Public Sex: A Triptych, by Exhibit A

This is my second post for Smutathon 2020. Fair warning: it’s VERY long. If you enjoy it, you can donate to Endometriosis UK here (we’ll be EXTREMELY grateful if you do!).

A few days ago, I shared a story someone had told me about fucking in a student union toilet. It was hot for multiple reasons: the language she used, which was filthy and evocative; the idea of two people sneaking away from a group for the kind of urgent fuck that neither one could put off; and of course for the public element, given tangible form by the person who entered the toilets halfway through.

It also got me thinking about some of my own experiences with sex in public; or perhaps to put it more accurately, in locations that carried with them an element of risk. It’s a topic I covered very briefly in one of my very first posts on this blog, all the way back in 2013. I listed 10 interesting places I’d had sex – and where I absolutely shouldn’t have done. What I didn’t do was provide much context or detail beyond that. Not just in terms of the what and the how, but the who, and most importantly the why.

Why did we fuck in the layby, or the shopping centre toilet, or the theatre dressing room? Were we just too horny not to jump each other in public? Was it nothing more than that? In some cases, absolutely – and that’s fine, by the way – but in others there was (much) more to it than that.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that public sex has a very narrow profile. Those who engage in it are regarded as helpless exhibitionists, seedy perverts, or compulsive risk-takers: and that’s about it. And I’m not saying that I don’t sometimes fit into one or more of those boxes. However, I’m pretty sure that – as with most things when it comes to sex – there’s often rather more complexity and nuance involved.

So even though it’s grown substantially since 2013, what I thought I’d do today is go back through that old list and pick out three public fucks where there was far more going on than just plain horn. If that sounds interesting to you, then take a seat, strap in (or on…), and let’s take a little trip down kinky memory lane.


De Bijenkorf, Amsterdam (2006)

I was dreaming while I drove

The long straight road ahead, uh-huh, yeah

Could taste your sweet kisses, your arms open wide

This fever for you was just burning me up inside

I drove all night to get to you

Is that all right?

I set off from my draughty garret room in the farmhouse you love so much at 10pm one Tuesday night. At 2am, I board a ferry in Dover, and snatch 20 minutes of sleep on the cafeteria floor. I just about contain my impatience on the exit ramp at Calais, keeping to a responsible speed till I’ve left the port behind and am barreling down the slip road to the A16, at which point I gun the accelerator pedal on my boxy Skoda Fabia and head east.

I’m aiming to reach Amsterdam by 9am. That’s when your flight lands, so I figure you’ll be out by 10 at the latest. If I can get through Ghent and Antwerp before rush hour, it feels like a one-hour buffer ought to be enough to navigate Rotterdam and find my way to Schiphol, even without a smartphone to guide me in (did I mention this is 2006??).

Obviously things go wrong. I have to pull over near the Dutch border for some fresh air – the alternative is a power nap that I strongly suspect would turn into a full-on snooze – and by the time I hit Rotterdam, there’s nose-to-tail traffic that I have no obvious way to bypass. Luckily your mobile works here, so I leave a series of exasperated voicemail messages (partly to keep myself awake) and press on, eventually pulling into Arrivals just after 10:30.

Why does all this matter? Why am I so worried about being late? Because you’re only here for six fucking hours. Boston to Amsterdam; Amsterdam to Tehran. The crazy thing is that you’re actually coming to the UK on your way back! After a week with your grandmother in Iran, I’ll pick you up from Heathrow and we’ll have 10 whole days to fuck, nap, eat, drink, walk, talk, and generally live together like a vaguely normal couple.

But somehow it’s not enough. So here I am at the end of a 12-hour journey, with the prospect of something not far short of that on the way back, watching you and your sister walk towards the car. We’re all getting the train into the city, where you and I hope to sneak away for a couple of hours and…well, we haven’t quite worked that bit out yet.

Yes I know: we should just get a hotel. But your sister is going to be hard to shake – she’s young and jetlagged, and more…conservative than we are, so we can’t just announce that we’re abandoning her in order to fuck – so there’s enough unpredictability about the whole thing that we didn’t want to book anything in advance. And now we’re here, well, we’re not exactly thinking straight, I guess.

