Don’t Fornicate Like I Fornicate.
Photo by LDRBRS
We’ve all gotten sex advice, some good, some bad, and lots of it is easy to ignore on the basis that “it will never happen to me.” I can say that the heat of passion has led me down the path of ignorance on more than one occasion, and quite frankly I’m still breathing. Because you are likely as hardheaded and incompetent as me when it comes to ignoring the immediate gravitational pull of your penis, I will offer firsthand advice that I trust will prove invaluable to anyone on the where, when, and why of fornication. Should you ever find yourself in these situations, don’t do what I did:
Don’t Fornicate On a Public Beach
Because one night a lady friend and I had one of those “why not?” moments after one too many vodka drinks we decided to venture down to the local beach and see where it went. It went to dirty sex. Since, I’m a gentleman and no gentleman allows a woman to get a vagina full of sand, I suggested an aquatic experience. This had two benefits; first, the weightlessness the water affords allows for a variety of positions that would be physically impossible for those of us who were not born into the Circe Du Soleil; second, because I was shit housed, and needed a refreshing dip in order to remember how to properly use my penis. Correct on both counts, things were going well until I instinctively looked behind me and saw two dark strangers approaching in the moonlight. When I realized that they were local police officers with flashlights and my clothes were twenty five yards up the beach, I decided the best strategy was to pretend I had just escaped Alcatraz. I filled my partner in on the plan and we immediately began a two minute plan of evasion that made the shoreline officers believe they were playing a game of flashlight whack-a-mole. While my partner decided her best strategy was to attempt and swim around a nearby rock pile, I decided I would wait it out until the officers hopelessly relented to my superior powers of seclusion. I realize now that this was moronic considering they were standing on my jeans. The officers realized rather quickly that we were not porpoises looking for a meal.
Cop: Hey, get outta there!
Me: Uhh
Cop: Stop diving, we see you!
Me: Thinking: (Just us dolphins in heat)
Cop: Get outta the water.
Me: Sir, I can’t because I’m naked and you’re standing on my jeans. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
The officers did me the dignity of walking to the top of the staircase that led to the beach and allowing me and my partner, who had nearly evaded capture, to clothe ourselves before sentencing. The look on their faces suggested they did not share my enthusiasm for marine sexual physics. We approached the staircase as if we were French revolutionaries approaching the guillotine.
Cop: What the fuck were you doing!?
Me: Uhhh, we figured no one was down here so we just figured…uhhh.
Cop: Don’t do that in there. People swim in there.
And here I was tempted to say “and fish shit in it.” I wanted to say “I can see the shimmering motor oil of the boats in the moonlight…I think that sterilizes it.” Instead it came out:
Me: I’m sorry, yessir, you’re right….have sex in my bed yessir sorry sir…sorry…uhhh…sorry?
Cop: Go home and do that.
If you want to avoid a DWI after ingesting a dozen drinks, my advice to you would be drive to the beach immediately and get busy in the water. The cops are funny about breathalyzing someone they just saw bare ass naked. If you want to explore aquatic sex without the likelihood of a public indecency hearing, DON’T FORNICATE ON A PUBLIC BEACH.
Don’t Fornicate Six Feet above Your Mother
When I was a college guy living at home on my summer vacations, I’d typically wait until my parents were out of the house to invite my girlfriend of the moment over for sex. On one particular evening, my parents were running late and girlfriend of the moment arrived ahead of time. While my mother patiently waited for my father’s turn in the shower and prepared me a tasty meal, girlfriend of the moment and I headed upstairs. Because we had an entirely sexual relationship and very little to talk about, we couldn’t contain ourselves and decided to get down to business.
This was problematic on so many levels. First, the bed I slept in until about three years ago was a converted bunk bed that had become rickety with age. It was designed for a 60 pound 12 year old to jump on, and made no guarantees about supporting the weight of a 200 pound man and the 110 pound girl spread eagle below him. Further complicating matters was that it lay on a portion of the floor where the carpet met the hardwood; any and all motion caused it to slide between the two rather audibly. Lastly, it was strategically positioned six feet above the kitchen where my mom had installed some kind of cabinets that magnified the sound to an inconvenient degree. As we progressed beyond foreplay and I did my best to pummel this poor girl through the mattress (as young men are wont to do) the aforementioned variables coalesced in a perfect storm of embarrassment. My mother, who was in the kitchen lovingly preparing my meal had no doubt gotten an earful through her cabinet grapevine and approached the staircase as if it were Monday morning and I was late getting up for high school. Shit.
