Rory’s Rumblings: Do Women Have Heartier Hides Than Men?

There’s been plenty of swell on offer in the Hawaiian island chain over the last few days. The Backdoor Shootout fired, Pe’ahi gnashed its teeth. Northern facing shores have been awash in energy and adrenaline as heroes pit themselves against the might of the Pacific Ocean.

I’ve been hiding in the lee of a local point, playing on my longboard, making excuses for my cowardice. I’m too old (not true), too fat (definitely true!). Whatever motivates the brave into tackling their fears has been absent from my soul these last few months.  

Most sessions near home I’m joined by the same few talented women, all adorned in tiny bikinis. I’m told athletic women in minimal attire is the very essence of bodily autonomy, and it’s one which I strive to appreciate in every capacity possible.  

“It’s okay to look, “my wife has told me, “It’s not cool to leer.”

Which is very good advice.

Am I sometimes distracted by the flesh on display? Have I taken waves on the head, missed sets, flubbed turns? Absolutely. More times than I can count. But that’s my problem, not theirs.

One should hardly impose puritanical dress codes on other genders, solely because of the amount of blood certain fashions might get pumping in weak-willed men.

And like I mentioned, these ladies surf well. Which is maybe relevant in that it points towards some sort of athletic efficacy. These are not posers playing surfer, dressing cute. They link turns and hit lips and, yes, occasionally raise my blood pressure with an impressive duck dive.  

As I attempt to avoid staring at toned and tan flesh, remarkably blemish-free, a question I’ve long pondered reoccurrs: Why don’t women get butt rashes?

It seems as though they should.

In thirty-odd years of surfing, I’ve reduced my chest and belly to abraded hunks of quivering flesh on countless occasions.  

My nipples are wizened hunks of senseless meat thanks to the thousands of hours I’ve spent grinding them against wax.

Long sessions chafe my inner thighs, turn the tip of my penis into a screaming mess of raw nerve endings.

But never once have I seen a woman with a rash on her ass.

I once asked Anastasia Ashley how she stays butt-rash free. A preventative cream? Is there an ointment? Some type of lotion?  Does the secret lie, quite simply, in the area’s absence of hair?

She was not amused by the question, despite it being asked in earnest. Nor did she answer.

It’s not exactly something you can ask a stranger. “Excuse me. I know we just met, but I was wondering how you keep your bottom so silky. So smooth? So unchaffed…”

Maybe the internet masses can shed light on the mystery. I certainly hope so, at least. Because the only other option is finding out for myself. Order a t-back banana hammock online, employ the scientific method. Raw or greased? Hairy or waxed? Post-session application of aloe vera vs pre-session parking lot rub downs with cocoa butter?

Would it be fair to inflict my hirsute and be-pimpled bottom on the world in a quest for knowledge? To point it proudly skyward as I duck dive? To shock and appall with backside whacks and frontside bottom turns? Is there an answer to my question that doesn’t lay an unfair burden at the feet of my local community?

I desperately hope so.