Savage Love

True stories of vacation hookups from Dan's readers.

By Dan Savage

Hey, everybody: two things… 

First: last week, the GOP officially "denounced" me. Because the nation is at peace, Americans are going back to work, and the climate situation is completely under control — so, hey, why not go after the gay dude who writes that smutty sex column and gives Rick Santorum fits? 

Second: last week, a Savage Love reader denounced me for failing to devote any recent column inches to my readers' titillating anecdotes. As I hate disappointing a reader, I invited folks to send in their dirty/sexy vacation stories. Here's the best of the bunch.

I was fifteen and on vacation in Cape Cod. Beaches never did anything for me, so I excused myself to go back to the hotel. On my way, I ran into another teenager, a girl. I struck up a conversation and was surprised to hear her answer in a British accent. Like myself, she was bored as hell. I invited her to my hotel room to get high. I make my move, which she goes along with. We're both naked when I get an awful idea that would make any sane and sober girl run screaming for the hills. Being young and ripped, I vocalize it without considering the outcome: "What if you pretend to be Hermione Granger?" This was about the time of the fourth movie release, and I had a big crush on Emma Watson. As soon as the words left my lips, I knew that I wasn't getting laid that day. But I got laid that day.

— The Wander Years

Seven years ago, we went to a wedding. Upon arrival, my girlfriend and I found ourselves in the quaintest, daintiest, lace-doiliest B&B we'd ever seen. The wedding was a wonderful affair held in a historic building. By the time the two of us returned to the B&B, we were drunk, happy, and horny. If I had been reading Savage Love back then, I would've known that we were breaking all the anal-sex rules: it had been a first-date activity for us, we never took it slow, and we never used lots of lube. It had always worked before. This time, however, was different. With her on all fours on the lace doily bedspread, I pulled back and noticed what could not be described as santorum (no lube, just fecal matter). We immediately headed for the shower with her exclaiming loudly how much she "hates when there's shit!" We got clean. The sheets were a different story. I can't remember whether we left them there or stole them, but I do remember the chilly farewell we received from the lady who ran the place. It occurred to me then just how nonsoundproof the walls of a 150-year-old clapboard house probably are.

— That Comes From There?

I was nineteen. He was older and married. We were both in Utah for a folk-dancing event. He and his wife were nonmonogamous — in the open way, not in the (sometimes creepy) Mormon way. His wife wasn't interested in playing with me, so he and I fucked in the back of his truck while she folk-danced at the folk festival I'd traveled to frickin' Utah to attend. The next day, he drove me the hour back to their house in Salt Lake City so we could fuck some more.

The next time we ran into each other was at yet another folk festival. We found an unused second-floor room in one of the buildings and used a piano to barricade the door. We left the window open for ventilation, and so that our vocalizations could rain down on the heads of the innocent Seattleites going about their folk-festival business.

— Frickin' Utah

I'm a bi male, twenty-five, and into bondage. Four years ago, I responded to the personal ad of a reasonably attractive French guy with an unreasonably amazing dungeon. I sent pictures and said I'd love to spend a weekend in his dungeon if I ever made it over. He offered to pay for a plane ticket if I would spend a week in his dungeon. After doing Christmas and NYE with the family, I headed to Paris for the last week of my winter break. Within forty-eight hours, I was begging him to let me out. He agreed to let me go if I still wanted out in two hours. But the bondage was "only real now" that I wanted out, he said in his sexy French accent, and he told me — while slowly stroking my dick — that I was beautiful and brave and strong and that I could get through the week. Which is what I did. On my last night in Paris, he took me to an expensive restaurant, ordered a bottle of champagne, and toasted my bravery and strength.

— Best Week Ever

About ten years ago, when I was fifteen, my very lenient parents took me and two of my girlfriends to one of those all-inclusive resorts in Mexico. We partied and drank with some nice Mexican boys we met on the beach. On our final night, we all downed a bunch of flaming shots. Long story short: I ended up falling through a second-story window and cutting my head pretty badly, one of my girlfriends and I got into a drunken fistfight (I still have no idea about what), and then I lost my virginity on the beach to one of those nice Mexican boys. I woke up the next morning with a hangover, drunken shits, and a pussy full of sand. The plane ride back was miserable... but, oh, what a memory.

— Good Times

In the Provincetown dunes, my BF and I met another couple with the same first names as ours. They invited us to their campsite later that night. That's when I learned four is the tangle threshold — four bodies can literally get so tangled you have to stop to undo yourselves. They had a little propane lamp, and as we were leaving, we could see their shadows from outside the tent — meaning we had just done a four-way shadow show for everyone in the campsite.

— Rob #2

I have just returned from vacation — or "holiday," as we say in the U.K. — so here goes: my boyfriend and I both love hiking, so off we went to the Lake District, one of the prettiest walking regions in the country. The highest mountain in England, Scafell Pike, is there, so of course we had to climb it, just like pretty much every other tourist. What most of them don't do is attempt the two-hour ridge traverse to reach the top of the second highest mountain in England, Scafell. We did. Whereas Scafell Pike had been so crowded there was no space for us to sit and have lunch, Scafell was deserted. I've always had a kink for outdoor sex, and it seems he has a fetish for mountain scenery, because we had possibly the best sex we've ever had on top of that mountain, enjoying spectacular views of the gorgeous English countryside. There is nothing like being fucked while staring out at the landscape that inspired the poetry of Wordsworth and Coleridge!

— Climber Loves Impulsive Fell Fucking

Thanks for sharing, vacationers. Your regularly scheduled sex advice returns next week — now go Google "santorum," everybody.

Find the Savage Lovecast (my weekly podcast) every Tuesday at thestranger.com/savage.