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    Why travelling turns perfectly balanced humans into raging nymphomaniacs.


    Posted by Stoke Media Team
    8 years ago | September 20, 2016

    Why travelling turns perfectly balanced humans into raging nymphomaniacs.

    There’s a certain freedom that comes with travelling. And I’m not talking about the soul-searching kind or the one that lets you choose Pringles over a balanced meal. I’m talking about sex, baby. I’m talking about you and me, and that other guy if he’s up for it. The kind that has you flip the bird at monogamy, the kind that spits in the face of missionary, and kicks dirt at most (ok, f*&k it) ­any preconceived ideas of getting it ooooonnn. I’m talking about that kind of freedom that makes perfectly balanced humans turn into self-confessed nymphomaniacs. Here are seven reasons that explain why travel can often undo even the tightest of chastity belts:

    Liquid Luck aka alcohol.

    This one is a no-brainer. In fact, this one applies even when on home soil. There’s no denying that without the pressures of work or uni, the frequency and quantity of its consumption vastly increases. Aided greatly by those hole-in-the-wall joints that offer beer for a euro, or that pub-crawl with free absinthe shots, the sexual possibilities expand faster than your waistline. And that’s pretty damn fast.

    It’s all part of the adventure.

    Once your passport gets the immigration stamp out to signify the beginning of the adventure, so too do your genitals. Travellers are known to take risks normally considered out of the question. Whether it’s riding that moped no-hands, or riding that German no-hands, the unconventional is considered all a part of the whole, glorious experience. Friendships that normally would have taken years to develop are fast-tracked on the road, so even the ‘no sex on the first date-ers’ may find themselves balls deep before exchanging names.

    Hola, guapa/guapo.

    We’ve all been subject to that one foreigner whose voice makes your giblets melt. Maybe he pronounces his Vs as Ws or she can’t pluralise or speaks as though she’s constantly clearing her throat. Whatever it is, that accent is a one-way ticket to your bunk bed…and perhaps even a return. You just have to hope that what he’s gasping in Dutch before saying your name is something hot and not that you’re squashing his balls.

    Hostels or sexy cesspools.

    Youth is a troubled time. Everyone is experimenting and it’s largely with each other. When you add a whole bunch of youths in the same place, close sleeping quarters and probably a zillion pheromones seeping from that sweaty shirt you’ve been wearing for two weeks…Well, let’s just say that there’s a reason that all the locks on the bathroom doors are broken. And let’s hope that the weird white stain on the common room couch is the result of some serious toothpaste spillage.

    Who does it best?

    Maybe you have heard of the game called ‘collecting flags.’ Basically, you gain a flag for each different country you sleep with, like some kind of fucked-up Scouts patch. In Europe they drive on the right, they use bidets and are powered by the wind. CRAZY, right? Who’s to say that European sex isn’t CRAZY too…They say having sex with foreigners is like a box of chocolates; you never know which one you like the best until you try them all.

    See ya never.

    Hands up all the commitment-phobes out there. What if I told you that there was a way to bump bodies with a guaranteed expiry date? That even if it’s super sloppy and you puke half-way through, tomorrow you’re going to be in a different city and the likelihood of seeing each other ever again is low. Soon their face is going to slip from your memory and they’ll be referred to as ‘that guy’ or ‘that chick’ rather than as their actual names. There’s a glorious ‘block’ function on facebook that can erase any serious embarrassments and, extra bonus, neither of you have any mutual friends to really make this awkward. Yay.

    No one will ever know.

    Sometimes I feel like travelling solo is a bit like being an undercover agent. You can be whoever you want. No one is really going to know that you dropped out of your arts degree and that you don’t really train dolphins in New Zealand. So if that story about how ‘f#$ked up’ you got at that club last week isn’t working, why not begin with the story of how you shred on guitar and once climbed Everest (missing fingers is an added bonus). This is also why your tantric travel memories will only ever be in your head, unless you care to share your experiences.


    Never fear, little travellers. What you’re feeling is completely normal. And yeah, I’ll vouch for you…that guy from last night was a solid ten.


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