Features

Mrs John Wilmot ventures outdoors, and rates locations for their al-fresco sex appeal.


I have nothing against basic insertive vaginal, anal or oral intercourse. In fact, I happen to be somewhat, and by “somewhat” I mean “extremely and borderline obsessively”, partial to all three. But sometimes it’s not enough, and it’s an itch that whips and chains cannot scratch alone. It’s the thrill of the great outdoors, minus the repulsive orthopaedic Teva sandals and too-tight Icebreaker merino base layers stretched over rolls of middle-aged flesh. It’s public sex, and it ranges from the foul to the fabulous. Unfortunately in Dunedin it often tends more towards the foul, a fact to which anyone standing around the Octagon at 3am watching South D’s finest gnawing at one another’s mandibles can attest.
 
Ever the philanthropist, I hope that by providing you with this handy guide to Dunedin’s most and least suitable places to bone, you too can attain exhibitionist nirvana. Don’t let the cold put you off. There’s nothing like a bracing sou’wester to make your nipples stand to attention, ready to battle against the elements like the hardy little soldiers they are.
 
1. The Secret Garden
 
Just up from the Octagon there is a magical place. I am loath to give away its exact location, but just north of the fine drinking establishment that is Metro is a beautiful little courtyard garden hidden down an alleyway. The ideal place for a joint, a line, a tab, a root or any combination thereof, pheromones ooze from every leafy evergreen and flowering hellebore. Boys, taking a girl here is a move slicker than two eels fucking in a bucket of snot and precum.
 
A word of warning, though - don’t follow my lead and get so swept up in the romance of the place that you forget the name of the person you just screwed. Admittedly I do this with some regularity irrespective of locale (I make no apologies; I am a visual/kinetic learner not an aural one) but the Secret Garden sparked a particularly awkward incident. Post-al fresco action I felt obliged to invite the Wanaka snowboarder, who had nowhere to stay, back to my house until sunrise. The moment a chink of half-light appeared through a gap in the curtains I called him a taxi. The sadistic bitch on the other end asked the name of the passenger. Frantically trawling my wasted memories for clues, I eventually slurred, “Uh, Jo-oe??”
 
He snarled, “It’s Pete.”
 
I attempted a pissed floozy laugh. He looked at me like I’d just admitted to fantasising about a gangbang with Rodney Hide and Michael Laws, then gathered his clothing and stalked out with what would’ve been dignity if he didn’t have a used condom stuck to his naked left thigh.
 
Rating: Base rating of 9/10, 10/10 if you manage to remember their name.
 
 
2. Metro toilets
 
Can barely bring myself to write about this. Overall experience was more depressing than seeing four fat bitches in a Ford Escort. Let me preface this by saying that once engaged in sexual activity I will generally see things through to their logical conclusion come tsunami, Luftwaffe invasion or revelations of John Travolta’s raging heterosexuality. The Metro toilets, however, destroyed my nympho spirit after a mere four licks from base to tip of a random punter’s dick. I was kneeling on the floor of the toilet stall when I felt a sinister sort of squish in the region of my left kneecap. As I stood up, a used super tampon slowly detached itself from my Levante stockings and returned to earth with a soft thud. I stared, transfixed, as the sodden lump of rayon oozed claret onto the soft grey nubuck leather of my shoes.
 
Rating: I do feel that a BJ or at the very least a sneaky pash in the most diabolically vile bathrooms of all of Dunedin’s noxious pits of nocturnal depravity is an essential part of the scarfie lifestyle. However, I would rather gang probe Magda Szubanski than personally repeat this experience. 0/10.
 
3. Archway lecture theatres
 
Sex is possibly the only thing that could make an LAWS314 lecture in Archway 1 bearable. The ergonomics of the seats in there are even worse than those of the 1989 “champagne”-coloured two-door Mitsubishi Mirage hatchback with snazzy racing stripe I owned circa 2006 - 2007. The discomfort is such that it is impossible to sit in this fetid pit of arrogant future stars of Kensington Swan clad in their best Ruby gears for any length of time without squirming. Ergo, it ought to be easy to pass off orgasmic thrashing as mere repositioning of one’s posterior on your seat, which was presumably designed to ensure the comfort of a large gibbon or small orangutan. This is by no means mere speculation. I know for a fact that during one of Stuart Anderson’s unintelligible yet inimitable Property lectures he observed a fresh-faced student casually fingering his lady friend in the middle rows. We should all applaud this courageous sexual pioneer for the revolutionary he is/was. In fact, I wholeheartedly encourage my fellow students to follow his fearless lead. The idea of mass lecture orgies seems but a small step up the evolutionary ladder from the current situation, where students are already lovingly lubing up and vigorously fingerfucking their own sense of self-satisfaction via constant MacWank Pro usage.
 
Rating: a purely speculative 4/10 for the actual pleasure involved but the ballsiness of the act plus the fact that if your partner leaves something to be desired in the looks dept you are assured copious amounts of slutty wanna-alt Auckland eye candy pushes it up to 5/10.
 
4. Countdown carpark
 
Ideal for beginners, mildly exposed in-vehicle coitus in the Countdown carpark will render the popping of your public-sex cherry smoother than my labia after a visit to Je! Beauty Therapy. I recommend parking up in the middle of the carpark, ensuring equal proximity to the supermarket and the police station, then heating things up in the boot or back of your vehicle. The exhibitionist in you will relish the wide cross-section of society walking past your steamed-up windows, from trackpant-clad bogans to Joan the Butcher to those lovely folk from Greenpeace who seem unaware that their chronic halitosis renders them uneffective advocates for the anti-seabed drilling movement. Once you’re feeling confident, hop out of the car and bang on the bonnet. Get a car wash first, though. I did this straight after returning from Queenstown and was forced to spend an unpleasant half-hour after the fact scraping Maniototo dust, small midges and other miscellaneous winged insects from my bum and lower back. Oh, the things I do for you in the name of research!
 
Anyway, probably the ultimate point in Countdown’s favour is sheer convenience - cuddling after sex is frankly overrated when one could be taking advantage of the Weekend Windback on Fab Frangipani 2x Ultra Concentrate. And possibly purchasing some combination of Dettol, baby wipes and Summer’s Eve Feminine Wash if you don’t take my advice on the car wash thing.
 
Rating: Basic in-car 6/10, 7/10 if you add in a Titanic-style sweaty window-swipe. Can probably get up to 8/10 for good old-fashioned on-the-bonnet banging.