Love on the beach

Beach Love (or how I almost died of sand)

Ah… making love on the beach. It sounded so poetic. The setting sun, the sound of the waves, warm sand beneath your back… Basically, a postcard fantasy. Except no one warned me that sand — that sneaky little traitor — gets EVERYWHERE. No, seriously. Everywhere. I’m talking about places my general practitioner has never seen. We thought we had it all planned out: the towel (too small), the timing (bad), even background music from a phone tucked into a flip-flop.

It was supposed to be sensual. It was mostly… gritty. My partner, all excited, whispered “I love you” as a crab casually scuttled between our feet. I answered “I love you too” while crushing said crab with a hip movement that was anything but romantic. And that was just the beginning. The tide was rising, mosquitoes were attacking, and the towels flew off in the wind like laundry detergent commercials.

It felt like a steamy episode of Survivor, but without the fire… or the dignity. At one point, I felt something scratching me. It wasn’t my partner. It was a seashell. In my butt cheek. A real one.

Result: we limped back to the hotel with sand in our shoes, our hair, our underwear — and probably our souls. We ended up in the shower. Not to rekindle the flame, but to exorcise the beach.

Moral of the story: Making love on the beach is like eating a croissant in a hurricane. Great idea. Terrible execution.