Why is the Seaside Sexy? By Tilly Hunter
I’m delighted to announce this post from Tilly Hunter, who has a story in Smut by the Sea Volume 2. Here, she tells us more about it…
I’m specifically talking about the British seaside here, which is a special case far removed from the shimmering seas and golden sands of Biarritz or the Caribbean. It is often cold and wet, grey sea blending with grey sky, while the ‘attractions’ tend to be a bit shabby and very tacky. You can’t even eat a bag of chips without aggressive seagulls trying to pinch them.
So why the hell do we cling to the idea of the seaside as being a place of fun and frolics? Because sometimes, maybe on about three days of the year, it gets warm enough for hardy types to strip to their bikinis. Because, as an island people, the sea draws us to itself. We paddle despite the chill; it simply has to be done. Because a trip to the seaside, even for a day, gives you that holiday feeling, the urge to do something a little crazy, whether it’s stuff your face full of candy floss or find a hot guy to fuck under the pier. I find it easier to suspend my disbelief for stories of that kind of escapist fantasy when they happen at the seaside.
It’s that escapism and sense of fun that the Smut by the Sea anthologies tap into. They’re light-hearted and carefree. They’re a little taste of summer holidays that remind you of a fresh breeze on your face and sand between your toes.
I tried to capture something of that contradiction, between the reality of a cold, grey seaside and the fantasy of sun and sex, in my story, Stuck on the Edge. The weather is cold, the sea is cold, the sky is grey, but the couple involved reach that place where the fantasy takes over and they’re going to fuck in the sea despite the risk of hypothermia.
I reached for his flies, popped his button and fumbled with the zip until he took over. I slid my jeans and knickers down in one go. Thank God for hipsters that don’t actually need undoing. Kicking them off one leg, I left them trailing from the other. The cold hit me again as parts that had been wrapped in fabric, however thin and wet, were exposed. I welcomed it in, feeling that cold hit my outer labia like the tease of an ice cube. I made friends with it, chatted it up and seduced it. Cold was my new fetish. But all I said was, “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Gareth agreed. We’d been married fifteen years. One word carried a wealth of understanding.
Tilly Hunter is a British author and proofreader with a wicked imagination and a fondness for tales of fresh air and kinky fun. She has stories in anthologies from House of Erotica, Xcite Books and MLR Press and her first solo collection Miranda’s Tempest: Three Classic Tales with a Kinky Twist is out now from House of Erotica. She blogs at www.tillyhuntererotica.blogspot.com.