Dear V: I got stung by the wrong tentacle…

Dear V,

I recently attempted a romantic rendezvous on the beach. But after being attacked by a jellyfish and getting sand in all sorts of unfortunate places, we gave up. Any advice for spicing it up on the coast without mother nature constantly interrupting?

Your Not-So-Baywatch-Babe

Dear Steve Irwin – Stingray + Jellyfish = Alive,

Couples are always trying to find new and exciting ways to spice up their love life. Some try getting down in Wal-Mart changing rooms, some try choking themselves with a rope until they can’t breathe anymore (David Carradine and his hand), and like you and many others in the greater Miami area, some try the namesake origins of the alcoholic beverage. “Why don’t we do it at the beach?” you enthusiastically ask your partner, probably met with wild excitement from him, because lord knows that’s going to be a good story to tell all of his sexually-depraved buddies. What can go wrong? A nasty wound and some serious douching later certainly answered that question for you, but I’m not here to rub it in (neither was he … zzzing). I do applaud your girlish naivety and optimism. Look on the bright side, at least his penis was already whipped out and ready to purge after the jellyfish attack (just make sure the liquid is coming out of the correct valve).

Next time you go to the beach to swing low sweet chariot, try to keep some of these tips in mind: First off, bring a towel, hell, bring like, seven towels. You’re going to want at least some sort of barrier between your no-no pie and the sand beneath you. You also need a few to mop the sweat off of your bodies, and another one to absorb the lingering, freshly spawned eggs of his one-eyed trouser trout. Secondly, stay away from the water. I know ever since the “Wicked Game” music video came out, people have this fantasy of rolling around, making love in the cool, wet, breaking tide to the sounds of a Roy Orbison rip-off, but you must separate fact from fiction. FACT: There’s a lot of weird shit in that water, and the Atlantic is way too cold to keep any guy’s fleshlight hard. FICTION: That chick wouldn’t sleep with Chris Isaak if she had a gun to her head in a torture lab, much less at the beach where people might see her; that’s why it’s Hollywood and not real life. Usually the people that boast about such things are the same type that write to the Penthouse forums about being blown by the entire cheerleading squad during a red light stop on Ponce De Leon. Last but not least, make sure you’re not doing it during a period of some weird turtle or crab spawning shit, the last thing you want is a bunch of creepy-crawlies molesting your naked bodies in the middle of the night, that’s what the South Beach club scene is for.
Good luck if you give the beach session another shot, just take my tips to heart. As you know, a lot can go wrong, but if you play your cards right, you’ll end up with a hell of a story to not tell your children.

Here’s to the night you got pissed on,