Much like sleeping a waterbed when you’re drunk or the 2003 Iraq invasion, bathtub sex is one of those things that seems like a good idea on paper but is an absolute disaster in practice. The key ingredients are easy, water and naked consenting parties, and you may even make a noble attempt. However, when it’s over you’ll just be left with mess, bruises, and mental anguish—all together without even meeting Russell Crowe.
The intentions were pure—you and your sex comrade wanted variation in your fuck routine and the bathtub in its porcelain glory beckoned. You thought, “Hey, bathtubs aren’t just for grubby, child-sized rascals. This is just like that abandoned shooting gallery at Six Flags in the sense that I could totally use it for intercoursing.”
With no disastrously dissatisfying experiences to draw from, your companion in copulation needed little convincing. Naïve and foolish, your party ventured into the bathroom and entered an unspoken mutual contract not to be bothered by the weird mushroom growing out from under the shower curtain, the carpet of beard trimmings in the sink, or the toilet that was so filthy it evoked flashbacks to your trip through Armenia. That day wasn’t about filth shaming. No, that day was about optimism surrounding personal, sexual innovation.
The tub filled and you two packed in. Since the two of you weren’t a Japanese family, neither of you were used to sharing a bathtub and immediately you both recognized how incredibly cramped it was. With a bed, futon, or tumbling mats there had always been room to spread out and let your fuck party organically take you on whatever journey you were in the mood for. However, you’ve noticed the limitations of your current situation and realized that, unless you’re into erotic asphyxiation, the confined, water-filled tub space seriously restricted what positions can work.
Pumping like a meaty, underwater sewing machine, you had contorted and were playing through the pain that accompanied kneeling, bouncing, and thrusting on the unforgiving porcelain. A misstep here or there and you were literally banging into the protruding fixtures. Plus, you’ve noticed the water’s splashing everywhere in the not-fun, oh-fuck-there’s-a-ton-of-sex-water-that’s-going-to-leak-through-the-floor-into-the-kitchen kind of way. Bruises and welts had started to form, but you stubbornly persisted. You didn’t want quit, so instead you threw the sex train into hyperdrive and seized out a few quick thrusts, effectively punctuating this modern tragedy.
Exhausted and sore, you had just wanted to relax then, but the thought of soaking in the now-post-coital water filled with body grime and fluids was not at all appealing. As you dried off and tried to repress the memories of this ill-conceived painful route to orgasm, you promised yourself you’ll be more responsible in the future if you should desire a change of pace in your fornication ritual.
From there you make a pledge be sensible down the road and to just change things up by doing easy, less-bruise-inducing tasks, like eating a hamburger during sex or simply sliding a finger up your partner’s unsuspecting fart portal. You then silently vowed that if you were ever again tempted by the allure of water, you would just do the prudent thing and wait until your neighbors go on vacation and use their pool to fuck in.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible most Thursdays. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.