Thar She Blows!: Salty Stories of Sex on the Beach

Describing the 25-minute romp she caught on camera, the woman told Fox 13 Tampa Bay, "I've lived here since 1978, and… I've never seen anything like this." The video went viral; the couple soon found themselves in deep trouble: They were not only found guilty of "lewd and lascivious behavior," but they were also placed on the national sex offender registry because there were children on the beach.

Sex on the beach is so much of a thing that there's a fruity alcoholic drink named after the act. But is it ever really worth it? Why do we deem the beach the ultimate spot for illicit romance? Is there any way to bang on the beach without getting caught or a thong full of sand? We asked some people who have actually done it and decided… no, it's not worth it.

I was 16 and at the beach with my high school boyfriend, his brother, his parents, and my brother, and [my boyfriend and I] decided to disappear to the disgusting public bathroom for a quickie that ended up lasting too long. I mean, this was gross. We did it standing up; I tried so hard not to touch anything. I ended up propping myself up between the sink and the blow dryer and held onto both with my fingertips while I kept my elbows on the wall. He finished in the sink. It was all pretty easy, but gross.

Anyway, this was before the advent of cell phones, and his family was looking for us because they were almost ready to leave. He was the first guy I ever had sex with, so fucking was still new for me, and so was walking after getting fucked. We were in the bathroom so long that my eyes adjusted to the darkness. We got out the bathroom with neither his parents or our brothers in sight—or so we thought. As soon as we rounded the corner, there they were. I was a squinty-eyed, bowlegged, embarrassed mess. Luckily, they didn't say anything.

I have done it in the pool, in the ocean, and in the shower more times than I care to remember, but only once actually on the beach, featuring sand, full moon, lapping waves, Milky Way, civil war, you know the deal. It was in Africa. I was 19, and he was this dreamy 35-year-old South African Jeff Buckley-look-a-like with wavy brown hair and green eyes who had just driven from London to Kenya via a war zone in Gabon and had the bullet-riddled Jeep to prove it. I look back on it now and it seems quaint, but when he walked me out of the bar and onto the beach, telling me about this book he was reading—the corny New Age bestseller The Celestine Prophecy—my loins took over.

We found a quiet spot far enough away from the beach bar to feel alone, but close enough that we could see the silhouettes of our friends. It's possible we were being fully spotlit by the full moon, but I did not care. I was drunk, and so was he. I knew I was out of my depth, emotionally, intellectually, sexually, with this guy, so I focused on my strengths, which at that time involved just being very free, and open, and enthusiastic about whatever he wanted me to do. Also, there was a legitimate chance we would get shot. Kenya was in the midst of a general election that had sparked the most violent riots in the country's history, and rebels had firebombed the local gas station and armed themselves with bows and arrows. Soon I would have to go back to England and be a boring, normal, suburban teenager, but first I had to have sex with this Adonis on this beach.

Technicalities: People complain about sand. I don't remember it being a problem. When you're drunk and about to possibly die while having sex with the most beautiful man you've ever met, internal sand is the last thing on your mind. The risk of getting caught, as I recall, makes for a speedy encounter—again, not a problem when every star in the Southern Hemisphere is shining upon you and your lover's butt. The only downside is the windswept, crazy-haired, sandy-faced look [you have] when you attempt to stroll back into the bar and act normal. Sex on the beach is not normal—it's something primal, it's David Attenborough, it's mating. You're an ancient turtle copulating, like in those creepy grunting turtle sex videos. I didn't get shot that night, neither did I have an orgasm, because at that point I didn't know how—but it didn't matter. Even without an an orgasm, it was one of the most climactic moments of my life.

I was maybe 17, having sex with my then boyfriend under a lifeguard tower on Venice Beach. It smelled a lot like urine, but it seemed like the most private place. Suddenly, a bunch of cops shined a big light on us, right as we had gotten into a rhythm. We leaped off each other and put our clothes back on. The cops put us in handcuffs and made us sit there for a while as they hung out in their car. This was when my boyfriend told me that the condom slipped off inside of me.

After we sat there for about 20 minutes, the cops came back and started aggressively asking me if I was a prostitute. They kept saying things like, "How much do you charge? Obviously not enough to afford a hotel." They kept insisting my boyfriend could go to jail for rape because I was 17 and he was 18. I was really sarcastic and rude to the cops because I don't like cops and I'm bad at hiding my feelings. Eventually I got really fed up and told them the condom slipped off inside of me and I needed to go fish it out before I got an infection, adding that I needed to go buy a morning-after pill so I wouldn't get pregnant. I also mentioned that my vagina was full of sand, which I guess freaked them out enough—or they got bored enough—that they let us off with a warning. It took me an hour to fish out the condom and I had sand in my asshole for weeks.

I once had sex on the beach with a female Guy Fieri impersonator. All my homies were like, "There's no way she's not a lesbian." I was like, "Just watch me." However, during, she was like, "Shut the front door—your wiener is out of bounds!" And she'd fist-bump me and shit.

To preface the event: There was this period of time where I was super busy, and girls would hit me up to hang out and I would be like, "No, but if you want to bring beer and watch me work, you can." Somehow that line had a high success rate, so a lady friend drove out to El Sereno with a 12-pack of Pacificos to watch me work. When I got wrapped, she was like, "OK—will you fuck me now?" I told her no, that I had to go help someone set up some mics to record drums over at Greg's house, but if she wanted she could come watch me do that. She did. When I was wrapping up there, she was like, "Well, I have to head to San Diego in a couple of hours…" so I was all, "OK, OK, I'll fuck you now." Did that, then showered and went to meet some other friends. Was in there about 120 seconds when another lady friend walked in—she was the friend of another girl I had fucked a few times, which is how I knew her; she had a boyfriend, but he was a total clown anyway. She made a beeline for me and was all like, "Let's do something spontaneous!"

I had only lived in LA a couple of months at the time, so I was still stoked to go to the beach and shit. I was like, "Fuck it—let's get some Coors Light and go to the beach." Homegirl was down, so we jumped in the car. I asked her where her dork boyfriend was; she said he was at his shitty band's practice. We get to the beach and are about three drinks of Coors in before [she starts giving me a blowjob]. It's also like 11:45 PM, so there are still people walking around. She full-on takes her pants off and is riding me. Then, she stops for a second and is like, "Hang on, I have to pee." She gets off and squats right beside the towel we were on and starts pissing. In the middle of that, she grabs my hand and puts it in her pee stream… I just kind of roll with it. Then she rubs my hand in the pee sand and puts it on her [vagina]. I pee-sand-play with her clit for a minute; she remounts and we continue fucking, with the occasional pause when drum-circle hippies venture too close. After about an hour or so of that, we go back to my place and I fuck her some more before I take her home. She makes me drop her off a block away so her dork boyfriend doesn't see her get out of my car.

*All names have been changed.