Maybe you picture two shots of vodka, a shot of peach schnapps, some cranberry juice and a little orange juice. Maybe you picture a sunset or a full moon and the waves crashing rhythmically on the shore. You picture heat, lust and passion, and then you put it on your bucket list, because you insist that one day you must accomplish your fantasy of having sex on the beach.
Living in a beach town, this is one item on our bucket lists that’s pretty easy to check off. From the moment we all started getting our licenses, boys would pick us up, we would drive around talking and listening to music like any other teenagers. The difference is that our drives always took us east, in the direction of the beach.
When Mom said ‘no boys in your room’, we went to the beach. When parties were lame, we went to the beach. When we wanted to impress out-of-towners, we went to the beach. However, it wasn’t until my nineteenth summer that I actually accomplished that bucket-list deed.
The summer was winding down. It was the end of August and I was leaving for school within the week. The night was warm, but a cool breeze blew from the ocean. I was at the concert hall on the boardwalk with my friend who had been dragging me to shows all summer. That night, it was Citizen Cope. I knew maybe two of his songs but figured, “Why the hell not?” It was a concert on the beach and my remaining beach days of that summer were numbered.
My friend and I were sitting by the bar when two guys approached us. They were both very friendly and considerably older. I played it cool and allowed the shorter guy to talk me up. He said he was from out of town, so out of habit, I suggested we leave the concert and go to the beach.
Allow me to preface this: this particular summer had been one full of bucket list check-offs. I jumped at any and every opportunity to do something new and scandalous. In this case, that meant that when this cute older guy followed me onto the beach, I showed him a little bit of “local hospitality.”
I’ll be honest, it was cool, but it was no Hollywood movie scene. Let’s be realistic for a moment. Sand is not pavement and sand is not grass. Sand has a nasty habit of sticking onto any piece of skin that it contacts. Any piece of skin. So, when the making-out starting getting hot and heavy, you can guarantee we remained standing, and when he did finally suggest we lay down, you sure as hell know I stayed on top.
Sex on the beach is not like the drink suggests. It’s more like what you do after you’ve had several of those drinks and you’re feeling about ready to take your clothes off and a beach conveniently happens to be right next to you.
Perhaps if I hadn’t been so eager to live out my own version of MTV’s The Buried Life that summer, I would have planned this out better. Maybe I wouldn’t have had sex on the beach with that 27-year-old gym teacher from God Knows Where, New Jersey. I probably would’ve done it with someone whose last name I actually knew. Also, I most definitely would have gone to a private, secluded beach and brought along a giant towel or two.
The whole experience, I must admit, was both thrilling and satisfying in an extremely trashy way. There weren’t any people on the beach in our area, and although there were people strolling the boardwalk and inside the concert hall, I’m almost positive that no one saw us. However, if they had, I sort of hope they would’ve applauded this random act of spontaneity.
Having experienced the fantasy of sex on the beach, I must say I now think it’s probably best left as just that: a fantasy. Honestly, the idea of moonlit passion and the rhythm of the crashing waves sounds much better than the gritty reality of getting sand in all the wrong places and the chills from cold ocean air blowing up and down your bac. After that experience, sex in the bedroom definitely sounds more enjoyable than sex on the beach—but I suppose the drink name wouldn’t have the same ring to it.