There’s something inexplicably alluring about having sex in your parents’ house. Well, maybe for some people, thinking about sex in any kind of juxtaposition with parents is the quickest way to call the whole thing off. But for some of us, we know we really shouldn’t be doing it, and so we just can’t help ourselves.
For me, it’s not exactly that its semi-forbidden nature makes it hotter. I don’t find it nearly as hot as sex at home: you have to worry about being too loud, or that the bed’s squeaking, or that his mom is going to call upstairs and ask if you want pie or something. It’s all so distracting.
I think it’s the romanticism of it, if having sex in a tiny bed while being as quiet as possible and hardly moving can be in any way romantic. It’s the idea that you really should just hold out until you get home when you can have sex anywhere, anytime, even on the kitchen counter if you wanted to (although probably you wouldn’t because the granite is cold and hard and and you might roll off and crack your head open and have to explain it to the ER doctors and you’re not very good at drawing diagrams), as loudly as you damn well please, but you just can’t wait. It’s like saying “I can’t resist you. I must do you now, consequences be damned!” That’s hot.
On Christmas Eve, it was cold outside and snowing a little, and P.’s family decided to go for a walk. We felt we could enjoy the snow just as much from inside the warm house, so we stayed behind. As soon as we heard the door close, P. leaned over to me: “I bet they’ll be gone for at least twenty minutes.”
I very casually leapt up the stairs.
I don’t know if they were gone for twenty minutes, but I do know they came back before I was ready for them to. And at that point, you really don’t have much time, because you know they’re going to come looking for you, to tell you about the magical Christmas walk and the magical Christmas snowflakes.
We figured we could blame the flush on the margaritas, should anyone ask.
It was a very nice Christmas Eve.