What's worse is that I've never been able to take part in it. Back when I traveled as a single guy (to Vietnam, where I lived for a year, and around southeast Asia), I was too nervous, too poorly dressed, too plain weird to even approach women, or to know how to reciprocate their infrequent interest. It was only after I met my wife ten years ago that I gained enough confidence to even attempt to pick someone up, and by then it was unnecessary. The closest I came to travel sex was after Jean and I started dating, when I visited her in Paris, where she was studying abroad.
Now that I have a wife, a glamorous job description, a man-of-the-world aura and clothes that fit, the temptations are everywhere: the Cambodian prostitute who offered me $40 to take her home; the young Indonesian who held my hand as we weaved drunkenly through a Singapore market until we ran into her parents; and the soft-featured Thai girl nicknamed (completely inaccurately) Mom, who lured me into a bedroom during a party in a luxury Bangkok apartment "so we can make love," she said.
"But I know you are married, so we don't have to make love," she added. "We can just kiss."
"No, we can't 'just kiss'," I had to say.
I get by on the married nomad's version of cold showers and dirty magazines: sexual tension.
She looked disappointed, and was about to leave when I asked her to wait. "Hang on," I said. "I don't want your friends to think I finished in just one minute." I told her I had an idea: Since we were both wearing t-shirts, we could turn the lights off, trade garments and return to the party as if we'd dressed in a hurry. Perfect! But something must have been lost in translation, because the lights stayed on, Mom's top came off, and for an instant, I got a glimpse of what I could have at any time, in any corner of the globe, if I decided to.
But I've never made that decision, which means I routinely spend several consecutive months completely abstinent. You might think such celibacy would be torture, but what's scary is how easy it's become to say no to sex. It's not that I don't desire it, but sex with strangers has been out of the question for so long that I can't even imagine saying yes. (I can imagine all too easily what happens after saying yes — it's the moment of assent that's beyond me.)
At times I wonder if I'm missing out — not just on new bodies, but on new experiences of place and culture. And obviously I consider deception: How hard could it be to keep legions of foreign lovers hidden from my wife?
Not hard at all. Still, I get by on the married nomad's version of cold showers and dirty magazines: sexual tension. To that end, I've cultivated a network of what I call my "travel mistresses" — women whom I meet on the road or who accompany me on trips, and with whom I sometimes even share a bed, but who would never consider having sex with me.
