I don’t usually do the confessional thing, but this was too fun not to share with the Esoterotica crowd. . .
Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of having sex in the woods. There’s itchy pine needles all over the blankets, no easy access to brunch the following morning, plus we’d have to tie the used condoms up in a tree so that bears couldn’t get to them.
Besides, being alone in the wilderness would eliminate my single biggest turn-on when it comes to doing it outside: the risk of being seen. So my preferred venue has become other people’s yards.
It’s just the risk of it that turns me on; I’m not an exhibitionist. I don’t necessarily want to show off my goods to the security guards at Audubon Place when they drive by every twelve minutes (yes I’ve timed it.) Maybe I’m just turned on by defying authority, and the easiest way to mix that with sex as an adult is through violating property rights.
My own interest in urban sexploration began in a totally innocent way, when I discovered that my arms were long enough to comfortably reach between legs in the passenger seat of a car while I was still driving. My partner certainly didn’t mind being teased at irregular 20-second intervals while we were at stoplights. Then on one warm spring evening we realized we’d been doing it with the windows down. We were on the one-lane stretch of St. Charles Ave at the time, but we decided to continue on until it became two lanes. Then, since I was raised to finish what I start, we went around the rotary and drove on Loyola Ave for a bit.
Traffic wasn’t the only thing getting heavier downtown.
I always felt it was a matter of pride that I’ve never paid to park in New Orleans, so we decided that it didn’t count if we never actually walked out of the parking garage. The first time we chose vacant levels near the top and had fun in the back seat behind the tinted windows, then on subsequent visits moved down to the more crowded lower levels and used the front seats, and one time parked on the roof with all four windows down while blasting a makeout playlist we made together.
But that got to be a little too private.
We began closing out restaurants near our homes so that we could walk back in the late evening, buzzed, scoping out which houses didn’t have lights on and making an entrance when there weren’t any cars driving by.
There are many tall fences Uptown, many large ferns in back yards, and I don’t hate some of their owners as much as I used to nowadays. Sure, a few of the more insecure ones have motion-activated lights, but that just gives us little kick of adrenaline as we escape and then find another yard with a jungle gym.
Everybody has their own little tests for measuring compatibility with a partner, but I think an important one is how each of you reacts when you think maybe that was a noise coming from the porch. I don’t know that I can really see myself with the sort of person who’d immediately step out of the gazebo and apologize. Ideally, they’d clap their hand over my mouth, pause for a few seconds to listen for any other signs of being caught, then bite their bottom lip mischievously and resume.
I was raised to finish what I start.
Which brings me to my current problem: how do I take my interest in sexual trespassing to its logical conclusion?
Have you ever read a story called “The Swimmer” by John Cheever?
I’m going to need a slightly athletic volunteer to help plan a course that takes us through multiple back yards Uptown — I’m thinking at least eight. Once we’ve figured out our route, we’ll park my car near the last house on our map and walk a couple blocks over to the first house, finishing our daquiris along the way, and then we’ll strip to our bathing suits and make our way through the backyard obstacle course by hopping fences and getting frisky for at least one minute in each yard before moving on to the next.
I will have a stopwatch.
You should have a NuvaRing.