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Sex: the Place and the Time

For someone who feels most at home in a tent and claims to be able to sleep anywhere as long as I’m tired; I’m surprised at how picky I am about location when it comes  to having sex. Years ago I hiked overland to China, sleeping mostly on trains and the floors of hostels that swore there were no snakes. I’ve been one of those bums sleeping on the beach in Greece. I slept under a boat in Italy, on a roof in some hot country that I can’t remember the name of, and I once even slept in a phone box when I was locked out of my house back in the days of no mobile phones.
It’s different when it comes to sex though. Beaches are out for a start. I mean, I don’t even like exfoliating in the shower, so why the hell should I have to exfoliate every crack and orifice of my body whilst trying to perform the love act? A mouthful of whatever tickles your fancy is just not hot when it comes topped with sand.
Then there are cars. I remember dating a guy years ago when I was more ignorant than innocent. We had a very romantic night out. It started in the pub (anyone remember Macs in Dalkey?), from there we went to the Chinese, going halves on a bag of chicken balls with sweet and sour sauce. It was the exotic upgrade to a spring roll, and came with chips. From there we drove up Killiney Hill and parked in the car park overlooking Dublin Bay. I thought it extremely romantic that a number of cars seemed to be there too, enjoying the night lights twinkle across the city.
Once we’d eaten, he put his arm around me leaned over. ‘Do you want what I want?’ he asked. ‘I think so’ I replied. He leaned back on the drivers’ seat and with a grin said ‘come and get it.’ So I did. I picked up the polystyrene cup that the sickly sweet sauce had been in and fished out the pineapple at the bottom. Looking back, we were obviously both after different things, and I did cop it that we were misunderstanding each other on that fateful night when he said ‘great view, isn’t it’, as we sat awkwardly side by side in his car. ‘Yeah’, I said, ‘you can see right across the bay’. Only then did he point out the even better view. There was a very white arse filling the window of the passenger car beside us. It rapidly appeared and disappeared. So this was what it was all about I  thought, no longer feeling sorry for people whose windows were all steamed up not being able to see the great view all the way over to Howth. I’d screwed up, I knew it, but at least I’d gotten the piece of pineapple.
Not to say that I never had any follow up experiences in cars after that, but no matter how much passion, sex in cars is really only good for those emergencies when there isn’t a bed available. Clutches are ruthless and if you lose a pair of knickers in a car in the dark; forget it.

The shower. My message to fat bottomed girls like my good self who live in a country where the water pressure is underwhelming, is this: if you are into a splash of water running down your arm, whilst trying to copulate in a standing position (and remember, doing it standing requires certain compatible height elements which are rare), whilst the rest of your body begins to freeze as it is a little bit wet but mostly cold, well if you like that sort of thing and if you think goose pimples look sexy, best of luck to you, but remember you also have to get out of the shower and dry off. My one further tip to anyone who likes doing it in the shower is that if you choose to do it in the home of your partner’s parents when they are away, don’t leave the bathroom together naked because there is also the risk that the parents have arrived home unexpectedly and you didn’t hear them what with the sound of the shower and the thump of the loofah. It sounds funny but it’s not. Believe me; having supper after such an incident is a real conversation killer with the future in-laws.

Then there are public toilets. I remember doing it in the toilet of an aeroplane. I mean, you kinda have to when you’re on a plane, because you can’t really step outside or get a room. What I wasn’t thinking was that once we’d done it we’d have to put up with everyone on the plane grinning at us. I hadn’t realised in advance that my copulative partner in crime was a screamer. If they could have kicked us out they would have, but the walk of shame up and down the isle of that transatlantic flight for the next few hours was punishment enough.

There’s only one good place for sex, and I know, because I am an expert on this matter. And that is: bed. You get a big comfy mattress, blankets, walls and a roof. In my case there is also an en suite bathroom, an electric blanket, suggestive lighting, good music and a great lover all at hand. In fact, I'd even go as far to saying that the cocktail called ‘sex on the beach’ would be much more popular if it were called ‘sex in the bed’. Yum. And most people can relate. 
The only thing that's really getting to me now that I’ve found the perfect place is wondering how the hell we're ever going to find the time?


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