Mom: RRRROOOBBBBBIIIIEEEE!!!!!
Me: WHAAAAAAT???!!
Mom: Your dinners ready, come down, what are you doing up there??!!!
Me: Nothing!!! I’ll be down in a minute JUST LEAVE IT!!!
Mom: RRROOOOOBBBBBIIIIEEEE!!!!!
Me: WehaveamicrowaveIwillheatitup!!!!! WHEN ARE YOU LEAVING??!!! LEAAAAAAAVE!!!!
Mom: RROOOBBBBIIIEEEE!!!!!
Me: WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?!!!
Mom: THIS ISN’T A DORM ROOM!
At that point I fully expected my mother to march up the stairs and wash my mouth out with soap. The only way I would have gone flaccid faster was if I realized my partner had morphed from nubile teenager to Barbra Streisand. There is nothing more mortifying than getting caught having sex by your mother and being told so in no uncertain terms…while you’re balls deep. Besides having to stop and say “OKAYYYY” and go downstairs sweaty and flushed to consume your lovingly prepared meal with blue balls. That was worse. I immediately realized that this is why people who live at home after a certain point move to the basement and I realize now why I began throwing hundreds of dollars a month down the black hole called “rent” every month as soon as I had an extra dollar to spare. Now my floor slamming is my landlord’s problem. DON’T FORNICATE SIX FEET ABOVE YOUR MOTHER’S HEAD.
Don’t Fornicate When Your Friend is Passed Out Across the Room…He Isn’t.
I used an opportunity to visit a friend at college as an opportunity to reconquer the dreamland I had left behind two years earlier, where women and men behave in a fashion that is considered reprehensible elsewhere in any other theater of society. I met a lovely young English major who shared my enthusiasm for the classics of Western literature and orgasms, but unfortunately lived in a dorm room that required ten forms of identification to enter, one being a student ID. With this option off the table, we were forced to relocate to the best available couch, located approximately twenty feet from where my roommate was allegedly passed out in a La-Z-Boy and dreaming of supermodels.
Because the floor was hardwood and the couch was about three feet long it was generally impossible for a gentleman of my six foot stature to navigate. She climbed on top of me and removed her clothes. Because I have the attention span of a 34th street crack head we eventually explored all of our limited position options. Because I’m tall, many of these positions involved me standing in all kinds of creative ways and it must have looked like a porno about a figure skating duo. When all was said and done we pulled the cushions off the couch and fell asleep in sweet embrace on the floor. I walked her to the door and she told me to call her or don’t. There is something about that the confidence and whorishness of that phrase that makes a man fall in love. On the car ride home I recounted my conquest to my friends and they recounted their own. As I puffed my chest like Scipio standing over the ruins of Carthage, my buddy exclaimed “man, I got a look at that girl when she was riding you…she had some nice tits!”
There is nothing that takes the wind out of your sails like realizing your friend was across the room watching you do your worst, eyes wide open…hands under the blankets. Whether he was or he wasn’t…he was.
All men talk about their desire to be a porn star. Clearly this is based on the desire to have sex with many, many impossibly gorgeous women. No one ever says “I’d like to be a porn star so lonely men can beat off to watching me.” DON’T FORNICATE WHEN YOUR FRIEND IS PASSED OUT ACROSS THE ROOM… HE ISN’T.
Don’t Fornicate With The Officer’s Daughter
Because I looked like I was 12 until I was about 15, I didn’t meet my first girlfriend until I was about 16. Because I had spent the first two years of high school humping my mattress and making love to the glossy girls that graced Playboy Magazine’s monthly midsection I was eager to play catch up. A late night phone call after about a month or so (ok, maybe I wasn’t THAT eager) lead to my first innocent nude encounter and a little hands on contact. I was surprised to learn that I was packing heat and overjoyed that the relationship was moving in a sexual direction. Girl and I recounted our experience on the phone that evening, careful to make sure we didn’t hear any clicks as her nosy Italian mother had a habit of listening in.
