Fail! Midori’s Sex Disasters

Long before Smart Balls were invented, I bought a pair of basic Ben Wa balls for a bit of naughty thrill during a date. I inserted them deeply in my pussy, pulled on a sexy pair of panties and finished dressing in a flirty dress. As we dined at an elegant Italian restaurant, I didn’t tell my date what I was up to, but he knew I was up to something. Making your PC muscles move during dinner makes your face do funny things. Eventually I excused myself to the loo for a wee.

Women reading this will understand what I’m about to describe. Men, you’ll just have to trust me on this part.

Once in the stall, I raise my dress, lower my panties and lower my tush towards the seat. As tush-seat contact is imminent my muscles do their thing to engage peeing. Then I hear….

Clink

I clench and look down, just in time to see the small golden orb hit the white tile floor and roll away, out from under the stall door, toward the sinks and the feet of other chattering female customers. Mortified, I freeze. I don’t even breathe. I can’t tell if they noticed the little gold traitor traveling along. I wait for the customers to leave, until finally, the bathroom was empty. It felt like hours. I manage to extract the second ball from my cooch, now clenched tight as a trap. Slinking out, I retrieve my runaway ball and stealthily wash them, wrap them and make my walk of shame back to the table to my baffled beau. I slip the paper towel package to him, blushed deeply and hung my head. For the rest of the dinner we alternated between awkward silence and fits of insane giggles.

Movies make it look so good.

I’ve tried sex on the beach and various bodies of water. In general it’s really over rated. The only way it’s good is when you’re in the hormonal throw of a new relationship the two of you are crazed sex weasels. Which was exactly the condition I was in during the various occasions when I discovered exactly how bad beach sex can be.

The beaches of San Francisco aren’t warm. Actually they’re cold, damp and fog-laden most of the time. Hat, fleece and gloves are standard, especially in August. A lover of mine and I went to the beach with beach chairs and loads of blankets. Finding our stretch to be deserted, we started to get frisky under the covers. One thing leads to another and we’re fucking under the covers, with our heads out, trying to look like calm beach goers. Somehow the sand migrated. I think there’s a magnetic pull between sex juice, sex parts and sand. Fingers quickly turned into sandpaper and parts were rubbed raw. For days after, we would find sand in places it shouldn’t be.

Obviously I’m a diligent Dufus. Even after that incident, I continued to attempt variations on the beach sex scenario. Research can be painful.

Deserted tropical beaches just beg to be fucked on. So I did — this time with a really really big beach blanket to fend off the creeping sand. But I forgot to sunscreen the bits covered by my swimsuit. Shortly after what I thought was a successful conquering of Romantic Beach Sex, I turned into Lobster Butt.

Further research has revealed a list of places and object just not suited for fucking without potentially comedic or disastrous consequences, including (but certainly not limited to):

A folding card table. They collapse.

The bathroom sink. They also collapse.

Hotel coffee tables. They aren’t as sturdy as they appear to be. Finding wood glue on Sunday morning before checkout is not easy.

Sex on stairs can provide excellent access and angles. The curious positions were delicious. The next day I’m running up and down the very same wooden steps in sock feet. Did you know that silicone lube really does not like to come off of wooden flooring? Feet, meet silicone puddle. Body, meet gravity.

At lease I didn’t have Ben Wa balls in me at the time.