Making out in the open!

Sal bursts through the kitchen swing doors, trips over a waiter, and almost lands head-first in my delicately poised frozen kiwi daiquiri. I wonder if she has just spotted a pub-hating, moral policer and rushed in risking her life to warn me.

But wait a second, she has got that glow. And then she pulls out a wedgie and not-so-discreetly adjusts her knickers. She is not risking anything but her apparent modesty.

Before I can finish saying "Did you just have sex?", my answer swaggers in. Her current 'boyfriend' (it's beyond annoying how Sal calls him that after three-and-a-half dates) has a toothy grin so wide it could put Jaws to shame. And all because he has just done IT — in public.

I don’t get public sex. There is no time for foreplay, you keep most of your clothes on, the hidden corner you use for the act is filthy (the tiny, smelly toilet of an aeroplane — please! I wouldn’t even use it for peeing most times) and you are permanently on the lookout.

Sal downs my frozen drink and reveals that the hurried, uncomfortable feeling of being caught while you are trying not to touch anything too disgusting is precisely the thrill.

So we are back to the lure of the forbidden fruit for my generation of thrill-seekers. Doing it where you are not supposed to, or allowed to, makes it irresistibly exciting to the rule-breakers and has very little to do with the actual act of sex. Now that appeals to the rebel in me.

In the era of pink chuddies versus the saffron lungi, if it's OK for politicians to spew hate in public, then it should be more than OK for Sal and her so-called boyfriend to make love in public!