Combining sexual escapades with limited space invariably produces one of two outcomes:
Increased inventiveness as you find new and wonderful ways to get the job done within the confines of an enclosed environment.
OR
Utter frustration as the realisation dawns that any vertical, horizontal or lateral movement is near impossible without bruised extremities, rendering the experience roughly as erotic and satisfying as lying two dolls devoid of genitals beside each other during your formative years, lightly rubbing the pair together in a manner you fondly imagine may one day be something you find appealing.
As someone relatively accustomed to making use of a bar bathroom, the back seat of a car and, on one notable occasion, a garden shed, I consider myself relatively adept at the first option, making the most of whatever space is available, via whatever means and position necessary.
(As a side note for anyone considering Shed-Sex, let me advise against it. As much fun as it may be in the moment, there is simply no dignified way to have to request a friend remove splinters from your arse cheeks, and having the distinct aroma of a garden centre act as an aphrodisiac becomes a budren that can be tricky to bear, but that's a very different story)
When faced with literal *competition* for space, things become even more challenging. Now not only are you having to be inventive, but also deploy negotiating skills worthy of the United Nations. Which is to say that unless you're careful you end up talking for hours and agreeing to nothing. Or quickly descending into chaos and having to frequently duck flailing elbows and knees.
During its annual Fringe Festival, the city of Edinburgh can be described in one word; busy. Literally thousands of shows are put on every day in every conceivable space imaginable. And given every one of those shows has a minimum of one person involved or, more commonly, an entire team of folk behind them, this means that for the month of August the city is boosted by literal tens of thousands of extra folk all seeking places to stay. As such, accommodation costs a fucking fortune and, given the majority of folk staying are poor 'creatives' doing it for the love of performance and/or the dream of getting noticed by someone slightly higher up the food chain in the industry, participants therefore have little choice but to cram themselves into houses and flat shares conceivable in the hope of surviving the month.
Which is how myself and five friends and colleagues found ourselves staying in accommodation we soon dubbed 'Catswings'. Because, truly, there wasn't sufficient space to swing a cat. (Our creativity was burned out on the shows. Don't judge us)
The noble abode of Catswings consisted of a grand total of FOUR and HALF rooms:
The living room/kitchen which, despite the residence supposedly sleeping and supporting six, had a grand total of seats for four; principally two small sofas that pulled out into cripplingly uncomfortable camp beds.
The bathroom with, to its credit, a truly excellent shower, but a toilet that, even to a sceptic such as myself, could only be described as haunted. (Again, a story for another time)
Bedroom A - the very slightly larger of the two bedrooms which featured a double bed and a tiny ensuite containing the world's WORST shower as if to compensate for the excellence of the main one. A garden tap suspended at knee height could have generated more forceful and indeed warmer water than this supposed power shower could generate.
Bedroom B - A room that I genuinely believe began life as an architect's notion of a modest cupboard. Somehow two single beds has been squeezed into this *tiny* space, with barely enough room between them for a fringe programme guide. The side-table beside each side the bed had been, as far as I could tell *quite literally* sawn in half in order to make fit. The whole room looked the bedroom set of a bad sitcom, wherein a viewer would immediately dismiss the whole thing as being unrealistic as 'no one would ever seriously live like that'.
Our creative company included myself, Charlie, Zara, Danni, Stephen and Alex. Via either excessive chivalry or, perhaps more likely, my shrewd negotiating/blackmail skills, the guys had "volunteered" to take the hideous sofa beds, while the women elected to draw straws for the remaining options. Zara and I ended up sharing the double bed in Room A, while Charlie and Danni got the singles in Room B.
For those wondering; fear not. The preamble is over and, rather like the act itself, the sexual content is coming.
The other low-key notable detail about Edinburgh during the Fringe festival, is that it's something of a fuck-fest. You cram thousands of 'creative' people into one small city, fill them full of post-show adrenaline and, often, alcohol and unsurprisingly, the inevitable happens. Which is to say; sex. A LOT of casual sex.
Now, it's standard policy because of this that fringe shenanigans follow the same blanket rules as Sin-City. Chiefly that whatever happens at fringe, stays at fringe.
But sometimes things happen that are simply too fun not to share. So I've changed the names of the involved parties, with the exception of my own friends who, frankly, should know better by now than to get up to such ludicrous antics in front of me. They're entirely undeserving of anonymity. (Plus, for those actually concerned, I checked with them first)
So, with the pre-amble over, let's finally get into the tale of 1 Room, 2 Beds, 3 Couples!
