I get why people like to have sex out in public. It’s fun. It adds an element of danger, like you could be caught at any moment. It’s like you’re back in high school, doing the dirty in a parked car and if someone catches you, you’re going to be in so much trouble. It’s fucking hot. Public sex is to normal people what I assume sex tapes are to celebrities.
That being said, I don’t like it. Sex in public seems nasty to me. Sex is already pretty gross: you’re sweaty, you don’t have total control over your face or noises, and you’re pulling yourself into to positions that should be reserved for the dimly lit back corner of a yoga studio. Not to sound high maintenance, but if I’m taking dick, I would prefer it be on high thread count sheets, in forgiving light, and away from the prying eyes of my strangers and loved ones alike.
But, because college guys are the worst and the internet is a thing, my freshman year boyfriend was getting bored of the old “erky-erky-erky” if you know what I mean. He was way more experienced than I was, and like the people pleaser I am, I just wanted him to be happy. I started doing kegels, going down more, reading Cosmo’s sex advice for more than laughs. Despite my best efforts, I could see a plan formulating in his eyes. He began to work up the nerve to ask me the most feared question: Can we try anal?
Before he could open his mouth and ruin the perfectly good thing we had going, I said the first thing that came to mind.
“Let’s have sex in public!”
Until that moment, I never really got what Kady Heron meant when she said “word vomit.” But in that moment, it finally made sense. The words spilled out of my mouth, down into his lap and all over our relationship.
He was ecstatic, and even though I knew I could back out at any second, I felt like I had to stick to my guns. It’s the same reason I always end up bonging a fourth beer during darty season – I know it’s gonna fuck me up and I’m gonna black out, but I also don’t want to be person who talks a big game and can’t live up to it.
Our first attempts went poorly, to say the least. My college campus is small. The last thing I needed was my econ professor walking by while I stimulate a package under the watchful eye of John Maynard Keynes. There was also the issue of my not yet being initiated into my chapter. I was young, naive and unaware that standards doesn’t actually have any power other than intimidation. The last thing I wanted was to be asked to depledge because some rando walked through uptown and saw too much of my downtown. I spent the next few weeks avoiding my lover and desperately attempting to think of ways we could enjoy the risk without alerting risk management.
My boyfriend then suggest the most perfect out. Even though neither of us are well versed in the ways of the trail, he thought we should take a little weekend away and go camping. While I tend to prefer fire of the bourbon variety, not the bon, I was down. After all, betches love to hike (walk) and it meant that I could perform fellatio in the most forgiving light of all (fire) and not have to worry about anyone I knew (standards) seeing.
Until we got to the campsite. Camping 101 says you should always clear the site before you start setting anything up, but we were tired, horny and starving. We threw together the tent, lit a fire and sat down to drink. Because I had the sense to plan ahead, I brought twice as much as alcohol as I anticipated needing, which is to say, I didn’t bring enough. We quickly finished the case of beer and decided to get down to the ~public sex~ business. We threw down a sleeping bag and got on the dirty ground to do the dirty.
Trying to have sex in the woods quickly made me realize why people have sex in beds. There is no such thing as comfortable position. I wish I could say the moans and groans erupting from my being were because I was feeling waves of unspeakable pleasure, but I was eighteen and so was he, so they were not. It was because my position options were either the always disappointing “pinecone-lumbar-support” or the equally aggravating “army-crawl-half-lunge.” As my man buried me deeper into the hard dirt, he let out the most bloodcurdling scream I have ever heard a person make.
I’ve never seen a person transform into a werewolf, and I don’t know exactly what a late age circumcision would entail, but I can guarantee that both of those things sound like whispers in comparison to the noise that escaped from his mouth. I was taken aback, turned off, and ready to turn in for the night.
“Uh… are you okay?” I asked, very unsure of if I was okay.
“I’m almost there.” He whispered, probably because the shrieking was causing permanent vocal cord damage.
“I’m… done?” I lied, “Just finish, I guess.”
He pulled out and got to work while I began to rummage around to find my shirt. Most of our stuff sat in a heap near the tent, with some empty beer cans and food wrappers laying around. I located it, the color and my dignity tinted with mud. As I bent down to pick it out of the dirt, a light came peeling around the corner and shined directly into my nether regions.
I then let out my own shriek, threw the shirt over my head and was met face to face with someone who, unlike standards, could very much ruin me. Because my boyfriend and I were idiots who knew next to nothing about hiking, we selected a circular trail that had campsite scattered along it, and since we didn’t know shit, we had selected a campsite approximately 300 yards from the ranger station.
Within seconds, my boyfriend and I were both told we would be charged with public indecency, because apparently, laws count even in the middle of the woods. He then took a survey of the campsite, and asked for our IDs, which we floundered to produce. Oh, yeah because we were underage. Whoops. We also quickly learned that it is illegal to bring alcohol into a state park, and we would be charged with that and drinking underage, as well. Twelve hours and a few hundred dollars later, my boyfriend and I were released.
So, kids, if you want to have public sex, just do it on campus like normal, horny college kids..