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Sex

DOGGING FOR VALENTINE'S

What did you do for Valentine's Day? I couldn't afford to eat in a restaurant surrounded by couples trying to remember a time when all their conversations weren't about furniture, nor did I want to witness the cauldron of loneliness and desperation that is a cocktail bar on Valentine's. So I fucked my girlfriend in public instead.

Here in Britain, we fuck in public a whole lot. So much, in fact, the act's got a nickname: dogging. I'm not a hypersexed, digi-porn-burnt-out fuckmensch with an insatiable desire to seek out new ways to cum. I'm just an idiot with some roses, a few cards, and a bag full of Lindt chocolate bunnies who felt like driving around narrow country roads looking for men with their dicks out in their cars.

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With the help of a photographer and my buddy Sam--armed with a bat, just in case--we loaded in and drove off for Milton Keynes.

We found our first site on the outskirts of a golf course about ten miles outside MK. The location is well known on the internet's many dogging forums. On the drive there we ran into smiley here. Modern Britain has many Cupids, but none more effective than this man. He may breathe like an old dog with leukemia, speak pidgin English, and make half his money scamming at traffic intersections, but I'd like to see Patti Stanger or the Mr. Jonathan Walker matchmake on a central reservation near the North Circular on a freezing night in February.

Here are the cards we brought. I have never knowingly been in the company of a dogger, so I don't know if they're genius enough to decipher sophisticated visual gags like this one.

Or this one. How do you write a Valentine's card for someone you've never met, and whose sole intention is to jizz on your windshield before hoofing it home to jerk off thinking about the experience? Sometimes "Happy Valentine's Day" just doesn't cut it.

We went for a musical theme.

We arrived at the site, and immediately saw this pair tucked away in a distant corner. Can you make out the silhouette of my jeans? At this point I felt a bit like a "seaguller"--dogging slang for a voyeur who enjoys clambering up onto the car hood and spunking all over the windshield. Despite the economy crash, car wash companies are raking in the clams thanks to these valiant pervs. George Osborne should take a leaf out of their book--if he can pry it open without all the pages peeling off on each other, that is.

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Watching two people screw in a pub car park near Milton Keynes didn't mean our photographer Holly was gonna miss the opportunity to get "a little artsy." This is pretty hot, right? Like the cover of a half-finished JG Ballard novel or something. They'd noticed us and our camera at this point, but in true Ballardian style, they didn't seem to mind too much.

Unabashed, they kept fucking.

Every so often the guy would take his face out of her tits and give us "come hither" looks. He rolled down the window and we gave them a rose and a chocolate bunny and spoke for a while, and they said we could use their photos as long as we obscured their faces and plates, which was pretty great of them. Thanks guys!

I think they were enjoying the attention.

Look at the color of his legs! If he can get a hard-on in these conditions he is a king of kings. At this point, he started shouting "get your cock out" at us.

Man #1 got dressed and left, so Woman #1 invited us back to the warmth of her clothes/car. We declined the first, accepted the second, and chatted casually about how to fit dogging into your daily routine. Our interaction was soundtracked by popular chart act the Black Eyed Peas. Then this guy emerged out of the darkness. Many great writers of fiction have spent chapters trying to capture the look when two lovers first meet. I suspect none of them, Will.I.Am included, pictured it thusly. Looks like he's "gotta feeling" that "tonight's gonna be a good night." We didn't, so we "gotta out of the car."

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The second fuckspot we went to was about five miles away, at a car park on the A421 towards Buckingham. There's probably no point trying to conceal the identity of Brogborough Picnic Site, actually. It's well known to police as a dogging site already, and the couple we met before promised us "a lot of fun" could be had there, even on a cold Monday night in February. We turned the lights off and sat in the dark listening to Chet Baker for a bit. We grew tired of this quickly, so we got out with our flashlight and found tons of empty cigar packets…

…and this Post-it…

And then this guy turned up. He couldn't see us flash our break lights (subtle dogger code for "I am a gay") so we resorted to flicking the interior lights on and off for a while, before becoming engaged in an idiotic game of Morse code with our flashlights. He signaled us back, but wouldn't come out of his car, even when we pretended to have sex with Holly on the picnic table. At this point, we fell back on the proven ice breaker and gave him a card and a chocolate bunny. He told us he was meeting someone. Ten minutes later he sped away--that bastard lied to us! We gave chase.

He overtook an semi-truck on a blind bend to get away from us, and we lost him. All that was left was our card discarded in the road :(

Forlorn and with a feeling of rejection in the pit of our guts, we headed home to London. We'd heard there was a "Lovers' Lane" that ran along the river at Chiswick. This is the view across the river. Pretty nice. "One day I'd like to fuck someone in a car here," I thought.

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It was dry in Chiswick to be honest. I think we got there too late. Eventually this cyclist who'd been doing laps on the mile-long stretch of road caught up with us outside the entrance to Chiswick Rugby Club. We did the flashy thing with our interior lights and he swung up alongside. You can chart his reaction to our camera flash in the next three photos. What a picture!

He told us that we were "Going to get in trouble" in a fruity Eastern European accent, before glaring at our plates for an eternity and sashaying off into the night. Hope you found love, lonely Communist cyclist!

Dulwich was the scariest site, and as such the most entertaining. We'd run out of chocolate rabbits by now, so we had to stop off at the service station and get some Ferrero Rocher, which was pretty lucky, as it turned out, because I think this guy is the ambassador of dogging.

He was also pretty modest and wasn't keen on attracting any publicity. When we followed him to the bottom of the hill, a police car was waiting for us. They pulled us over because, in their words, our car looked like "a party wagon." The cops let us go, we went home, washed the shame off of our hand,s and fell into bed, too tired to fuck.