What are you supposed to do if you walk in on someone having sex? Clearly the answer lies somewhere between ‘run away immediately’ and ‘apologise, then shut the door.’ Sadly, no one gets this lesson during sex ed classes, so I’d like to give you a couple of examples of what not to do, as well as my favourite walking-in-on-naked people story…
As far as I can recall, I have never accidentally walked in on anyone having sex. I’ve certainly wandered into a fuck lounge if I’ve been invited, or slipped into a designated sex room at a party then elbowed myself some space on a suspiciously-stained sofa. But accidents? Not that I can remember. I am considerate and cautious: I knock.
The ‘it’s MY house’ strategy
My first boyfriend’s Mum had perfected the art of the knock-while-opening. No sooner had you heard her knuckles rapping on the door than the handle would turn, giving boyfriend and I just enough time to register panic as she flung the door wide.
It was particularly painful because for the first half of our relationship I had no mobile phone. If my own mother needed to call me to let me know that it was time to come home/she’d be in the pub/the house was on fire she would have to call my boyfriend’s house on something we used to call a ‘landline’.
Mother in law would pick up the landline phone, politely tell my Mum to wait a minute, then do her knock-and-enter thing only to – seven times out of ten – find me butt-naked and eagerly riding her son.
She would then roll her eyes, tell me ‘it’s for you’, place the cordless phone on the bookshelf in the hallway and stalk off back to the kitchen. She either never learned her lesson or just decided ‘fuck it, it’s my house.’
The ‘just ignore it’ strategy
Perfected by a friend of mine who frequently had house guests sneak off up to her room to fuck during a party, the ‘just ignore it’ strategy goes one step further than the eye-roll-and-stalk-off tactic. Instead it requires an almost inhuman ability to ignore the pair of rutting elephants in the room.
The first time I was introduced to this tactic was with that same boyfriend (small, cute, eager, lovely bum) one Saturday afternoon just before a house party. My friend’s parents were away, and she and a couple of others were tripping off to the shop to obtain as much white cider as our pooled allowances could buy. We thought they’d be out for a while, so we quickly pulled off our jeans and pants, made the beast-with-two-backs-clad-in-Slipknot-hoodies on her bed, and commenced with moaning and giggling and all that lovely sexy stuff.
Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to put on her make-up before they left the house, and she was the kind of girl who saw make-up as a necessary extension to wearing clothes in public, so just as we got to the middle of our two-minute hump, she popped back into her bedroom.
She didn’t roll her eyes, leave the room, or in any way acknowledge what we were doing. Instead she walked calmly to her dressing table and sat down in front of the mirror.
As she went through her make-up ritual boyfriend and I lay as still as we could, presumably under some misguided assumption that our friend – like a T-Rex – could only see us if we moved. Eventually we realised that she was in this for the long haul: mascara, eyeliner, eyelash curlers and all. So I squeezed the man between my legs, grabbed the duvet and rolled over – turning us into a kind of human sushi roll to protect our dignity.
She has never once mentioned it.
The ultimate DGAF strategy
For a while I shared not just a house but an actual bedroom with another girl. She was fun, funny, and most importantly Did Not Give A Fuck when I did bad things like spill entire cartons of orange juice on the carpet or forget to pass on phone messages. We came to early resolutions on important issues such as alarm clocks (two snoozes allowed before the other occupant could legally chuck water over you), smoking in the bedroom (yes, but only if we were both doing it and very drunk) and bringing guys back (yes, as long as the other person was off getting laid somewhere else).
One night, I brought a boy back.
He was a super-hot guy, and someone I had been lusting after/fucking/weeping miserably over for at least the the last six months. She understood how important it was that I got to shove as much of this gentleman into my vagina as possible, so she did not want to disturb us.
Unfortunately, she also had some fairly important materials that she required for work the next day, which she’d left in the room in which the rutting was due to take place.
She hatched a plan. She would wait until a good time after the squawking and moaning and ‘OH GOD YES’ing had finished, then she’d sneak in on tiptoe, grab her papers, and make a swift exit. Her desk was near the door, so no one would ever need to know she’d been in there. She’d get her stuff, and we’d all live happily ever after.
Unfortunately, she didn’t bank on the fact that both of us were knackered. After ten minutes of fucking and a short bout of oral, the guy and I promptly fell asleep. She’d also forgotten that the materials she needed were stored not just inside the bedroom – on her desk by the door – but on the opposite side – past my own bed and on the chair by the window.
Nevertheless, she persisted.
She knocked gently to see if we were awake, realised we weren’t, and then opened the door… to find me lying spread-eagled and butt-naked on the bed, and my gentleman friend kneeling on the floor with his head between my legs and his arse in the air. A pile of snoring human bodies stood directly between her and the things she needed. Not only could she now draw a map of every single mole and scar on each of our bodies, she’d just seen the exact colour of the hairs around my lover’s butthole.
What would you do in that situation? You really need to get this stuff, but your way is blocked by a pair of naked, sweaty perverts?
She climbed over him.
Like a cartoon Jerry trying not to wake Tom, she tiptoed acoss the room, stepped over his sprawled body and my spreadeagled legs, grabbed her stuff and made a swift and stealthy exit.
I only know this story because she told me the next morning – pissing herself laughing over orange juice and burned toast. Which does make me wonder: why did she bother being quiet in the first place?
I would be delighted to have it brightened by your amusing stories of people walking on on you during sex. Comments are open as always – gimme the good stuff.
If you’re after something sexier, you might like this (also true) story – fucking interrupted.