There were four ingredients that made the recipe for my best sex ever.
The first was sentimentality. This guy was my first love; we were teenagers experiencing everything for the first time. At 17, our love knew no limits, nor did our sex drive: we were jacked up on hormones and Strongbow Dark Fruit.
The second component was freedom. We were on holiday together for the first time; by the coast of Wales, staying in an empty house on a hill. We’d escaped the sexual limitations of our park bench dates. Here, it was just me and him against the world, role-playing as real adults who have real, adult sex.
The next element was weed. Being stoned and having sex transformed our coital activity into a transcendent trip, where every touch was ecstatic and everlasting. Being stoned didn’t just bring us closer, it made our bodies melt together, congealing our human flesh so that our hearts and genitals were fused together forever and ever.
The final ingredient was the weather. While the winter is romantic in its own right, the sun is more outright in its seductive powers. On this particular summer’s day, we were outside in the garden, picnicking on the grass under the sparkling August heat. In a munchies haze, we’d stuffed ourselves with salami sandwiches and salt and vinegar crisps, and were now bathing our satiated bodies beneath the sun like Little Pig Robinson.
The sex started with eye contact. Or, more specifically, an excessively long episode of staring into one another’s eyes. Then the snogging began. As inexperienced, horny teenagers, it wasn’t the artful kind of snogging like you’d see in an A24 coming- of-age film, but more like a National Geographic documentary of two sapiens trying to survive dehydration by sucking all the moisture from each other’s mouths.
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My lover undressed me, lifting my oversized pyjama shirt over my perspiring tits and pulling it up and over my shoulders. He took his shirt off next. Our bare plumpness was exposed and a wave of warmth coated our nakedness. The heat from the sun was suffocating; the kind that demanded breaks in the shade. But we didn’t want to take breaks, we wanted to soak in our sweat.
My boo reached towards my pants and pulled them all the way down to my ankles, chucking them across the garden. As I saw them land near a bush, I realised we were about to fuck outside, in nature, in the damn broad daylight. What a thrill. We were Adam and Eve, if the forbidden fruit was actually a Granny Smith apple turned into a DIY bong. As he lowered his face to my crotch, I leaned back on the grass, my head deliriously happy with dank-fuelled day dreams.
I was delighted to notice his progress. He ate my pussy in an adult way; it was advanced — nay, exemplary cunnilingus. We’d only just got good at sex, you see. We had only just escaped the fumbling phase and now we were becoming experts in the field of fucking.
Out of nowhere, a coastal breeze blew across my body. I opened my eyes and saw a cloud covering the sunshine. The change in temperature seized my body and made my nipples stand to attention. I looked down and saw him in HD, his head between my legs and his upper arms a clean canvas, not yet covered in tattoos. The breeze made my body alert, but being stoned made me sink into the grass.
Soon, the sun peeped back out from beneath the clouds and it was like adding hot water to the bath: my whole body slowly delighting in the pleasure. I came.
We had long, stoned, warm sex. We had no intention of cutting the fornication short. We were in our own paradise, grounded by grass and floating in the sun. I wanted this moment to last forever; my head was bubbly with beer and spliffs, my body was plump with satisfaction, and my heart was swollen and scarlet red like my minge. Here we were, fucking in the foliage, coming outside the cottage, panting in our primitive world, fornicating, alfresco style.
TART: Misadventures of an Anonymous Chef by Slutty Cheff is published by Bloomsbury and is out now.
