Why sex in a tent is always a bad idea.
Thecaptainof reminds me.

In the hot, heady summer of 2003 I went to Glastonbury. My mates had all spectacularly failed to get tickets for the festival, I was left in a dilemma. Did I go on my own, or did I just get a refund for the ticket? The headliners were Radiohead, REM and Moby, this was too much to miss, I would go on my own!

Imagine my joy when Kirsty, (for that is her name) a girl I had had a fling with the year before contacted me out of the blue asking if I was going to Glastonbury. Knowing there might be a chance of rekindling old flames I explained my situation and asked if I could camp with them.

Talk about rekindling old flames, it was more like a serial arsonist chucking a petrol bomb and then chucking another one, just to be sure . As soon as I saw her there was a twinkle in her eye and an involuntary twitch in my cock.

Later that evening I helped her pitch her tent, as mine was already pitched (in more ways than one) and as soon at it was set up we got down to business.

She pushed me into the tent and tore my clothes off, I fumbled around trying to necessary accoutrements for having sexytimes without making babies. This girl was hungrier for it than an Ethiopian subsistance farmer after fifteen years of drought.

We had cramped, awkward, elbowy sex in the tent that was only made bearable by the people walking past giving it an edgy, risky feeling. I shot my baby gravy.

Our mates had lit a bonfire outside the tents and the flickering made pretty patterns on the sides of the tent, we watched it in our post-coital glow. Kirsty whispered in my ear 'up for round two yet?' Of course I was, I was virile, young and sex starved!

Round two begins, there is a general groaning and complaining noise from her mates outside the tent. Things like 'not again' and 'oh christ, more?'

I pay no attention and carry on bashing away at Kirsty's exquisite bearded love clam. I eventually stumble out of the tent to be met with a round of applause from several hundred people all milling around the campsite. It turns out that while we could see pretty flickering lights from the bonfire inside the tent, everyone on the outside could see the silhouette of Kirsty and I shagging frantically.

I did what any man in my position would have done. I bowed, and stated that we would 'be there all weekend, and that there would be a repeat performance every evening'.

Kirsty huffed off, called me horrible names and didn't sleep with me for the rest of the festival.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 9:10, Reply)