhidden.
Unapologetic.
Unashamed.
Unavailable to ownership.