I blame your perfume. The smell of you is intoxicating, and while I’ve been into Boots on Cornmarket so many times over the last few months to sniff sample sticks of Stella McCartney, it’s just not the same as getting it directly from your skin. As we walk from the station into town, I close my eyes and let it transport me somewhere else entirely: a warm, cosy place, rather than a cold and windswept street, where neither of us are exhausted and we don’t have a grumpy sibling in tow.

After an hour of walking and sightseeing, she wanders off in search of coffee and we’re finally alone. [From here, I’m going to let 2015 me take up the story, as I actually wrote about this particular encounter in another post, titled ’30 Hours in Amsterdam’…]

‘We walk through the red light district and eat pizza from a hole in the wall. We huddle and shiver together in a doorway as the grim, grey October weather beats away at our euphoria, one icy raindrop at a time. We stand firm though, even when I give in to fatigue and fall asleep on a bench in De Bijenkorf, Amsterdam’s equivalent of Selfridges: you cover me tenderly with your coat and take photos to stick inside my Christmas card, but when I wake up 20 minutes later, panicky and confused, you’re there to plaster me with kisses and bury your head in my shoulder.

We spot it on our way out. You grab something – anything – off the shelf and tug me towards it.

“Help me try this on?”

“It would be my pleasure!”

It’s more of a pod than a proper changing room. Pill-shaped, with two small, curtained-off spaces separated by a central wall, it sits in the middle of the sales floor, metres away from one of the checkout desks. Still, it’s our best shot and we both know it.

You hurry inside and I duck in after you, two hangers clutched convincingly in my hand. You close the curtain behind me and I toss the clothes to one side – this has to be quick, but after six weeks apart we both know that won’t be a problem. I hike up your suede skirt as you yank at my belt. You never wears knickers when you fly to see me – we both value easy access in those first, frantic minutes on the bus, or in a dark corner of the airport car park – so I win that race. My fingers find your cunt straight away and I push two of them inside, knowing how wet you’ll be.

Finally my cock is free, the clink-clank of my belt buckle echoing loudly as my jeans slither down my thighs. A giggling fit bubbles up dangerously close to the surface. This is madness – wonderful, glorious madness – but there’s no time to think about that, not when your mouth is already sliding over the head and…oh…no, not like that, stop, stop!

I pull you up and spin you round till you’re facing the mirror, one arm braced against it as you tease your clit. I nudge your legs further apart, and there’s a soft exhalation that says you think I’m teasing, think I’m holding back, but I’m not and I can’t and I wouldn’t. I take you like that, both of us hoping the cheery, piped pop music will prevent the people outside from hearing our gasps and moans. I look at your face in the mirror – cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes open wide – and you stare right back at me.

We come together. We’ve learnt to do that by now, though this time it’s happy, serendipitous accident, rather than any sort of design.

“I should buy some underwear,” you say, as we rearrange our clothing. “Can’t turn up in Tehran with thighs still sticky from your cum.”

We walk out of the store looking tired and triumphant: just-fucked, thank you very much. Your sister texts almost immediately. The fun is over: she’s bored, and worried about how long it’ll take to get through security at the airport. We find her again outside De Oude Kirk.

“Where did you guys go?”

“Oh, here and there.”

I drop them at Departures and we kiss goodbye. I don’t get out of the car. An hour later I stop for petrol and check my phone. One text.

“On second thoughts, who needs underwear? Can’t wait till next week…x”

Neither can I.’


Backstage at the Burton Taylor theatre, Oxford (2004)

It’s Hilary term at Oxford, which covers the period between New Year and Easter. My girlfriend – a 2nd-year undergraduate – is producing a play at the tiny, alternative, Burton Taylor Studio, and I’ve taken the train down from Durham (where I’m doing my Masters) in time for the Friday evening performance, ready to witness her triumph. It’s also Valentine’s weekend, so after the play closes the following night, we’re planning to check into a fancy hotel – fancy for us, anyway – and fuck till morning. To say I’m excited is an understatement.

But I’m also nervous. We’ve been together for nearly seven months now, but most of that has been spent at a distance. Our timing wasn’t brilliant: we met in late July, while she was in the middle of the uni holidays and I was still two months away from leaving for Durham. For those first few glorious weeks, we were a mere 40 minutes apart, and each time I drove through the rolling Cotswold hills to her parents’ house, it felt like I was flying across the ground. It was a sweltering August, and our lust for each other matched the hot weather; for the first time in my life, I felt truly insatiable, and she was no less desperate for each urgent, sweaty fuck.

