Location, Location, Location.

I have a habit of biting my nails that I desperately try to curb by smoking.
One day, my mother slapped me in public.
“What was that for?” I asked, dumbfounded. My parents have never hit me. Despite many opportunities welcoming it.
“Don’t bite your nails. It isn’t ladylike.”
“Oh, but hitting someone is?”
She then threatened to tie my hands behind my back until I threatened to enlighten her on the last time in my life that wasn’t a success.

My parents have started to get excited because their youngest child (not me) is about to graduate, move out and become an adult.
“This time next year, we will be kid free!” AM squealed in excitement one evening. I ignored my cue to pack up and leave.
“What on earth will you do with all your free time?”
“We are going to have sex all over the house!”
I started packing up my belongings, vowing never to sit on the couch again, and threatened that if she ever said that again I would tell her about all of the places around the house I have had sex.

I once did It with someone on the balcony of a backpackers hostel. Which sounds questionable until you consider the hygienic nature of those beds.
“That is nothing,” my London BFF recounted. “I had sex on my school oval at lunch time.”
“How!?” I was genuinely interested. And impressed.
“Where else are you going to do it when it is noon, you’re horny and your bedroom is still where your mum likes to hang out in search for washing?”

I have had very few experiences of sex in public places, as I find it really hard to get turned on when your faux husband is running past the tent of blankets to throw up, claiming his drink was spiked with alcohol. I have made my way through Europe naked, I know some nightclub bathrooms far too well and I am acquainted with my pool table Biblically. But I am yet to have a, “And then the police arrived…” story that involves a very specific type of gun going off.

Real estate is all about location, location, location. RG has always advised me to buy the cheapest house on the best block to garner the best investment. But anyone I have known to apply such logic to their sex life has ended up with a gynecological condition I can’t even spell. I have always reasoned that a bed is a safe asset.
“I have had sex in a park, in an alley, on the beach, in a cloak room, on a mountain, in a driveway, in a spa, in a barn, under a fish net, inside a fridge and at an aquarium,” a boy friend told me.
“Should I start calling ahead when I meet you in public?”
“I have rarely fucked in a bed.”
I started to feel really generic. I reconsidered my parent’s threat to make me homeless, reasoning that it would at least enhance my sex life.

I always aim to make my sex life interesting.
I left the house, put down the scotch bottle and broke through the walls of self-imposed resistance to arrive at the location of someone I actually like.
I am not an advocate for drunk driving as I worry about the innocent party who can be threatened by an idiot at the hands of a wheel and gin bottle. But I have always been behind drunk sex. And in front of it. Beside it. Underneath it. Upside down…Anyway, I am a fan. I find it interesting, fun and believe it to be hilarious more hilarious than any public park ever could be.
“I have not had sober sex since August,” I guestimated to my girl friend. I started biting my nails.
Bored of the process I have become all too familiar with, I allowed myself to discover the craziest location of all: a sober brain and boy I actually want to snuggle.

“What was that for?” I asked when my friend gave me a hug.
“You are growing up!”
We stood in from the beach, walked through the park, arrived at the driveway, and like a lady, I put my cigarette out before I walked inside the house.