Women at the beach. What nature already knows.

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.

I married a man who knows his biology compels him to look.
To gaze.
To admire.
To get hard.

But he also knows he only comes when, where, and how I say.
He knows his role is not to reach, but to orbit.

In nature, the female owns her pussy.
She invites his semen.
She decides when, where, and how.

The male presents.
He circles.
He waits until chosen.

But in patriarchy the signals are reversed.
Women are sold lingerie, perfume, angel wings,
as if they are the peacocks.

Men confuse display with invitation.
They confuse a woman’s self‑expression
with horniness,
with permission,
with desperation.

So 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.