Pussy on a Platter

"You know what your problem is?"

"Do tell, Clint?"

"You're giving your pussy away on a platter."

"My what on a what?"

"You're coming across as desperate."

"I am desperate."

My about-to-be ex-friend (and oldest brother of the Brothers) is explaining to me in his distinctly blunt way that giving some guy my number last week was a fail on my part.

"Was he supposed to hunt for it or some bullshit like that?"

"Exactly."

Silence.

"Get out."

And for the third time in a year, I throw Clint out of my house. He slinks down the steps like a lazy lizard, an unlit cigarette in mouth, mumbling something under his breath.

Clint looks like a bootleg Kurt Cobain with tangled blonde hair and crazy blue eyes. He’s handsome in that cavalier kinda way, like he could care less what he looks like and it makes him that much sexier. Because he’s a little older than the other brothers, I often rely on him for maybe an ounce of maturity. This wasn’t going to happen today.

The thing he doesn’t get is that I’m an outlier here. Single 40-something female with no children in a bland shore-based suburbia.

She must be a weirdo or a slut. Or gay. Or a gay slut. Watch out. She wants to pounce on our husbands and with their paunchy bellies and baseball caps.

She’s a cougar. Pouncing on some young dude and “teaching him the ropes” sounds extra unsexy. It sounds like fucking work. Like something I should get paid to do. I’m looking to be pounced and taught. Not the other way around.

For a long time here, I played it safe, not really hooking up with locals. (And frankly, nobody was knocking down the door for me anyway.) These square pegs did not want my round hole. So to have some “scandalous” reputation when in actuality I was living the life of a reclusive nun kinda hurt.

Especially when it came to my old friend George.

George is an older Jesus-looking, beard-wearing, guitar-slinging hippie type. He dated my sister for years when I was a child. During that time, he served as a surrogate brother, protective, kind and instructive. He took me to see a meteorite shower one night at the Jersey shore, which still remains one of the shiniest memories of my life.

As a little girl, I desperately wanted to believe in magic but an increasingly difficult life kept getting in the way of such delight. But that night, as George and I watched the sky explode with light, I believed in magic once again. My heavy, little soul lit up. From that point on, George and magical things were indelibly entwined.

When I moved back to the Jersey shore several years ago, George and I giddily reconnected after decades apart. Picking up where we left off, he quickly became that warm and watchful friend, helping me whenever possible.

He taught me how to make small car repairs and fixed up an old bike for me, with a cardboard license plate that read my name. He made a concoction of oils for surfing-induced ear infection. He showed me how to tell the wind direction by letting sand run through my fingers--kind and gentle brotherly acts that fed an undernourished side of me.

After some time, I noticed he hadn't invited me to his home. When I asked him, he told me that he was afraid his wife wouldn't understand our friendship.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she gets jealous."

"But we're just friends," I said, neck tensing. (It was disturbing to think that anyone would consider George as my romantic partner. Incestuous and creepy.)

"If you can't tell your wife you're at my place George, it’s probably best we don't hang out."

"And you might want to grow some," I wanted to add but said instead: "I'm nobody's secret."

But that wasn't true; I have been someone’s secret. My friend Andrew only calls me on his drive home from work because he's afraid to talk to me in front of his wife. I've been his friend for over 20 years.

When I dated a man in New York, he always felt uneasy bringing me around his "baby's momma."

"I just don't want any problems with her or the custody of our kid. I don't want to upset her."

"But you have no problems insulting me by keeping me a secret?"

Before you suggest I toss these jerks to the curb, understand that these are men who have served special roles in my life. They have been my guardians and mentors and friends.

George came to my house, desperate for my help. His wife had found out that he had stopped by my house weeks ago (to fix a shower head—oh the scandal of it all!) and went ballistic. Would I please go over and explain to her that nothing is going on?

"Oh god, George. Don’t ask me this, dude!"

He implored me and I finally relented. Before leaving, he asked me to dress down a little. I put on a flannel shirt and a baseball cap (so I didn't appear the supermodel threat that lurks underneath).

When I entered his home, the tense energy was palpable. I decided to swallow the poison quickly. Marching over to the kitchen sink. I stood behind his wife, her back to me, as she washed the dishes. She was sniffling, post-cry.

