Five dangers of having sex sober

NEVER do anything in the bedroom you’re not comfortable with, especially if it’s having sex lucid. Not only will it happen, but you’ll remember it for years to come.

Traditional lovemaking is best accomplished, whether a married couple on date night or a young lovers on a one-night stand, blind hammered. Sex sober is risky. These are the dangers of squaring up to aroused genitals without a few sharpeners first:

You’ll be self-conscious

The great thing about drinking is it makes you so unconscious of your body you walk into doorframes. It’s far easier to be accepting of your bodily flaws when the room’s spinning, and to blame seeing double for your thunderous thighs.

And it’s not just your body that will be thrust into the spotlight of sobriety but your fuckbuddy’s meatsuit as well: nothing will send you running into the arms of soft-focus pornography quicker than the whiteheads on your husband’s arse.

You’ll have no excuses

Men: can’t get it up? That’s on you for once, not the booze. Women: if he’s had his face in your fanny for 40 minutes and you’re still miles from climax, you can’t blame the vodka like you usually do.

Nor do you have any good reason for not trying new adventurous positions like being bothered to turn over or stand up. And your go-to reason for drifting off to sleep before your partner’s climaxed is snatched away. It’s all veritas and no fucking vino.

You’ll have razor-sharp senses

No Frenchman would brave the consumption of a soft-ripened camembert without sloshing down a pint of red wine first. The same principle applies to your husband’s balls. And sixty-nining cannot be accomplished sober, just as it can’t be accomplished too pissed. Find your happy place. Usually it’s upward of ten units.

You’ll have reduced deniability

Say you get caught up in the moment and admit your foot fetish. Or climax while shouting the name of the plumber who was so attentive to your misfiring boiler. Sober? There’s no coming back because there’s no gin and tonic to blame it on.

Safer to make sure you’re pissed enough to claim Gary the plumber’s muscular forearms were only in your head because the Tanqueray put them there. And for your husband to be pissed enough to choose to believe you.

You’ll form a more meaningful connection

Above all, having sex with a loved one sober brings with it the risk of actually sharing a moment of connection which, if undertaken when irresponsibly conscious and lucid, could not only be meaningful but make you closer for weeks or even years to come.

You could end up spending long evenings on the sofa sharing confidences, touching hands, and gazing into each others eyes when you’ve got box-sets to watch. So you’d be wise to knock back white wine straight from the fridge door on the way to bed tonight just in case.

Let's move to a Cornish village battered by storms and inundated with fancy restaurants! This week: Porthleven

What’s it about?

Tucked away in south-western Cornwall, Porthleven is heaving with tourists all summer and in winter populated by locals who resent anyone who hasn’t lived here for 400 years and/or comes from further north than Truro.

Built in the 1800s to cash in on a pilchard fishing industry that died on its arse when it was discovered how pilchards taste, it’s a jumble of quaint old fishermen’s cottages, stunning scenery and restaurants selling fancy shit no native would touch even if they could afford it.

The April food festival has reinvented the town as a centre for foodies and is when tens of thousands descend on the town, all the roads are blocked and no-one can get the car off the fucking drive to do the Tesco big shop. In case there wasn’t enough of that in summer.

Any good points?

Being on the coast’s never bad. The crashing surf around the West Beach and harbour pier makes it an exhilarating and dangerous place to be in rough weather, and draws surfers from around the world. The locals hate them too.

The winter storms are spectacular and local photographers merrily cash in on a half-hour’s snapping one afternoon with enough postcards, calendars and prints in tourist shops to live off for the rest of the year.

The ball-achingly expensive restaurants have specialities from Malaysian seafood at Kota to Asian fusion at Kota Kai to fussy fish dishes swamped with unnecessary foam and emulsions at The Harbourside Refuge. The food’s good. The prices aren’t.

Even Rick Stein opened a restaurant here once, but pissed off the easily-pissed-off locals by refusing to buy their fish, the food was shit and he predictably pulled the plug during the pandemic. The best place to eat remains the chippy next to the public toilets.

Beautiful landscape?

Undeniably. Which is why it’s chock full of Emmets, as the Cornish call them. The exact definition of the term Emmet remains uncertain, but is thought to be Cornish for ‘rich arseholes from London walking round in shorts, white socks and sandals in the pissing rain’.

The Beckford Smith Institute building is the village’s landmark, sitting proudly near the harbour entrance and providing entertainment for villagers when visitors mistake it for a fucking church.

The two eye-catching cannons sat either side of the harbour entrance were salvaged, probably illegally, from the wreck of the HMC Anson. They’ve never fired a shot in anger, much to the disappointment of residents who dream of taking aim at hordes of squealing middle-class families on paddleboards all bastard summer.

Hang out at…

The Ship Inn, a 17th century pub overlooking the surf, has good food, local real ales and ciders and a welcoming atmosphere. Nick a local’s seat and the next time anyone sees you will be at low tide, at the bottom of the harbour, tied to a concrete block.

The Harbour Inn across the water is a St Austell Brewery chain pub serving shit microwaved chain pub food but at least it’s spacious, whereas there’s no room in the Ship to swing a fucking cat.

Where to buy?

Looking at purchasing in Porthleven itself? Everyone will hate you, especially if you’re thick enough to think a Kernow car sticker will win them over, and any hint of a sea view – even if you have to stand on tiptoe on the toilet seat and lean out of the window – is another £100k on the price.

More affordable, though not more welcoming, is Helston two miles inland. It’s a bit of a shithole in fairness, but at least you’ll be relatively Emmet-free.

From the streets:

Roy Hobbs, 63, native: “Aye, it’s proper ansum ‘ere my luvver, as least dreckly after all the bluddy Emmets’ve gone back up country.”

Helen Archer, 34, holidaymaker: “We love it here, it’s like our spiritual home. Granted, you get ripped off in the cafes and restaurants, it rains non-stop for weeks, and everyone hates us. But still.”