Dogging For Valentines
What did you do for Valentine's Day? I couldn't afford to eat in a restaurant surrounded by lustless couples trying to remember a time when all their conversations weren't about furniture, and I didn't want to chance the cocktail bars Valentine's pressure turns into desperate singleton rape factories. So I took my girlfriend dogging instead.
I know, I know. Dogging is "old news". But 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 one night looking for men with their dicks out in their cars.
So we got a photographer and my friend Sam jumped in with a bat and we went to Milton Keynes.
We found our first site, on the outskirts of a golf course about ten miles outside MK, on one of the internet's many dogging forums. On the drive there we ran into smiler 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 withholding peoples' change when the traffic lights turn green, but I'd like to see Paddy McGuinness or the alcohol industry 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 have no idea if they're the sort of people who possess the gargantuan IQ levels needed 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 windscreen before legging it off home to wank about the experience? Sometimes "Happy Valentine's Day" just doesn't cut it. Sorry for the shitty picture quality. We were lost and on our fifth circuit of a roundabout near Dunstable at this point.
We went for a musical theme.
We arrived at the site, and tucked away in a distant corner were this pair. 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 bonnet and spunking all over the windscreen. Despite the economy crash, car wash companies are in clover thanks to these valiant pervs. George Osborne should take a leaf out of their book (if he can prise it open without all the pages peeling off on each other).
Watching two people screw in a pub car park near Milton Keynes didn't mean our snapper 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 clocked 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 their plates, which was pretty great of them.
Though I couldn't shake the feeling that they were enjoying the attention.
Look at the colour of his legs! If he can get a hard-on in these conditions he is a king of kings. He is Adonis. He is shouting "get your cock out" at us.
Man #1 got dressed and left, so Woman #1 invited us back into 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 over the soothing sounds of 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 as thus. Looks like he "gotta feeling" that "tonight's gonna be a good night". We didn't, so we "gotta out of the car".
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, but grew tired of this quickly, so we got out with our torch 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 torches. He torched us back, but wouldn't come out of his car even when we pretended to have sex with Holly on the picnic table, so 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 – he had been lying to us. We gave chase.
He overtook an articulated lorry on a blind bend to get away from us and we lost him at this roundabout. By the time we got there all that was left was our card, discarded in the road :(
Forlorn and with a feeling of rejection in the pits of our guts, we headed for the motorway 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.
It was dry in Chiswick to be honest. I think we got there too late. Eventually this cyclist who'd been doing circuits of the mile-long stretch of road caught up with us outside the entrance to Chiswick Rugby Club, so we did the flashy thing with our interior lights and he swung up alongside us. 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 and they pulled us over because they said our car looked like "a party wagon". It was lucky they didn't search us because by this point we were all pretty exhausted and our faces were covered in that weird car sweat you get. There were also only so many places Sam could have hidden the bat. We went home, washed the shame off of our hands and fell into bed too tired to fuck.
WORDS: KEV KHARAS & SAMUEL BREEN
PHOTOS: HOLLY LUCAS