Dogged by bad luck! - A Summer of Outdoor Fun

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According to Brenda Love in her Encyclopedia of Unusual Sex Practices, 'dogging' is an English term for activities that stem from amomaxia, or sex in a parked car. (Please forgive both American spelling and grammar - how both can be so abused in one title is beyond me!).

Now, most of us are aware of the ins and outs of this enjoyable pasttime, but it intrigued me when I found that 'dogging' was cross-referenced with the exotic-sounding 'candaulism', the first entry under 'C' in the aforementioned reference work - and over half a page in length! Briefly, 'candaulism' refers to a situation where, in a group of three or more people, only two engage in sex.

It seemed to me an awfully long explanation for something we would commonly come across at most swingers' parties and clubs, but I thought that you may like to throw it into the conversation at a dinner party!

Jogging the memory

This summer has been one of the wettest on record and, as a result, I began to think about my various dogging adventures that haven't gone as expected.

These exploits cover the full spectrum of calamitous and ludicrous endeavour in trying to achieve sexual climax, despite the best efforts of both nature and mankind.

For those of you familiar with A A Milne's cuddly, rotund little bear Pooh, you will be aware that his recorded exploits took place in the Hundred Acre Wood. Should you be wearing an anorak, with Piglet, Tigger or Eyore emblazoned on the back, you will know that this wood is reputed to be Ashdown Forest in East Sussex. Here, in dappled sunlit glades, much happ, carefree gambolling has supposedly taken place and, indeed, still does.

Going down to Ashdown

It was in this wood, or one remarkably similar in its closeness to London, that I had a very different 'dogging' experience, and for once I had a part in ruining somebody else's promising evening.

It was while I was in London that I worked for a broadcast facilities company, providing equipment and crew to film- and programme-makers.When it was in its prime, the company also produced pilot taster shows to demonstrate the quality of material they had on offer. One such programme involved taking a 'celebrity' into the middle of a forest where hidden cameras would track said star, night and day, while they underwent a series of survival trials.

Of course, in order to show the son et lumiere at its best, it was necessary to film in the dead of night. So it was that, late on a Sunday, a team of ten talented professionals rigged the car park and a nearby forest clearing with a series of hidden cameras, microphones and a number of extremely bright lights.We returned to the van, which was to be our 'home' for much of the night and waited for the car park to empty. And waited... and waited some more.

The night's performance

From the back of the van I heard somebody using the term 'doggers', and sure enough the car park was periodically lit up by cars flashing their headlamps, and interior lights flashing on and off. I have to admit that quite a number of the flashes came in our direction but it was impossible to warn anyone without leaving our cover.

After waiting for an hour or so for the activity to subside, the director muttered the words, 'fire them up ready for action'. Immediately the car park and clearing were lit up as if in daylight by the strategically positioned, 2kw lights. Almost as quickly, the car park and the surrounding area were almost completely vacated, accompanied by a protesting squeal of indignant tyres.With the words 'Lights. Camera. Action', echoing around the area, there was a rustle from the bushes and the last remaining inhabitants beat a hasty retreat.

Another from the archive...

As somebody who is happily bi-sexual - indeed, I now know that I am tri-sexual - I am aware that there are similarities between dogging and a host of other practices, such as cottaging. Both can bring an indignant outcry from local citizens, and quite often both practices will occupy the same area of land. Unfortunately, my experience shows that problems can occur before even reaching the intended site.

The following incident actually occurred, at different times, to both me and my partner Helen, albeit in different forms. Actually, when we first met, Helen would point to various landmarks and declare 'that's a dogging site - and so is that'.When I queried her knowledge, she denied that she had ever attended any open meetings but, as ever, the truth will out. And so on to this particularly embarrassing event.

The setting is fairly typical - a cold, wet summer's night when the chat-room type keeps monotonous time with the raindrops racing to the bottom of the bedroom window. An opportunity arose of a clandestine meeting - but of course, the 'name' in the room had been drinking so was unable to drive. He pleaded, and made promises of a journey to heaven.

