Nerve readers share their best stories from when they were told to get a room, and didn't.
Whether you're an exhibitionist or just impatient, public sex always makes for a good story. So we asked our readers to contribute their best, six of which you can find below.
Perpetually horny, eighteen years old, and with few places to get it on, my boyfriend John and I visited Ft. Tryon Park in New York City pretty regularly. One beautifully warm summer afternoon, our kissing hit new levels of arousal. Despite being surrounded by families, we took shade under a tree on one of the park benches. After maneuvering my panties off, I sat on his lap facing him. I was wearing a full, flowing skirt that covered both of us, so I asked him to pull out his penis. Once he was in, I made excruciatingly slow movements until I was about to burst. I took a quick look around before making the final, faster humps. A master at silent orgasms, I let the waves wash over me with little outward indication of what was happening. At his peak, he simply closed his eyes and let his head go back.
John said he tuned everyone out the moment he entered me. Some teens went by on skateboards. Maybe one of them said something lewd. I think back on it with a tiny bit of shame (there were children around!) but at the time it was a definite triumph.
He said he would take a look at my shitty car. Once he rolled up, I melted. We hit it off instantly. After a coffee date turned four-hour date the next day, we started seeing each other regularly. I’d been banging on the lawns of Buddhist temples and on the decks of boats for a bit at that point, but with him it was different. I felt present, like I had a partner in crime, instead of just doing it to impress or show up a guy.
The last time we ever had sex was in public. After a concert at Ocean Beach, we walked the few blocks back to my friend’s place, where my homeless ass had been crashing for the last few weeks. We rounded the corner, and I said something like, "Want to pull out on my pull-out?" He laughed and suggested Golden Gate Park instead.
Creeping through the grass as if everyone knew what we were doing there, we picked a spot near a fallen tree and far enough back from the road that people probably wouldn’t see us. We went through a variety of positions, but it was my face planted in the grass that made me come so loud I worried people would think I was being murdered. Afterwards, he dropped me off at my friend’s apartment with my shirt buttoned wrong and grass in my hair.
Last month, he was killed in a motorcycle accident. My heart was wrenched in two, but whenever I think of Golden Gate Park, I can't help but smile.
I was in a dry spell, without any promising dates on the horizon. One day, I received probably the most cut-and-dry online-dating email I'd ever read from a guy. He'd just gotten out of a serious relationship and was looking for a one-night stand. I appreciated his honesty, and the way he presented himself was hilarious. After we bantered for a couple days, I finally decided to just go for it.
We arranged to meet at a mall on the other side of town, near where he worked, because he said they never lock the side entrances. Around eleven p.m. on a Friday, I pulled up to where we agreed to meet, to see a gangly, rail-thin guy with a boyish face and beautiful blue eyes. The sight of him in my tiny coupe was comical and he smelled like breadsticks (he was still in his work clothes). We drove around to a back entrance near Macy's. First we stayed in the hallways, holding hands and giggling at our bravery. Eventually we made it out into the actual mall and found a small videogame arcade with no gate.
He loved foreplay and took his time with me, which made things easier later: he was huge, even for his height. After about ten minutes we heard one of the cleaning staff outside. We watched his shadow pass while huddled behind a claw game. When we started to hear more staff from the upstairs balcony, we decided it was time to move the party and scampered back through the hallways to the safety of my backseat, and eventually, my bedroom. Queen-size mattresses are better suited for six-foot-ten-inch guys than the back of a Saturn coupe, anyway.
NEXT: "When I left the tent, there were four people sitting nearby who clearly had been treated to our show…"
When I met him, he was living in a tent and I was living in my childhood bedroom, so we were forced to get creative with locations for getting naked. The first day we hung out, we went to a popular swimming hole out in the desert. After a few jumps in the river, we crept along the bank to consummate our acquaintance on a half-shielded rock ledge right above the water, joking with each other about whether our peers upriver could tell what was going on from so far away.
There was something addictive about getting sunburned while making love, and we didn’t limit ourselves: we'd pull over on the side of the highway on a long road trip, creep into a shady clearing in a state park, or rip off each other's clothes in a hilltop park in a sleepy suburb after setting off fireworks. The crowning triumph, though, was on a football field, with the lights shut off for the night. We stripped down on the hundred-yard line and crept out of the stadium with turf burns on our backs, flushed with that post-game glow.
It was about 4:30 in the morning on January 1st, 2000, on a Native American reservation in Florida. It was now the new millennium, and the strange group of friends I had followed on the trip to see Phish (a group that included an ex-girlfriend and her brand-new boyfriend) had slunk back to their tents. In the throes of drugs that were supposed to have been spaced throughout the night, I was dancing solo on a dirty blanket. Every long-haired hippie girl looked like Bo Derek. That included Alice. She was short, with angelic eyes. She also had cigarettes, which made her a thousand times more hot. Our eyes linked. I bummed one of her smokes. We bonded through the music. For three hours. And then — I don’t know how — we went back to her tent and had sex.
To this day, I remember no more than twenty words spoken between us. I can’t remember if she came. Honestly, I can't even remember if I did. I do know we had sex for some indeterminate amount of time, we shared one last smoke together, and then I was off. When I left the tent, there were four people sitting nearby who clearly had been treated to our show. They clapped. I took it as a compliment.
My boyfriend and I were touring an underground bunker used by [major non-US government] during the Cold War. Ducking away from the tour, we searched the maze-like corridors for a quiet corner, where I sucked him off.
The best part? The gift store sold mugs that read "I've gone down in history." Obviously, I bought one.
Submit to our next round-up: Formative Porn Experiences. Did you brave the attic to steal your dad's old Playboys? Or stumble across a VHS copy of Basic Instinct? Whatever your first experience with smut was, we want to know about it. Send your best story (150-250 words) about your first experience with pornography, to firstname.lastname@example.org. We won't print your full name, so please don't skimp on the details, but please, no recaps or play-by-plays. We're looking for funny stories, not reviews of New Wave Hookers. (We've seen it, and it's great.)