What Season Is Best For Sex
What Season Is Best For Sex
Why Sex Is Better in Summer
When I was a teenager, I worried about summer sex. I worried about humidity and bad hair, about wilting with sweat. I wanted things to be climate-controlled. Organized. When I had sex, I wanted to be powdery and perfumed. This was the only version of myself I perceived as sexy. I didn’t understand the allure of a messier version of things, the beauty of bed-head or boys wanting to touch me after I’d played soccer. I still had a romp or two in the dewy grass because it felt too good to pass up—but I fretted about it.
Not anymore. As I matured, I realized how misguided I was. It’s not just peaches and tomatoes that are more ripe and juicy in the summertime. I’m often fitter, tan, on vacation—with a less inhibited mind-set. Things blossom like mad: my energy level, my efforts to look better in shorts and also my desire for a different kind of sex. Nothing beats wearing a gauzy sundress, under which my husband can slide his hand to touch the warmest, highest reaches of my thigh. I know he likes the access, as he spends an inordinate amount of time negotiating with me to banish undergarments once temps reach 70 degrees. We all just get hotter when it’s hot outside.
A few memorable encounters along the way converted me—particularly an incandescent adventure we had during a picnic in a sun-dappled wood. For a moment, my old hang-ups crept in: What if we get arrested? Cuffed while naked, two Prosecco-buzzed nymphs? And what if my hair is frizzy in the mug shot? But then I gave myself over to him. I’m glad I did, because that memory flickers like a sexy fairy tale. I can call on it anytime and end up wanting him all over again, remembering the balmy air, the picnic blanket—a commercial for a sexy summer.
Once I embraced a sexy vibe, I realized that sex during the summer felt more primal and urgent. And I’ve racked up a number of special warm-weather memories now. Most recent: an experience that occurred at the August wedding of a friend, in the emerald hills of Vermont. Guests were transported from the reception to the hotel in a yellow school bus. Somehow, my husband and I ended up as the only people aboard one shuttle run. The windows were open. Warm wind and shifting moonlight surrounded us as we sped along ribbons of country road. This was the stuff of teen fantasy—missing only pom-poms and a football helmet. Full of desire and adult confidence, I was able to luxuriate in it in a way I hadn’t before. In the past, I would have been distracted by perspiration and mosquitoes; now I was inspired by them.
I don’t think I have to be more explicit about what unfolded on this sultry night, with me wearing a sundress and him a handsome khaki suit, riding around in a yellow bus like two high school kids, except to say this: Embrace the lushness of summer. Feel the heat.