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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: 1,001 Best Places To Have Sex In America

1,001 BEST PLACES TO HAVE SEX IN AMERICA isn’t really a realistic guide on places you can fuck, though it sometimes seems to think it is. It’s more like watching two aggressively pedestrian minds get battered to death by a task beyond their means. It’s the sex book equivalent of watching a little boy’s head burst off after attempting a 2800 pound bench press.

The authors, Jennifer Hunt and Dan Baritchi, have the worst possible combination of shortcomings for erotic authors. They are incapable of creative thought and they write about sex like two children who snuck away from an Amish community to google “blue job what is” and “where is butt?” I have, without exaggeration, read hundreds of books like this and I’ve never seen anyone run out of ideas so completely and immediately. By the end of the very first page, in a book promising 1,001 fucking things, they were already recycling entries. Every single one of these is real. None of these are a bit; I swear on my life.

Hey, why not On the Deck (or Patio) On Secretary’s Day? Why not On the Deck (or Patio) Reading the Yellow Pages? Why not “On the Deck (or Patio) While Calling Abishag Number 1 Locksmith? Why not On the Deck (or Patio) While Calling Bojar & Baasha Emergency Locksmith? Jesus, writing sex books is easy. I am rock hard and I haven’t even had a single real idea yet.

The cover didn’t say “cleanest” or “most romantic.” It said BEST. And what’s more best than fluorescent lighting, urine splatter, and hepatitis C? This entry demonstrates how Dan and Jennifer’s advice is usually a disappointing combination of obvious and disgusting. If you were going hiking, Dan would remind you, “be sure to fill your water bottle,” and Jennifer would add, “so you can wet your teeth before you eat ass!”

Mmm, feel the cold tile on the back of your head. Feel the sensual creep of bacteria along your perineum’s membrane. Hey, remember earlier when I mentioned urine splatter and hepatitis C? Because your partner will while you pork on a soggy bath mat like a silverfish. The bathroom floor wouldn’t make most people’s top 50, but Dan and Jennifer give it 4 out 5 in Ecstacy Factor. See, they rate each spot on four things: Ecstasy Factor, Calorie Burn, Kink Level, and Risk. And these ratings would be pointless even if they weren’t stupidly inconsistent wild guesses by two square dumbshits. For instance, sex “While Swimming in the Pool (#5)” apparently burns fewer calories than sex “On a Floating Raft in the Pool (#8).” What? I know banging Jennifer obviously isn’t an exact science, but why is floating harder than swimming when you’re inside her? Is she inflatable? Is she filled with fish? If she’s filled with fish it would explain why she is constantly running to the bathroom to moisten all her holes.

It’s pretty clear Dan and Jennifer exhausted the actual places they’ve fucked somewhere in the 10s. I never considered anyone would need to hear this advice, but if you find yourself writing a book on 1,001 places to have sex and you’re driving past a bowling alley and you think, “You could do it in the bathroom there! Or like at the bowling part! Maybe the parking lot? This place is a sex location gold mi–OH! A Pizza Hut! Sex at a Pizza Hut would be, what, like 3 out of 5 Calorie Burns?” maybe you shouldn’t be writing that book about fucking.

Despite their frequency, none of these entries bring any special expertise to fucking in the bathroom. There’s no special way to pleasure your wife’s writhing sac of vaginal fish in a bowling alley shitter versus dealing with it in a porta-potty. All these entries are each clumsily reworded versions of “This is pretty gross, but our editor says it counts as a new one! 2 out of 5 kinks!” There’s so little thought put into this book, I feel like maybe they don’t even notice they’re doing it? It might honestly come as a shock to Dan and Jennifer to find out 40% of their life’s work is slight variations on the phrase “toilet sex.”

Oh, did the author look up from his inspirations notebook and see a train? Did the big boy sex book author see a choo choo and get a new idea?

They set out to advise horny dingbats on 1,001 places to fuck and missed their goal by about 1000 places. Is there a failure more complete than this in the history of literature? We’d never know because the only equivalent would be writing an autobiography so badly the universe decided you never existed.