It was the second week of the Festival and, thusly, everyone was in equal parts exhausted and hysterical. By week two you've truly settled in, blown off the initial excitement, got through the stages of somewhat over-indulging sexually, and fallen into a reasonable routine. Any sense of modesty has long since been lost with your house-mates. At minimum by this stage you've all seen each other naked and overheard bathroom incidents that can make eye-contact difficult for at least a day. If you're anything like my friends you've probably also overheard bedroom incidents that have achieved similar results. To help avoid an excess of this, we implemented a 'message ahead' policy. if you were planning on bringing someone back to the flat for some sexual misadventures, you had to message the group chat with a suitably crude euphemism or sequence of revolting emoji's so everyone was warned and could, where possible, stay away for that little bit longer. Or, if folk were already back and ready for sleep, they could reply 'Swing your Cat Elsewhere', meaning another location was required for any such sexual congress.
I doubt the nearby park bench has ever been quite so well utilised but, as ever, that's another story.
However, on the whole, by week two everything has settled down and everyone is now much too tired to be fucking quite so regularly. Which is why, in my infinite wisdom, I felt it would probably be safe to bring someone back to Catswings without messaging ahead to check room availability first.
I'd spent the evening with Charlie watching a variety of shows and comedy gigs, drinking in (fringe relative) moderation and generally having a lovely and throughly civilised time. I'd not gone out particularly seeking an escapade, but it would seem fate had decreed one would fine me.
It arrived in the form of Stan. Not his real name for reasons outlined above but short for Stan DupComedy, which is was what he was doing when I first laid eyes upon him.
I'm not going to fall into cliche and pretend it was lust at first sight as it very much wasn't. But Stan was sufficiently blessed with pleasingly broad shoulders, exceptionally deep blue eyes and cheekbones I could do an injury to myself upon that even Charlie nudged me as he walked on stage and whispered 'Fuck, he's your type.'
Reader, she wasn't wrong.
Not necessarily because of all of the above, but because, for the next forty minutes, he had me in stitches. Whilst the flavour and tone of his gags were, to put it generously, a little hit and miss with the room at large, all but about three landed with me. I have what has been described both kindly and, on occasion, unkindly as being in possession of a 'generous laugh'. Which is to say a loud one. And, given that sometimes I was one of only a small handful laughing, it meant I had the attention of Stan throughout his set, and met his delightfully blue eyed and clearly grateful look on many occasion throughout the forty minutes.
When asked what they look for in a man a majority of women will place sense of humour high on the desires list. The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, there's the obvious fact that it makes them enjoyable to be in the company of. But there's a secret second reason too. Funny people are better in bed. Fucking is like telling a well constructed joke. It's all about the timing.
In an (admittedly far too late) attempt to 'get to the sex', I'll save recounting the ensuing loitering, waiting for him post show, introductions, casual chat followed by drinks, followed by more drinks, followed by Charlie's departure as she abandoned the awkward third wheel role, followed by a few more drinks, before finally my willpower cracked and I all but through myself at the handsome comedian.
As a relative fringe newcomer, he was staying in something that amounted to little more than a hostel, meaning heading back to his accommodation was off the cards despite being far nearer. And instead we trudged off on the lengthy walk towards Catswings.
My god does Edinburgh have a smorgasbord of tiny alleyways, nooks and crannies that all look ever more tempting when you're making your way back on a lengthy walk with a man you're eager to jump.
However, with remarkable willpower - I'm nothing if not modest - I refrained from leaping upon Stan. Not least as, like so many comedians, he was far shyer in real life than his on stage persona would suggest, and I feared indulging in some al-fresco fucking may have scared him off.
Which is why my heart somewhat sank as, upon returning to Catswings, no sooner were we through the door than I heard the unmistakable sound of a vibrating headboard, and the notable repeating squeak of a mattress. Someone else had clearly returned with similar intentions, had also lacked the decency to message ahead and, most unforgivably of all, got back before us.
Stan, to his credit, seemed unphased. He was staying in a 16 person dorm. The background sounds of fucking were not new to him and neither did they seem to put him off. In further good news, the sounds seemed to emanate from Bedroom B. Clearly Charlie had enough of being third wheel, and instead had sought out some first wheel fun of her own. Irritating that she'd managed to achieve this and get back *before* me, but Charlie is exceptionally skilled in that regard.
Nevertheless, this meant I'd be able to take Stan into Bedroom A, and the night could proceed as intended.
What followed was a series of surprises that resulted in louder and cruder profanities escaping my mouth. Poor Stan didn't quite know where to look.
The first surprise was that it wasn't just Charlie and her acquaintance present. As we were about to head into the bedroom a head popped up from the living room; Alex already lying (albeit solo) in his sofa bed. He looked as though he was about to make a comment about overhearing what was afoot in Room B, but paused when he noticed I too had company. Instead, he simply waved cheerily, and sunk back into his bed. This was the kindest thing he could do. Get into a conversation with Alex and you'll be trapped in it for hours. Instead, I opened the door to Bedroom A, finally ready for some now long overdue action.
