By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
I have never had sex on the beach, and this is why: years ago, I was taking a quick vacation with some of my girlfriends in Mexico. Rosarita Beach. We did the things you do when you're on vacation—drank, flirted, laid out. We hadn't brought along any boyfriends with us, though we all had them. None of us seemed interested in meeting anyone, certainly not having sex with anyone. Then, the night before we were to leave, we were down on the beach, and we couldn't find one of my friends, so we split up and went looking for her. I had the misfortune of finding her having sex with this huge, hulking, completely stupid college tennis player from Ohio. We'd met him the day before and were all thoroughly underwhelmed and had never mentioned him again. So it was completely shocking to see him having sex with the "quiet" friend in the group. This was the sensible girl who always told us when something was not a good idea, and now she was doing it in the mud that stuck to her like baby poop. When I came upon them, I was horrified; in fact, at first, I thought he was beating her up. It was the first time I had seen two people having sex in person, and it was disgusting—so unromantic and animal it reminded me of something so base, like going to the bathroom. After that, it was hard to think about having sex, let alone sex on the beach.
I had sex on the beach once—not because I wanted it or desired so greatly the person I had sex with (though she was lovely), but because it seemed like something you should do once, like taking those mules down the Grand Canyon, which I would never do because I don't think I would ever be able to unclench after that to go to the bathroom. Anyway, things came together for me one summer when I had a steady girlfriend and a friend of ours had a house on Sunset Beach. We said we were going for a walk, taking a blanket along, explaining we'd need it in case we wanted to "sit and listen to the waves." And we are walking. And walking. Anyone who has been to Sunset Beach knows it is a long way from your friends' house to the actual shoreline. A huge plot of sand that at first comforted me because I believed sex was something to have in total, utter privacy as opposed to those degenerates who like to do it in front of Christian day schools. We finally reached the area near the breaking waves, and well, you know. It was completely quiet down there, including us, since we went about our business completely businesslike. It was cold and sandy and dark, and we both wanted to do it; actually, we both wanted it to be over because, somehow, we had both realized at the same time that it was exactly in this position that most young couples are stabbed repeatedly in the throat. At least in the movies. And what was to stop someone from coming along and killing this young couple that no one could see or hear? And I was really freaking out, looking up and down the beach, expecting someone to amble by and start murdering us, and now the distance between us and the house was freaking me out so much I yearned for there to be a gathering of Christian day schoolers nearby, all singing Kumbaya, holding floodlights and handguns. What I got was silence, so much silence you might not hear a naked man being stabbed repeatedly through the throat. Somehow, after a while, the whole thing ended, and that's all that's best said about that. We made the long walk back, quickly. That night, in the house, we had sex again. This time, it was wonderful as I gazed into the my girlfriend's eyes, sure of her love and that every door in the place had been locked. I had checked each one of them. Twice.
When you're 17, there isn't much to do after 10 p.m., save for coffee shops and movies—and even those become boring by the second or third day of summer. So when your best friend says, "Hey, let's go to the beach" at 11:30 p.m. on a Wednesday, it sounds like a GREAT idea. That is, until she and her dude start going at it. Right. Next. To. You. And you know, there's really only so many sandcastles you can make in the moonlight before you want to grab the two of them—preferably where they're glued at their junk—and cast them out toward the oil islands. That is, until she suggests it again the following week. With a different dude. And you? More sandcastles, baby.