Fine. I guess you technically haven’t fucked on a CONVENIENCE STORE toilet yet, Dan and Jennifer. You treat your genitals like pedantic fucks treat scoring in Scattergories.

Can you imagine some dull couple looking to add adventure to their love life and learning they’d spent $14.95 for a list of places to pee? These sad, filth-sucking cows. I don’t have any disappointment left for them. If you gave Dan and Jennifer an hour to come up with three suggestions on where to eat, they would come back to you with, “Poop in a sock, barren widow left for dead in an outhouse, let’s try poop.”

“Jennifer, honey, what are some places to have sex other than the bathroom?”

“Sweetheart, no. The fish in my asshole would die.”

“Of course, my sweet. I forgot. I love you.”

“Glub. Prrrbrraappppppp!!! Bllgbbbbb!!!”

I’m not being fair to Dan and Jennifer. They had several dozen other ideas on places to bang like “On an Indian Reserve in a Teepee (#645)” or “With a Prostitute (#540).” They also suggested doing it “In a Public School Bus (#358)” and “In the Back Seat with Your Mom or Dad Driving (#485)” One is simply “At the Mayor’s House with the Mayor’s Wife (#357).” About 50 of them require felonies  before you even get to the fornicating in front of strangers. So don’t get the image that these two are Mormons who waited too long to share their love and this is the memoir of their giggly month-long consummation. Dan and Jennifer are legitimate sex criminal perverts.

It’s weird that it took Dan and Jennifer so many bathrooms before they finally remembered the one people actually fuck in. Not funny weird, but I don’t think an entry this lazy deserves a joke.

What? Fucking WHAT, Dan and Jennifer!? You two sloppy drips have been rolling around in tourist diarrhea for 158 pages and now suddenly you’re sexing at high speeds along the surface of the water on a… did you say hot dog? I take back three of the bathroom things I said about you! This one is terrific! What a coherent, non-insane, BEST place for sex!

Dan and Jennifer explain this means to have sex in the bathroom on a plane! Can you imagine!? I can, you goldfish-minded, halibut-vaginaed sluts, because you just suggested this 288 entries ago. There’s a good chance I’m the only person who has ever read this book, including its writers and editor. There’s also a good chance Dan and Jennifer are the first people to get a shigella infection in all 50 states.

“Ah! Same old Jennifer!” hisses the janitor through the stall door. In this economy he worries he will never be able to retire.

It’s possible… no. Could they? This might sound crazy, but I-I think Dan and Jennifer might have “sex” mixed up with “pooping.” It definitely explains all the bathroom ones, but it also explains some of the other strange ones like #35: “In Your Kids’ Sandbox.” It’s an abrasive place to fuck, but a perfect-crime place to poop.

Oh my god, these two absolutely think they’re talking about poop. It would explain the strangeness of #79: “In the Garage in a Refrigerator Box or Shipping Crate” and #254: “At the Santa Claus Photo Area at the Mall.” It even explains #308: “In Santa’s Big Chair at the Mall.” I’m not saying they’re sane, but they’re poop-on-Santa twice insane, not all the way fuck-on-Santa twice insane.

I’m glad I figured out what was going on in this book, but how did this come to be? Could it be a prank? Did Dan and Jennifer’s parents, friends, and family all independently decide to tell them pooping is called “sex?” This is such an amazing discovery. This must be what it was like to find the first dinosaur fossil. I honestly feel like I just talked Helen Keller into a handjob.

Well, I can’t lie. Something this clearly erotic sort of fucks my poop theory up.

“Honey, are there two-story outhouses?”

“I don’t care! PUT IT IN THE BOOK.”

“You got it! Only 217 more locations, my little streptococcus!”

“I fucking know! Our entire life has been thinking up unique qualifiers for toilets!!! For hours!!!”

“Oh, did we do regular outhouse already?”

“Yes.”

“Did we do the bathroom at-let me finish… the bathroom at the bowling alley?”

“YES!”

“Did we fuck on Santa at the mall?”

“We did, but that’s a good one. Put it in again.”

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