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nicaraguan sexual moral

The Nicaraguan sexual moral

Her shoulders are shocking. Tears are welling down her big, brown eyes. Frustration, anger, incomprehension; all emotions are raging through her head. Just a few minutes ago, she was walking down the street in Granada, when a guy suddenly grabbed her, started to touch her and tried to kiss her. Out of nothing. She screamed. People looked, two guys smiled, nobody helped.

She already was fed up with the Nicaraguan sexual moral, now she just wants to leave this country; as soon as possible. Every time she walks down the street guys are hissing at her, undressing her with their eyes, whistling, making sexual remarks at her. And she’s not the only one. Almost every girl traveling in Nicaragua she talked too, experienced the same. She is use to it in Israel, where she lives, but by far not by this extend.

She doesn’t want to be beautiful anymore. She doesn’t want to hide her legs in long pants anymore, cover her shoulders anymore. It all doesn’t matter. Nicaraguan men will treat her the same: as a piece of meat. As a pussy. Hardly any local guy sees her for what she is, a smart, intelligent, independent women.

It’s the Nicaraguan sexual moral. It’s the way a lot off Nicaraguan men treat women. Many Nicaraguans have multiple girlfriends next to their wifes. They knock somebody up, leave the girl and the children behind and move on to the next and the next and the next. Following their penis, not taking any responsibility. Women are throw-away products. Conquer them, fuck them and throw them away.

When I studied Spanish at a Spanish school here in Nicaragua the only subject one of my conversation teachers wanted to talk about where women. He was proud having three girlfriends at the same time, all behind the back of his wife. He didn’t love his wife anymore, so he just went somewhere else. Not for love, for pussy. Because that’s the simple way he talked about his girlfriends. About pussies. Hardly ever addressing them as women.

Here in Granada, where I am at the moment, are car hotels. You can drive your car into the hotel, close the curtains behind you so nobody can see your car is there and move into a room for an hour. And Granada is not the only place that has them.

I tried to explain my teacher that I like to have a girlfriend as a ‘sparring partner’, somebody who is intellectually, emotionally, spiritually more or less on the same level. Somebody I can talk to, have a philosophical discussion with, meditate with, play with, make love with. He just laughed. Why? Girls were pussies. Good to clean the house, make food and to fuck. I looked at him and felt ashamed to be man.

But for me it was simple. I put the conversation behind me. Told him I didn’t want to have conversation classes like that and moved on. Every now and then when I was walking with a girl in the street I got a glimpse of what they experience. Hearing remarks, seeing eyes being fixed on them. According to them – and a lot of expats I’ve talked to – it’s not half of what they have to go through when they walk down the street alone. Going to the supermarket, going into town, even walking into the hostel, passing the night guard the bad energy, bad attention, the feeling of not being more than a piece of meat is there. And every time they go into the street their aversion of men is growing. Being here, being surrounded by it, I can totally understand.

I’m a tantric yogi. For me a woman is a Goddess. Somebody who can lead me, teach me on the path of tantra. Make me whole. Somebody to unite with; from the heart. From within. A Goddess to take the next step with in a spiritual quest. And now I’m in a society where the streets are dominated by cavemen. By men who just follow their dick. And I’m ashamed, ashamed to be man.

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