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Around the nation women fleece their refrigerators and grocery store produce sections for cucumbers and bizarre fallace shaped vegetables at the thought of a long haired 21st century Fabio ravishing them –lovingly and with consent, of course — on the beach. The ocean waves cascading against the white pillowy sand, playing like a symphony rife with moans and sweet nothings as the stars faintly illuminate his eyes staring deeply into hers.
Or of course from the male perspective we just think it’s a fucking great story to tell about the time we bent that “definite 10” over under the pier. Either way, they’re both completely withdrawn from reality: an assumption of romance and earth shattering orgasms that do not exist. Sex on the beach should remain a fruity drink, the stuff of fantasies and the silver screen — not real life. Why? Because sex on the beach is fucking terrible.
I know this sounds blasphemous, and maybe it’s just my meaty part of the bell curve sized frock that’s left more women disappointed than Donald Trump’s nomination, but I can tell you from experience the opening of orifices surrounded by a litany of scream inducing irritants ranging from crustaceans to jagged edged shells, rocks, near death jelly fish, and even the fucking sand, is a category-5 hurricane of pain.
I tried it. I was in Mexico feeling like Johnny Drama taking down a French chick with a thick accent and more silicone in her tits than Pamela Anderson. There I was, about to complete my first practical experience with international relations, putting my major to good work and realizing the complete moral erosion that is spring break in Cabo. Until the actual sex itself.
I’m covered in sand and the waves breaking on the back of my legs has me a few inches from high tide washing me and my French lover into the jaws of a great white. She’s got sand all over her ass and legs, so switching positions leaves us both vulnerable to a sand encrusted rubber decimating her insides and my dick like a mid-evil torture device. I can’t find any rhythm whatsoever — my mind consumed with worry. One eye watches the gate to the resort worried if public sex is a crime in Mexico, the other surveying the billions of sand particles inching nearer to disaster.
And then it happened.
The sand had struck, proving urban dictionaries inadvertent “screaming seagull” was based in more fact than the infamous Cleveland steamer. At least I hope. Our session was completely ruined. My first foray into French culture an unmitigated disaster. My sand covered blue balls throbbing all the way back to the room.
As is historically the case with the French, our one failed attempt led to a complete surrender, as I never again saw those beautiful plastic tits.
This is a public service announcement, there’s a hell of a lot of places to have sex. Don’t choose the beach..