...Do I or don't I?

But I had known and chatted with the name for a few weeks, so I threw on a coat over my bra, panties and stockings and made the hazardous dash to my car.

Praying not to get caught by too many red lights, and by no flashing blue ones, I made the 30-mile journey in under half an hour and pulled up outside the designated address with a mixture of relief and excited anticipation.

To my surprise, the passenger door was dragged open and, heralded by a shower of rain and a squeaking of springs, my 'hero' plumped himself down next to me in the passenger seat.

It transpired that, because he had recently split up with his wife, he had moved in with his mother and, of course and alas, it was impossible that I be allowed in the house in case either his mother, or the cat, should be disturbed.

We kissed and began to get amorous in the car but my heart wasn't in it. It soon became apparent that the rain hadn't affected his ardour and, even if my heart wasn't in it, he was making every move to ensure that his cock would soon be in at least one of my ports of call. Like Helen, I have a reputation for giving excellent head, a pulsating deep-throated blow-job that can't be resisted.

Change of venue

With an itch that needed scratching, I agreed to drive on to a safe place he knew of where, quite possibly, we would meet other likeminded people.

He directed me down B roads, then country lanes and finally cart tracks, until I wound up in the middle of a field. By this time my wipers were having trouble clearing the windscreen and the absence of street lighting made the darkness intense and totally impenetrable. 'It's not like this when I walk my dog,' he stammered, before urging me to drive through the gap ahead and into the next field. Like a good girl I did as he bid, although with hindsight I admit that I was concentrating more on his hand as he slowly stroked his penis erect, and the glistening head that smiled in my direction.

Mission aborted

I never got into the next field - and his cock never made it into my eager mouth - at least, not that night. The relentless rains had turned the field into a quagmire and with a squelching, grating sound my beloved black Fiat bottomed out - and stuck fast. When I had stopped shrieking, I decided that he would have to get out and push while I operated the controls. 'What do you mean you can't?' I ranted, only stopping when he opened his door to reveal that, rather than being between two fields, we were actually teetering on the edge of a precipice. Of course, I lost it totally and ended up half in and half out of my car, with my former 'hero' trying to clamber over me in an attempt to get out.

Our only chance of rescue was for me to swallow my embarrassment and call the car rescue people. I felt sure I could hear the control room laughing as I described the sequence of fields he would have to go through to reach us - a sound that intensified when he advised me to listen for a passing vehicle - and then start flashing. So there I was, soaked to the skin and virtually naked, with a beaming rescuer filling out the form to register my satisfaction. 'After all, apart from the tow we do like to give complete satisfaction,' he smiled, and I wasn't surprised to find that he had handed me his mobile phone number... just in case of any further incidents.

I think that the field incident was one of the worst to happen to me. I hadn't managed much more than a decent snog and cuddle - and that after driving half way across the county. My blushes intensified when I found that I would have to pay the car valet double the normal fee due to the excessive mud.

Hope springs eternal

Of course, I have had many enjoyable dogging encounters - and few have been that far out into the country. One encounter on the A30 resulted in a very nice couple brewing up for me on their primus stove... on another occasion on the same road a campervan was hooked up to the SH site - but such luxuries are rare. I have had too many encounters to put in to one article - and I am thinking only about the minority that went wrong. I have learned, in the course of my explorations, that dogging, while enjoyable and often exciting, shouldn't take the place of simple road safety measures - such as applying the handbrake, especially in a hilly lay-by on the A22, resulting in damage to my vehicle that I didn't feel I could take to my insurance company.

I have also discovered that the police, especially in Wrexham, can be quite helpful, advising me that they were only patrolling for troublemakers and that they would return in an hour or so. The police in Surrey, however, did have to take a different view when a dogging session accidentally coincided with a major drugs bust!

I suppose, finally, I would simply advise that if misfortune is going to strike, keep your chin down but your head held high...