By February though, things feel different. Not different-bad, not yet, but I’m struggling a bit to figure out exactly where I fit into her busy student life. Before Christmas, I spent pretty much every other weekend in Oxford; I told myself it was easier for me to visit her, that my tiny room in Durham wasn’t a patch on her comfortable college set, that it allowed me to play hockey for my old team and see my parents – and all those things were true. But it was also true that her life was simply busier than my own. She had friends and a busy social calendar; in Durham, I had neither. And while I never questioned her desire to see me, I was aware that she never spoke of coming up north unless prompted. Even then, it was clear that she viewed the trip itself as an obligation.

So as Hilary unfolds, I continue to schedule regular weekend visits to Oxford. I also plan activities for us, to fill my time there. Little surprises too. Thoughtful gifts. Anything, basically, to stop her ever forgetting how much I love her, and what a great boyfriend I am. I’m 22 years old, so really, none of this ought to come as a shock.

She takes it all in stride, and never stops saying the right things, but underneath it all I’m very aware that she’s 19 and halfway through what everyone says is the best three years of your life. I believe that she loves me, but even as I’m concocting another scheme, another heartfelt romantic gesture, I’m not really sure she wants to love me. Not like this. And yet I can’t stop.

But while I’m a little apprehensive about this Valentine’s weekend as a whole, as Friday evening rolls round I’m actually feeling pretty chilled. We had rough, passionate sex about five minutes after I arrived at her college, and since then she’s been bouncing off the walls with jittery excitement. I love how full of life she is, and I’m genuinely proud of her for putting together what sounds like an awesome production.

As I take my seat – and really for the first time in weeks – I’m completely at ease. It turns out the play really is great, and by the time we’re halfway through the first act, I’m enjoying it so much that I don’t notice my phone vibrating with a new text. Five minutes later, I glance down at the screen and there’s not just one message waiting – there are three.

“What do you reckon? You can come watch from backstage if you like.”

“Actually, I’m going to head back to the dressing room. Want to join?”

“Just so you know, it’s completely empty in here…”

I look at my watch. 20 minutes till the interval. I scramble out of my thankfully largely empty row, and slip through the door at the side of the stage. In the dressing room, J is waiting, cross-legged, on a chair in front of one of the mirrors. She’s undone the top two buttons of her shirt, and as I step closer she pushes her tits out toward me.

“Well that’s a very good sight,” I say approvingly, moving in for a kiss. She stands up and meets my lips with hers. After only a couple of seconds, I can tell that she hasn’t lost that giddy, almost hyperactive edge from earlier in the day. Her kiss is hungry, bordering on violent, and as I tug at her clothes she pushes my hands away, then sinks immediately to her knees.

God, I fucking love the way J sucks my cock. It’s a revelation, actually; she’s the first person to make me actively enjoy oral, and a pretty big part of that is her very obvious enthusiasm for having it in her mouth.

If anything, she’s even greedier for it right now.

“Hands by your side, Mister,” she mumbles, so I flex my fingers helplessly and focus on staying upright as she moves mouth and hand in unison, up and down my cock. She knows that this is what gets me off, and the fact she’s moved straight from first to fifth gear is a definite nod to the limited time we have for this.

“Where?” I manage to gasp, transfixed by the sight of her lips dragging across the head at exactly the right speed.

“In my mouth. When you’re ready. I want it all.”

We don’t often finish that way. Normally she likes my cum inside her, and second preference is always to watch my shoot it over her tits, as she plays with her clit. However, this is not a variation I’m unhappy with. Nor one I have much control over, it seems.

She takes me all the way back, just once, then sucks hard on the head and pumps it with her hand.

“I’mGonnaCome,” I say, not quite sure where I am or what’s going on any more, beyond the absolutely incredible sensation of her mouth on my cock. I fill it with every last drop I’ve got, and she just pauses, half my length still inside, fighting the urge to pull away as my skin’s sensitivity levels suddenly spike.

When she does release me, the grin on her face is so smug that half of me wants to bend her over that chair right away and slide my sticky, still-hard cock all the way inside her tight cunt. She swallows theatrically and jumps to her feet. 30 seconds later, the dressing room bell rings. Interval time.

What an excellent play.


