We Are The Drug

People tell women in their twenties that beauty and youth make us vulnerable. They say “you’re desirable,” like it’s a weakness, instead of a superpower. 

Wit and caution are necessary for survival, but circling the worst-case scenario like it’s the only possibility, limits the potential of our power. Years of being told “don’t provoke men with your body and your charm” build up and keep us hidden under layers of fear. 

The women I’ve met in Monteverde are completely in control of every situation they enter. They are constantly inspired by themselves and their beauty. They are confident, unafraid, liberated emotionally and sexually. They have influenced me to release this power I’ve been coddling for so long, afraid of being too much, afraid of doing exactly what I want, like it would be embarrassing… But now I’m embarrassed that I ever wasted time being ashamed or afraid. 

I’m learning that people, straight men especially, are inebriated by women with confidence. Women fear being drugged by something as lifeless and uninspired as a powder or as pathetic as a capsule. Men need to literally poison women to be able to control them… We in our being, in our speech, in our eyes, in our lips… we are the drug. We just have to know that we are. 

The town of Tamarindo is a small hippie surf town on the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica. The days are filled with beaches and bars and tides that toss and spin you like you’re filled with air. At the hazy, 4 pm, golden Saturday light we meet a group of guys on the beach. T decides to go back to their house with them. After watching the sunset and rolling in the waves, the rest of us decide we should go too. 

Showered, tan, and glowing from our day in the sun, confident and in control, we arrive at their house. A and K are already there splashing and laughing with the guys in the pool. Turns out the house is a DJ’s who’s spinning that night at BPM. BPM is an international sensation, a five day music festival in the jungle. The DJ has a Middle Eastern tan, he’s strong, and forward. I ask him about his setlist. He says the festival wants reggaetón but that’s not really his style. I tell him to be himself… He thanks me like I proposed a revolutionary idea. How sad is it that “be yourself” is such a bold suggestion. 

Later, the DJ calls my name from his room. I slide through the glass door that opens off the pool. I feel that familiar gut drop, the achy fear of worst case that every woman has felt when she’s alone with a stranger… even if she wants to be there. DJ’s suitcase is open on the bed. He tells me he likes my style and asks if I’ll pick his outfit for his set. I can’t help but smile, “of course,” I laugh, lightened by this big guy’s wholesome request. As I’m walking up the stairs, he grabs my hand on the railing and tells me I’m sexy. For the first time in my semi-adult life, I don’t believe it just because he tells me, instead, I think, “good, he noticed.”   

An hour later at a bar S and I start talking to W. He’s tall, with dark brown hair, clean cut, pearly whites, and dimples, from Toronto. He’s the kind of guy that wants the most beautiful girl in the room and a different one every night. He doesn’t have to flirt, his being is charismatic because he says it like it is. He tells us he works for BPM as an artist coordinator. At first, I’m not his biggest fan but as time rolls on I see I unfairly exchanged his confidence with arrogance. I start to get him… he wants to have a good time and he knows how to get what he wants. 

We go to the festival and he slaps artist bands on our wrists and leads us through dancing crowds to the VIP lounge behind the stage. S and I sit on either side of him. We’re on a leather couch under red lighting. “What a cliche,” I think, “W and his bitches,” I say. They laugh. 

The rest of the night is glowy lights and music that I can feel in my bones. S and I have our sunglasses on our noses, we bring our hands over our heads, shake our hair, we’re smiling so wide it hurts, we’re swirling our hips and sliding our hands down our bodies. We walk through the jungle and bounce between tables in VIP meeting people from everywhere and in between. I dance with W and feel his hands melt into my skin. I feel everything like I’m a sponge soaked with the tenderness of the time in all its chaotic clarity- its beauty, its serendipity, my luck, my power, my femininity, my new fleeting friendships. 

Although youth has been my whole life, I think I’m just beginning to live in the full potential of my youth. I can feel myself picking up momentum, spinning heat and electricity like a plane rolling down the tarmac collecting air, gaining speed, almost always about to take off. Youth and growth and the neverending runway. So far the ride’s so good.