Everybody knows that sex in public is better than sex in private. Your hearts are racing even faster than usual as you try to finish before you get caught… but usually, you don’t get caught. I did.

My friends and I were playing drinking games at Giovanni’s one Thursday night earlier this year when I got the opportunity to relive my favorite sexual escapade. We were sitting outside, and suddenly I noticed that the other team’s anchor was a girl I had never seen before. Her name was Joannie, and she was a positively captivating storyteller.

We forgot to order pizza. We missed Bill’s Bus. All night, we sat at that table, listening to Joannie’s tales of Isla Vista madness. It was nearing time to make our respective booty calls and stumble off when my ears perked up as they caught the ending of Joannie’s final story.

“…They were going at it, you could tell by his facial expression and the position of her feet that he was about to cum – and they didn’t even know we were watching. And then the dude stood up, his dick dangling all over the place, and closed the blinds and flipped off the lights! Tricky bastard.”

What a coincidence! The familiarity of the story was uncanny, I thought. The same thing happened to me last week! I shifted my gaze and met eyes with Joannie. As she quipped, “I mean, what kind of girl would actually have sex on DP with the blinds open? Must have been from out of town,” it dawned on both of us simultaneously. I was the beezy doin’ it doggy style, and she was the creeper lurking next door, taking mental notes. Which is worse?

Good thing I have no shame. Within minutes I was reassuring Joannie that I took her account as a compliment and I began to take over the storytelling…

It was a run-of-the-mill Friday night in Isla Vista, and my man and I were bored. I mean, I only have so many tight tube tops to wear while prancing up and down Del Playa Drive, and seeing as how I was already a sealed deal, he did not feel the need to try to impress chicks by offering them warm, half-full cans of Natty Light. So on that fateful night, we skipped the tedious middle part of the evening – you know, after beer pong and before booty – where you party-hop from DP to Pasado, and sometimes all the way to Abrego, in a desperate attempt to get laid.

At approximately 11 o’clock, after a rousing game of Scrabble, we retired to his bedroom, which was much louder than usual, thanks to a more Friday-night appropriate game of pong on the balcony next door. As usual, I hopped on top for the first round.

About fifteen minutes went by, and the voices next door were getting louder. I was sure it was just a coincidence that every time I threw my head back, or took a break from boning to give a little blowjob, the crowd cheered.

We didn’t notice that we were putting on a peep show on par with the prostitutes in Amsterdam for so long because, as I have learned from the experience, the noises people make while playing beer pong are scarily similar in sound – and interval – to those made by sex fiends like myself.

I pull my dress over my head – a cup is made. I’m not wearing anything under the dress – his partner must have made the same cup. I bounce up and down – they bounce it in. We flip over – he’s heating up. My feet wrap around his back as he makes that final thrust into me – he is on fire.

And then I realize it’s no coincidence. I freeze, tense up so tight I probably cut off the circulation in his dick, and the figurative light bulb goes off in my head telling me to turn off the real light bulb – and close the blinds – in the bedroom.

At first, I was horrified, but then I realized they were just jealous. We’re actually having sex, and you’re just watching.

So, I took their cries of “put her back on top” to heart.