"Hi there, Janet. I'm Beth. I'm sorry you're upset. I've known George since I was 5. He dated my oldest sister. The thought of anything romantic with him makes me, um, queasy. I can assure you nothing has happened nor would it. He's a friend and that’s all."

She didn't turn around. She simply asked me, very quietly, to leave.

I walked out of the house and away from a friendship I had had since childhood. It hurt but one gets tired of these unfounded mistress-like roles based on the fact that you’re single and available.  

“He's doing it to protect his family”, a friend countered. What am I, a communicable disease? What kind of marriage are you protecting when you resort to lies just to maintain a friendship? What are you teaching your children? How to be in a deeply dysfunctional family that stays together at all costs? That’s protection? Please.

So while I do the “right” thing and continue to not sleep with the wrong person or the right person or any person, my scandal quotient continues to grow. An “older” woman who hangs around young surfers and dares to be free and sexual and creative and doesn't have children? Off with her head!

So why aren't you married, people have asked curiously? Why don't you have children?

Perhaps the need to marry and procreate wasn't hardwired into me, like so many others. I didn't dream of a wedding dress or a fat rock on my finger. That doesn't mean I don't want to get married or have a family. It just hasn’t dictated the direction my life.

That's one take.

The other? When you spend a lifetime simply trying to survive or battling depression or stuck in relationships that you think might last but end up shattered over and over again, it eats up a lot of fucking time.

Clint knocks at the door.

"Do you want to go grab a beer?"

"You're an ass, Clint. An ass."

"Sorry about the pussy on a platter comment. Do you want to grab a beer?"

The Hazards of Showerheads

The Brothers are a rag tag crew of 3 young guys at the end of the street that have adopted me into their family. While I’m grateful to get a sense of what real brothers feel like, they often try my patience with their sheer idiocy/youthful ramblings.

A topic that is sure to incite an argument among us is their views on the differences between men and women. I try to remind myself of their age but also believe that if they don’t change their thinking now, those thoughts may cement themselves into their twisted little minds and never dislodge. It’s charity work on my behalf. For the world.

After we finish surfing at the end of our street last Sunday, I try to hurry off the beach and leave Clint and Kyle behind. I can often sense when their ridiculous thoughts are brewing and do my best to disconnect from them and run for cover. Kurt, the youngest, remains in the water, burning off his boundless and wild energy.

Clint: Beth. Wait up.

Alas, I have lost my window of opportunity. As we walk off the beach together, we pass a beautiful girl on the beach. They check her out intently.

Clint: Man, I can’t help it. I must be shallow. I just love beautiful women.

Beth: Clint, we all love beautiful women. It doesn’t make you shallow.

Clint: You love beautiful women?

Beth: Sure. Why not?

Kyle: I didn’t know you swung that way.

(Childish laughter ensues.)

Beth: (despondently) Yeah, you got me. I’m a full-blown lesbian. Ladies beware.

Clint: I just feel like I should be a little more...complicated or deeper.

Beth: Appreciating beautiful women doesn't mean you’re not "deep." It means you’re a 27-year-old heterosexual man.

Kyle: I don’t know, Beth. Now that I have a girlfriend, it’s just such a burden. I try so hard not to check out other women, but I’m a man and I can’t help myself.

Beth: Shut your trap. Now.

Kyle: Oh, here we go again.

Beth: Kyle, don’t date a woman if you feel like it’s such a burden. Undoubtedly she senses that. Or find an open relationship. Or a woman that you’re happier with. But don’t insult me – or your girlfriend - by telling me it’s just the “burden of being a man."

Kyle: Beth, I wish I could shoot some testosterone into you so you could feel what we have to go through on a daily basis.

Beth: Because women have no sex drive on their own. Because women don’t check out other men. Because only men have the market on being horny.

Kyle: Men are horny all the time. You just don’t get it.

Then something snaps in me. To be denied my sex drive after months without good sex is a profound insult to injury. My volcano begins to erupt.

Beth: No, Kyle, you just don’t get it! I haven’t had sex in 5 months! I’d have sex with that fire hydrant if it looked at me funny. I’ve done things with a shower head that verge on the dangerous. My bicycle seat turns me on and planting seeds in my garden has developed a whole new meaning. I’d fuck circles around you right now, Kyle. Circles! I do “get it” because I too am “horny all the time!”

