Photo: Steve Brennan Wearing: Prada hat and scarf, Moschino underwear, Chloé boots

Last summer, my friends Jack and Kate planned a weekend getaway to a cabin upstate.

We took two cars: Kate and her cousin in one, Jack, his boyfriend Stirling, my boyfriend James and me in the other.

I packed all new outfits in my olive green Michael Kors weekender (I needed new clothes, since we’d be spending the weekend hiking and grilling, and I didn’t think it would make sense to do that in Valentino), as well as a small bottle of portable lube.

The second we pulled our Zipcar into the driveway, I started scoping out where I wanted to sneak away for a romance-novel-worthy sexcapade after everyone else had fallen asleep. My first inclination was outside: perhaps in the wooded area near the front? No, it wasn’t quite wooded enough; anybody driving by would definitely see us plowing
each other. Out back, near the shed? The location was guarded, but the greenery
grew several feet tall back there, and I wasn’t convinced we wouldn’t get poison ivy. (Can you even imagine poison ivy… down there? Horrifying.)

When everyone finally called it a night, I realized that our bedroom was going to be our best bet. I made sure to pick our room first, the room furthest away from the others. “I’m so excited for this weekend,” I said, removing my Puma tank top as seductively as I could.

“Yeah? I didn’t even know you liked doing outdoor things,” James said, jumping into bed.

“Well, I mean. Not really. But, I like spending time with you…” I walked over to the bed. “Alone.” I dropped my athletic short-shorts, revealing my entirely impractical mesh briefs.

“Get over here.” I got into bed and got on top of him, kissing him, carefully maneuvering myself between his legs to subtly suggest “I’m the one topping tonight.” He opened his legs and let me, and I kissed him harder.

Once all of our clothes were off, I reached for the portable lube. It really was exciting: There’s something so refreshing about being in an unfamiliar environment, about being away from home. It was new; it was passionate.

At one point, I put my arms under him and picked him up, holding him while I fucked him. When my arms got tired, I moved to put him back down on the bed—losing my grip and dropping him. His head landed against the wall with a loud THUD that I’m sure woke the whole house, as well as several of the creatures hanging out in the poison ivy outside.

“Fuck!” I whispered, reaching around to cradle his head. “I am SO sorry.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” he said. “Keep going.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. He nodded, so I did, and the thought that my boyfriend might have a concussion definitely bought me another 10 minutes or so.

We didn’t get poison ivy, but he did have a bump on the back of his head for the next week, and he hasn’t let me pick him up again since.