This post is from my friend Jessie in Kentucky. Please leave her some comment love.
And if you have a hottub you're not opposed to scrubbing with bleach, let me know.
My husband and I have been trying to have whirlpool sex for a decade now. But every single time we get a chance, something goes wrong.
Now, in general, we’re bread-and-butter lovers. We have two basic positions (five if you count the oral variations) and can’t figure out the physiology for much else. And that’s fine. But we’d like to try it in the tub.
We’re too cheap to actually own a Jacuzzi or hot tub, so we have to rely on our travel destinations and good luck. So far, that’s not working out very well.
Although we lived together for a good two years before marriage, our first opportunities came on our honeymoon. We took a train out to Denver and then drove around out West, giving us chances to make love in both Yellowstone National Park and at the Grand Canyon. In cottages. In beds. It was very, very good, but it was not a whirlpool. In California’s Redwood Forest, there was this huge rock jutting out over a valley, where the sun shone hot and the stone felt smooth under our legs. But we weren’t the only hikers that morning, and well, seriously, a rock? I don’t care how slick it feels when you’re sitting holding hands under a blue sky, as soon as you start rubbing back and forth, that sucker’s going to give out friction burns.
Then, we had to overnight in Boise, Idaho on our way to some other stop. We didn’t plan our hotels ahead, and a sports tournament had pretty much filled up every room in town. The only thing left was a suite with a whirlpool. We had intended to camp on this honeymoon, but it was a chilly spring and we quickly realized we’d just rather pay the money and sleep warm. (Cold tent sex went about as well as excessively narrow Pullman bed sex had gone on the train.) And camping in Boise would have been pretty much a no-go in any season. Still, we’re cheap. So we tried to pay only a little for our rooms, meaning this was our first ever fancy hotel stay. And it was at an express-type hotel, so it wasn’t that fancy.
As soon as we got our bags up, I started to draw a bath. We climbed in and enjoyed the hot water rising up our calves and thighs. I reached behind me and turned on the jets, and my husband scooted close. Then, as we reached for each other, the bubbles suddenly stopped, and the water entering the tub turned freezing. We’d blown a fuse. And the overfilled hotel meant hot water was at a premium, since apparently three or four rooms shared a water heater. We had to settle for a 69.
And we were too stupid to demand our money back.
The next opportunity came right at the end of the trip, just before we returned to Denver and caught the train back to Cincinnati. We stayed at these cheesy little cottages where the yards were muddy and the floors slightly saggy. The property’s main redeeming grace was that each cottage had a private hot tub. We paid and settled in, then checked out the porch. The first problem was that the cottages were so close to each other that we could see our neighbors in their hot tubs just as clearly as they could see us in our hot tub. The second problem was that management had apparently grown tired of people having hot tub sex. Posted so it was impossible to miss was a sign stating:
WE CHECK PH BALANCE AFTER EVERY GUEST. IF ANY FOREIGN SUBSTANCES ARE DETECTED WE MUST DRAIN AND REFILL THE TUBS. THERE IS A $250 FINE FOR PUTTING FOREIGN SUBSTANCES IN TUBS.
I suppose they could have meant urinating toddlers. But it covered the substances we wanted to leave, as well, and we weren’t paying $250 for two damned tablespoons of semen.
After that, it was several years before we got another chance. Though I’m not sure I’d call it a “chance”, because the hotel room wasn’t a suite, and our daughter was the one who got to play in the “vroomy-tub”. Another time, we went on a family vacation for my Mother-In-Law’s sixty-fifth birthday. We stayed in these wonderful cabins in Hocking Hills, Ohio. But we hiked ourselves to exhaustion every day and shared the cabin with the guest of honor at night. Not happening.
I seriously thought we’d beaten the jinx this year. We did the Disney vacation Orlando, staying at a resort with friends. Our suite was like three interconnected hotel rooms, meaning each adult couple had a private bath and the kids were practically in their own apartment. Our room had a giant Jacuzzi with the works. Silver long-hosed shower attachment? Check. Numerous jets? Check. Favorite alcoholic beverages? Check. Children far far away? Check and check. They even had mirrors on the ceiling if we hadn’t been so visually challenged.
Night 1: Naturally, we couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. Ten minutes of trying and a call to maintenance didn’t solve the problem, and the only water we could get going was cold. Of course, the next morning, when resort staff came to check, the left tap produced a nice warm stream, and they couldn’t understand what we’d found so difficult.
Night 2: The four year old realized he had to access our suite by going through a semi-external hall and that this put him Far Away From Mom. We tried putting him in bed with his big sister and our friends’ six year old, but he returned to me like a magnet, followed a couple of hours later by the sister. In fact, because all of the kids had vacated their apartment to be with parents, hubs and I took over their bed once the children were asleep. But there was no Jacuzzi in that room.
Nights 3-5: Variations on this scene, with Disney-induced exhaustion adding to our need to just sleep to brace for the day ahead.
Every time, it’s something, and I’m starting to think we’re destined to our five mainstays. And those are all nice. But we’d like to try something exotic for once. Something wild and utterly new for both of us. We aren’t the sort to go make it in elevators and on public park benches. Hell, we aren’t even likely to go have sex on the beach and get sand in all our crevices. We’re cheap, practical, and very fond of mattresses and sheets to go under our backs, hands, and knees. Just once, though, we’d like to try it in the water.
So I’m appealing to the sex gods here on Kit’s blog. Aphrodite? Isis? Oshun, Eros and, Shiva? And maybe I should throw in Poseidon as well, since this is an aquatic request? If you’re net savvy and into this site at all (and, really, what self-respecting deity of intercourse wouldn’t be?), could you do a couple of mere mortals a tiny favor and grant us a night in the near future with a deep fizzy tub, plenty of hot water, and no other issues? We’d really appreciate it down here on Earth.