What I did not know was that her nosy Italian mother didn’t need to pick up the phone in order to listen in. This was because her father was a police officer and possessed one of those high-end listening devices from “There’s Something About Mary.”
Girl: I never did that before.
Me: I can’t wait to do it again.
Girl: It was weird to hold it like that.
Me: It was kinda cool.
I was not a wordsmith at the time. Had I known mom was listening in I would have expounded on the virtues of chastity and obedience and her profound imitation of the blessed Mary ever virgin. Instead, I continued on my merry, awkward teenage way, asking if it was a good size and plotting my next move in the ongoing quest to corrupt her virgin daughter. The next day at the breakfast table said girlfriend reached for a banana and her mother began laughing uncontrollably. She broke the news to me, and my first reaction was simply to be both glad and confused that my penis reminded her mother of a banana. I fully expected the SWAT team to break into my house in the middle of the night from a windowless van they had parked around the corner; I had visions of her father beating me with his nightstick and dumping me somewhere outside of LaGuardia airfield. I got off easy. Dad was aloof; Mom was not so kind with me. “Robert, we need to talk.” While she didn’t throw the book at me, I received a detailed speech about how teenagers can get pregnant by simply being naked and looking at each other. How sperm had a way of traveling. How babies are a big freaking deal, and how her father kept the shotgun in the front hall closet. Most of all Big Mother was ALWAYS listening. Should I ever have a daughter, I will repeat that speech verbatim to her boyfriend. DON’T FORNICATE WITH A POLICE MAN’S DAUGHTER.
Don’t Fornicate Remotely Close to Her Period.
On one occasion I learned the hard way why it’s a big deal to avoid sex during a girl’s period. When I was a young buck on a winter break from college, a certain paramour of mine accompanied me for a night out on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. After dinner and dancing, drinking and more drinking, we retired to her friend’s apartment and had ourselves a celebratory romp. Because booze sometimes blurs the line between horny teenager and jackrabbit for me, I woke up an hour or so later and decided it was time for romp number two. My strategy was soft persuasive kisses up the thighs trending upward and inward and my strategy paid off. Even though I was too drunk to talk I am the kind of guy who takes pride in his work and I was surprised when my lady friend grabbed my head and pulled me on top of her rather assertively. I thought nothing of it, got down to business, and passed back out.
When I awoke I headed to the bathroom in search of water and aspirin. I took a look in the mirror hoping to see my typical hair askew, Nick Nolte mug shot morning face in the morning and instead saw a gentleman who looked as if he had gone five rounds with Mike Tyson. A beard of dried blood stretched from my nose to my chin. I quickly backtracked and remembered that I had not picked a fight; my nose was not bleeding, and I had not feasted on live animal flesh as I had been known to do in my sleepwalking on vodka days. I then recalled the moment where my hair was nearly ripped out of my head as I was face deep in lady friend. The clinical term for this is “Red Wings.” I awaited the vomit reflex.
Admittedly it never came.
It was not that bad. I think it was the immaculate vagina or the overwhelming taste of alcohol in my mouth. I couldn’t imagine having the same luck again; what appeared to be a pint of blood staining my face without me happening to notice. I laughed off my resemblance to a Depression era hobo and washed it off to spare her the embarrassment-because I’m a gentleman like that. While I was lucky, I realize that periods are disgusting and are probably the cause of the Black Plague. I’m lying. I realize I know nothing about periods because the thought is enough to make me cringe. I am only glad that I met the beast head on and somehow escaped alive, and it’s a chance I’ll never take again. DON’T FORNICATE REMOTELY CLOSE TO HER PERIOD.
So I hope this was informative, and I hope you didn’t vomit. I hope you had a laugh at my expense; most importantly, I hope you learned not to fornicate like I fornicate.
