I was pretty much late to the party losing my virginity ─ at the relatively ripe age of nineteen in an Austrian chalet with my Julie. From what I can recall of this cumming of age, it was behind closed doors, in a bed, with the lights out. I guess, in my defence, it was bloody cold outdoors so any thought of external erotica was excluded on the grounds of health and safety. How do I recall that we came of age in the dark – well this blip in time concluded with the lights being switched on to check that we were still intact, and everything was in relative order. Being British it’s essential to ensure that things are ship-shape and Bristol fashion, even in the most intimate of circumstances. After a day or two my fair maiden shuffled off to the chemist to be informed by a gravel-voiced German speaking lady that she had thrush, so any other similar pursuits – inside or otherwise – were put on hold. Nonetheless, we continued to have furious sex when we returned home, in the cramped nurses’ quarters where Julie resided during her student practitioner days. However, our sex life remained consistently behind closed doors, in often complete darkness, or at the absolute best, dimly illuminated shade. Scrabbling for my clothes to drive to Bracknell police station ─ where I was a rookie cop – for a night turn, I remember dressing in the dark. As I drove, I felt a sneeze about to erupt so I pulled out my handkerchief from my coat pocket; at least, I thought that was what I grabbed – it was in fact a pair of Julie’s knickers: one of the minor perils of fornicating in the dark.
It wasn’t until much later in life that I experienced the adrenalin rush of outdoor sex, and if it hadn’t been for the intervention of a more confident lover, I doubt I would ever have taken the initiative. Picking up Helen in an unmarked police car for a clandestine encounter, we drove around the winding country roads of Oxfordshire, close to the police headquarters, until she broke the ice and exclaimed, “Fuck me in that field!” I was in half-blues – basically a civilian jacket over my police shirt, trousers, and huge Dr Marten boots. Whatever they say about men with big hands and large feet I would treat this with a degree of scepticism. Somewhat surprisingly, my instant reaction wasn’t one of delicious desire, but more, what the fuck if someone sees us? And knowing my luck, the police helicopter would be circling above. But Helen’s confident charisma along with her goddess-like body and exploratory hands, somehow guided me into the wheat field. Then we were at it – an act of lewdness that would surely have offended the Town Police Clauses Act. She laid across the car bonnet whilst I hammered away ─ still wearing my boots.
As she moaned, I kept a watchful eye for onlookers; as we reached the business end of the procedure I heard a voice at close quarters shout, “Get off my fucking land!” Simultaneously, two things shot to the fore – my bolt, and the grim realisation that my promising career was almost certainly over. Then I discovered a skillset I never knew I had – utterly breathtaking bullshit. Explaining that I was an RAF pilot – they wore dark trousers and blue shirts too – I apologised to the livid landowner and explained that I hadn’t seen my girlfriend for some considerable time and emotions had simply got the better of us. Before I knew it, he had reversed his tractor out of the field, stopping the traffic in the process, and waved us goodbye as we gratefully made a dash for safety. I managed to thump out from the underside the crease in the bonnet, where Helen’s scrumptious buttocks had made their mark ─ I don’t think my heart stopped pounding until a week later. Being more risk averse in those heady days, this experience reaffirmed to me the utter reassurance of having sex in some form of permanent structure with lockable doors.
It took some time to venture once again into the great outdoors, but I’ve never totally eradicated the meerkat pose when literally banging away in the bush!
A recent chance conversation with a chum about mutual friends who had always wanted to make love in the white sands of some exotic island paradise got me thinking; two things crossed my mind – firstly, how would I react to witnessing such an act, especially if the participants looked like they needed an ironing, and secondly, how commonplace is open-air action. Does it take a special kind of confidence or recklessness, and are such acts generally choreographed with beauty and skill, or are they more akin to my unforgettable seismic shag.
There is, astonishingly, an absence of rigorous academic research on this issue: somewhat surprisingly since the fieldwork would be fascinating. Nonetheless, several psychologists have entered the debate, mindful of the connection with the human appetite towards risk containing two elements: threat and vulnerability. As Professor Aaron Ben-Ze’ev from the University of Haifa, Israel, asserts, “An awareness of change generates intense emotion. Like burglar alarms going off when an intruder appears, our emotions show us where our attention is required. When we do not need to pay attention, the signalling system can be switched off. We respond to the unusual by paying attention. A change cannot persist for an extended period; after a while, we get used to it and it no longer stimulates us.” A compelling argument for countering the seven-year itch whereupon – according to folklore – couples seek out a new sexual partner. I guess after that length of time the “signalling system” is in need of fresh batteries, and it goes some way to explaining why many relationships fail through infidelity. Could outdoor sex provide the requisite reawakening? The good professor thinks so: “Outdoor sex can be beneficial for an established couple for briefly being a ‘different person,’ having an affair with their spouse. This increases excitement within a stable relationship.”