Mull ferry, Scotland (2007)

It’s not that I’ve never had sex before shortly after one of us has vomited. There’s just usually a shower involved first. Or at the very least a close encounter with a toothbrush.

Not this time. In fairness, Emma warned me that she’d definitely get seasick, and even though the crossing from Tobermory to Kilchoan only takes 35 minutes, the water is pretty choppy, it’s only 8 in the morning, and we had a LOT to drink the night before.

Of course the great thing about an 8am crossing – especially on a weekday in the middle of October – is that the ferry is virtually empty. And no-one is outside, not with a howling wind and horizontal rain to contend with. Emma and I have no choice; she’s too nauseated to sit in the stuffy little cabin, and let’s face it, chucking up over the side of a boat is vastly preferable to doing it into a bin, in front of half-a-dozen tourists and locals.

And to our mutual surprise, it’s not weird. Me holding back her hair as she spews, I mean. Because this is our first trip together; our first acknowledgment to each other that this is a thing, rather than just a bit of filthy office fun. Our colleagues think I’m in Munich, and that she’s in Aberdeen visiting her parents. Instead we’re having a long weekend in the west of Scotland. Lots of driving, lots of sex, and an almost overwhelming amount of stunning, wild, windswept scenery.

Our night in Tobermory was pretty representative of the entire trip. A brisk walk in the afternoon, sex before dinner, a cosy nook in the hotel bar, lots of drinks in a local pub, and more sex – sloppy and drunken, but still satisfying – late at night before going to sleep. A morning fry-up took the edge off our hangovers, or at least made the prospect of an early ferry ride feel marginally less daunting.

As promised though, Emma throws up 10 minutes out of Tobermory, and turns to me with a look of utter misery on her face.

“What can I do to help?” I say, folding her into my arms.

“Oof, not this,” she says, pulling away quickly. “I need the wind on my face, I think. And a fixed point to stare at. You can hug me – please don’t stop hugging me – but maybe from behind for a bit.”

So that’s what I do. I rest my head on her shoulder and nuzzle her cheek with mine as we look at the horizon together. And still no-one else ventures outside. As her seasickness fades, she relaxes in my arms, and after a couple of minutes, I realise she’s slowly grinding against me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. Not that I’m not enjoying it.

“Nothing,” she says, a picture of innocence. “I just…I like feeling your cock pressing into my arse, that’s all.”

“Really? Well it’s about to press a whole lot harder if you keep doing that.”

“That’s fine by me. Maybe you could take it out and let me feel it properly.”

“That only works if you pull down your waterproofs. And your knickers, I guess.”

“Who said I’m wearing knickers…”

Yeah. How the fuck am I meant to resist that? Especially because Emma is ALWAYS wet. Like her cunt is fucking extraordinary; it doesn’t matter where we are or what we’re doing, I can’t touch it without getting her juices all over my fingers. So when I open my jeans, yank down her waterproof trousers, and rub my cock between her legs as she bends over the rail, it slips right in before either of us really know it’s happening.

I look back over my shoulder. Nothing. We’re completely alone in the middle of the Sound of Mull, and Emma’s cunt is gripping my cock like it’s the only thing preventing her from tumbling over the side, into the rolling waves.

“Is this hel-“

“Yes, yes it really is. Don’t stop. Fuck me, please fuck me.”

So I do. With growing confidence, as the ferry deck remains empty, I slam into her, trusting Emma to brace against the solid wooden rail and take whatever I can give her. Which she does.

Neither of us come – the Ardnamurchan shore approaches too quickly for that, and October in the west of Scotland really is cold – but that doesn’t matter. A spontaneous, thrillingly inappropriate fuck blows away ALL our respective cobwebs, and quickly puts her seasickness far into the rearview mirror.

Mission accomplished, we jump back into our car, buzzing with the audacity of it all. When the ferry hits dry land, it’s like an exclamation point on our time in Mull…and just the right energy boost for everything still to come…


So there you go! Three entirely different stories of sex in public places, motivated by a whole range of emotions, desires, and relationship dynamics. I hope you enjoyed them!

Room 518
Wedding Party, by Exhibit A

Exhibit A

Exhibit A is a sex writer, blogger and author, based in London. He has a particular interest in erotic photography and male sexuality, and enjoys subverting mainstream expectations of both.

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