I let out a giant sigh. At this point, we’ve stopped in the middle of the street and the boys are stunned by my outburst, mouth agape, surf boards dangling under arms.

Kyle: Okay, okay. You’re horny all the time. Just relax. I'm sorry.

Suddenly I feel on the verge of tears. I hate that I used the word horny. I don’t even like that word. I always found it coarse. My best friend Krissie used to say it a lot. “God, I’m so horny.” Even though she was my dearest friend, I would suddenly see her as a cat in heat. If I didn’t watch, she might rub her ass up and down my leg and begin yowling.

As we walk home in partial silence, I try to recover. Did I just have a sex-starved breakdown? When I reach my house, the guys continue on their way. I stand in the middle of the street, unsure what to do next. Maybe I should begin yowling. Maybe leg sex is in my future. I walk to the back yard and into the outdoor shower – one of my favorite places to hide out. I turn on the water and dream of carrot seeds and bicycle seats.

A Semi-Scandalous Day at the Beach (in Pictures, Mostly)

Feeling a little under the weather last Sunday, I decided not to forgo surfing and shoot some photos of The Brothers on their long boards instead. I quickly realized that shooting surfers is not only difficult but slightly boring.

But here are two prerequisite shots of Kurt and Kyle surfing anyway:




























See? Not very thrilling. I mean, both guys are great surfers. I'm just not a surf photographer.

So I lay on the beach, basking in the new Spring sunlight and thought about an idea I have for a new series of photographs:

It's a scandalous idea, you see. I would exploit all the young surfer boys I hang out with by taking risque photographs of them. Not porn, per se...just a little edgy. It would make a great coffee table book! Mad wealth would ensue!














I mean, listen - we've had it up to here (finger to neck gesture) with photos of hot, young chicks from a male's point of view. When do you see young men from a woman's point of view? A woman who, in some cases, is twice their age? Ah, just scandalous enough to work, Beth Mann.

But where to begin, where to begin?

As I roused from my sun-drenched semi-sleep, the answer was undressing right before my eyes. His name was....I don't know. But there he was. My first model, as if a sign from above!














He quickly noticed as I began snapping shots of him and didn't seem to mind at all. Au contraire. I think he put on his shirt and took it off about four times.

I shall call him Mr. January (for my calendar series, soon after the coffee table book is published.)




























































Now, some may say this is a little distasteful. My God, I could be their mother! But guess what? I'm not. I'm not their mother. And at 42 years of age, I care less and less what people think. I'm not bedding these guys (and if I was, then what?), I'm just appreciating them in their steamy prime as I pine away at the Jersey shore. Is that so wrong? Wait. Don't answer. Cuz look! I'm not caring again!

The look of me not caring.

Then I decided to take a few of my friend Eric the next day. Eric is the most poetic surfer of the bunch. He's a musician and really into death and Gothic romance. He's got a delicate, sweet quality to him that I just adore. He was tough to photograph because he's a little shy. But I think we're on to something. This was just a warm-up. I think I want to put him in a bathtub with a boa constrictor or something.




























You see, I'm a bit of a pariah down here. In a traditional suburban area, where a woman of my age is either unhappily married with four kids or divorced, raising said four kids on her own, or dead from a meth overdose, I often stand alone, like a 42-year-old single unicorn.


Sure, I hang out with married couples sometimes and usually want to stick my head in a bucket. Most seem so resigned, so discontent. The few that seem happy, well, I desperately long to have what they have...but I don't have it right now.

So I surf, a lot. And these are the boys I surf with - young, silly, strong, daring, awkward at times, just trying to find themselves.

Clint, the oldest Brother

Since I'm not much of a people lover, these young guys have been a real salve to my aching misanthropy and a boon to my spirits. I see them struggle to find themselves, their voice. They are still vulnerable and open and surprisingly gentle, for all of the testosterone coursing through their veins.

They open up their lives to me, without all the decades worth of protective guise and bullshit we layer upon ourselves. Simply put, they make the whole human process seems a little more dear to me. I like watching them unravel like pretty little manly flowers.

And I plan on making a scandalous calendar called, um...The Boys of Summer. No, Girl Gone Wild or I Gotta Get out of Jersey before they Arrest Me!

$21.99.

Just click here to purchase.

Thanks to Joe for his suggestion.