Sex on the Beach

A holiday is not complete without sex on the beach. (The cocktail is not a respectable substitute, although can accompany well.)
Small tip: when given the choice of sun-lounger or sand, the correct answer is sun-lounger. Originally the image of tits and arse catapulting from an unbalanced sun-lounger terrified me into a mound of sand, second time round and I made the correct decision.


Man in the Sand

I met my sand encounter in true holiday style, on a tennis court. My interest in him was made quite clear by my mum who went to book some classes (the British must always take tennis classes when available, even if no interest has ever been shown in the sport.) When asked which instructors she wanted my Mother shamelessly told him she wanted him to be my coach, as I thought he was the most attractive. Yes, I was standing beside her at the time. (Who needs a wing man when you have family?)

He was young, (a given).
Blonde (obviously).
Cocky (believed himself to be in with a chance with me and my mother).
And not very talented when laid out on the sand (again, a given).

He was incredibly charming; asking me out to dinner and ordering wine. Dinner was at the hotel restaurant, on my room tab, I don't drink wine. Either way I'm abroad, temperatures are above ridiculous and there are half naked men everywhere, not getting laid is not optional. The most I got out of him in the way of conversation was that he was being stalked by a 16 year old in the resort; this did nothing for my questioning the standards I was willing to drop to for a shag and meant I spent the night anticipating having my hair pulled by little girls. After several overly dressed cocktails I hurried the evening along and agreed to a walk to the beach, partly because it had been over a week since I'd seen any, and party because dragging this out meant spending more time looking at a pretty face and having interesting conversations with myself. (If he speaks, remember to nod or show signs of attention, don't want to upset the pretty face.)

What I suppose you could call sex was unmemorable - hence the lack of description. If I could recollect much more I would share the antics of holiday sex, but unfortunately unmemorable seems to sum it up well. What I do remember in vivid detail however is a night of finding sand in every orifice despite stripping down in a toilet and leaving behind me half a grecian beach. This boy had been a tennis coach at a resort in Greece for the past 4 weeks, surely he should have been wiser than to give a lady the choice of sand or sun-lounger, (especially after one has been watching frolicking in the sand on MTV, false advertising if I ever saw it.) But considering the boys apparent lack of sexual experience it is possible he had not yet been met with sand in your nether regions. If you were wondering, I am calling him boy in the derogatory sense, but also quite simply because I can't remember his name. Guys if you want a lady to remember your name, learn to find the clitoris, it will serve you well.


Sun-Lounger Antics

Holiday romance number two had arrived on the same flight as me, I caught sight of him and his brother in baggage claim right when I was wondering whether agreeing to a holiday with the family (whether a free holiday or not) had really been a good idea. Presented with the prospect of spending 10 days with the screaming children grazing my ankles at the airport they shone out like a beacon. They were both gorgeous (lack of comparison probably helped) standing in Ray-Bands with their crisp shifts tucked in. They were little rich boys, the bonus being the drinks flowed all night, which helped to endure their impossible hearty laughs and incessant name dropping. I now know from where Russell Brand rents his flat, and how much 40,000 glow sticks from France costs for a 21st birthday party (sadly this information was no more interesting after 6 sambas and a fish bowl). The other bonus was their names had continuous comical value, obviously I can't state these for legal reasons, but image if you will the most pompous male names in the Queens english, repeat them in your best plumbed voice, now add Sambuca.

I had already sworn off brother no.1 after he insisted on explaining the rules of poker to me after I assured him I was no beginner. (Women can't play poker. Evidently neither can men as I cleared the table of his match sticks). However I amused myself by flirting with him none the less as we were sat beside his girlfriend. I use this term loosely, in fact I think she had been the only one to refer to herself this way as she had met the man three days previous, and had been sulking all night in the corner. Brother no. 1 had slept with one woman in 6 months. He had told her he wasn't a player.

Throughout the night brother no. 2 became more vocal with each unit consumed, and proceeded to do more than nod his head when spoken too. When drunk this progression in a gorgeous man is quite a revelation and we preceded to spend the rest of the night drinking, buying far too many glow sticks and getting covered in UV paint. You can always find a fellow Brit in Greece, they will be the only people unable to walk in a straight line, with street children zigzagging the streets with them trying to cover their bodies in more glow sticks. God Save Our Gracious Queen.

When drunk, horny and on the lap of a beautiful man at 4am the beach sounds like a wonderful idea, being now experienced in beach antics I took the lead towards the sun bed. To my great relief there were no "You've been Framed" moments and the bed complied with gravity. Unfortunately as it seems so did brother no. 2's penis. If you were ever wondering whether a penis that bends downwards when erect feels slightly like needing the bathroom - it does.