Here’s one compelling clue that sex on the beach sucks: The drink named after it uses peach schnapps. At best cloying and at worst the thing of which nightmare hangovers are made, peach schnapps is preferred by people who are young, unsophisticated and lacking a proper bed.
Which, I might add, is also true of those who consider sex on the beach a capital idea.
The act seems to hold myriad allure. Sex on a beach is public, it feels romantic and classic movies tell us it’s something hot couples do. No doubt, the beach is sexy. People are barely dressed, rubbing themselves with oil, dripping with pheromones. Everything about the environment tells us we should want to fuck.
Everything, that is, except the sand. And the bugs. But mostly the sand, which sticks to moist bits (and what is sex but an elegant mashing of bits that are moist?). At its essence, sex on the beach is a bucket-list act, sitting alongside the mile-high club as something we're supposed to do. Beach boning is a to-do list item that, once checked off, is unlikely to be done again.