According to marriage and relationship therapist Isadora Alman, “Another reason, other than novelty, that sex outdoors appeals to so many people is the frisson of fear and sometimes excitement brought on by the possibility of being seen or caught. That fantasy is a common one for both women and men.” The word “frisson” alone makes my pecker perky – although I guess I’ve always been attracted to word porn, as imagination leads to fantasy and that has absolutely no limits! Fear is a significant human motivator; it’s unsurprising that the more scarier theme park rides have the longest queues.
However, I suspect that for the more prudish – and I certainly have one foot in this camp – the thought of outdoor sex raises other practical considerations, aside from merely being caught. For example, comfort – the great outdoors has various hazards, including prickly vegetation and bugs, which seem intent on either stinging you, or at least sucking the blood from your exposed regions. I recall – much later in life – having a frisson fuck with the sun on my back and becoming increasing aware of a tingling sensation around my ankles. This wasn’t linked to my ensuing climax, but an attack by aggressive red ants whose home we had inadvertently chosen to complete our feverish union upon. In providing some helpful tips on the matter, writer Dara Nai, is quick to point out that the three principal priorities will always be location, location, location, whilst being prepared with a blanket; along with other pearls of wisdom, such as accepting random advice – for example, “If you are on the roof of a castle tower, do not underestimate the speed of a bus-full of 10-year-olds in ascending the tower steps. If you are not fully dressed when you hear them approaching, quickly turn your back as if you are admiring the scenery, and finish buttoning.”
Casting the net (remember to take one if mosquitoes are a real and present danger) further, I was keen to gather other people’s experiences of this sexual quandary; after a flood of promises to open up about their alfresco frolics, only a handful finally agreed to share their encounters. The rest, I assume, retreated to the safety of the bedroom ─ even though anonymity was assured.
Claire excitedly recounted her lush liaison with a married lover under the flightpath of Gatwick airport one summer’s day: “I had taken a small rug with me, because I didn’t want grass stains, and felt relatively in control until an easyJet flight swooped above us ─ so close that I could see the cockpit and passenger windows. Everything inside of me tightened up and at that glorious moment a crowbar wouldn’t have separated us! It was my most memorable fuck ever!”
Marie reminisced about her Sheffield sortie that started well, but things dipped dramatically due to a lack of preparation: “We were deep in the undergrowth ─ but there had been no forward planning. It was prickly! And we were bombarded with flies. Both elements completely detracted from the desired activity. No matter how hard we tried, those flies were not going away. The excitement quickly faded, clothes were replaced, and there was an early return to the railway station. That relationship never did get to the main event.”
Kerry grasped the gauntlet and galloped, “Several years into my relationship, I was feeling particularly horny. It was a hot summer’s day, and I booked a table at a local restaurant within walking distance of home. I chose to wear a thin T- shirt, and a summer skirt ─ no underwear. I wore a light jacket to disguise the obvious unrestrained boobs from any passing pedestrians, but aside from that, I enjoyed the freedom. At dinner I sat with my back to the rest of the room and my front on obvious display. I think the waiter had some entertainment! Walking home, it was dark. I wore the jacket without the T-shirt. It was still balmy, and I enjoyed the warm air on my exposed boobs as we walked. I knew it would take very little to have a heated eruption! Tucked away on a path, against a tree, my skirt was lifted. I was touched in exactly the right place, and my world exploded ─ about five minutes from home!
Sue finished with some slapstick: “At one stage we were in a graveyard (by a wall, not on a grave!) trying very hard to be quiet and obviously failing dismally. We became aware of someone close by watching us, said “hello,” and carried on! There was some contact of relevant areas, but we just couldn’t stop laughing long enough for anything significant to happen!”
I have never witnessed outdoor sex as an impartial observer, so I guess my reaction is purely speculative. As a writer, my constant attraction to the curious would at least slow me down, if not totally stop me in my tracks. There is, after all, no need to stand and gulp ─ thereby putting the participants off their stride. If our eyes nonetheless met, a knowing nod, smile, and salute, would be the most British thing to do – then, obviously, dine out on it in conversation – as no doubt that kind farmer did all those years ago.
© Ian Kirke 2023
Title photograph by Dainis Graveris on Unsplash
@ianjkirke