Maine is Vacationland. Did you know that?

Makes sense to know that’s where I’m from, doesn’t it? About two weeks ago I logged onto GoogleMaps and looked up my old house on my old street, and remembered the meaning of “Middle of Nowhere.”
I’m sure many people wouldn’t guess that fucking in the middle of nowhere is different than fucking in a city, and it’s not that different, but the subtle shifts are worth noting.
Such as:
1. Sex in the woods. I lost my virginity in a tent, which had quickly been pitched about 500 feet from my boyfriend’s house. Hot, huh? I’ve also made out (and done some other things) in cars parked on logging roads. What’s a logging road, you ask? A dirt road in the middle of nowhere that goes even further into the middle of nowhere.
2. Sex in cabins that have no water or electricity. In the middle of the winter. I’m not kidding here, folks. People (even po’ white trash sometimes) have random little shacks by the lake, so they can hang out in the summer and, I don’t know, snowmobile or something in the winter (since leaving Maine I do not do winter). When you’re in high school and you want to throw a party, these cabins are quite convenient. When you’re in high school and drunk and wanting to fuck at a party like this, you must navigate the following:
a) how to have sex without waking up the other eight people sleeping on the floor beside you.
b) how to sex without actually getting naked, because of the other nonconsenting people around you, yes, but also because it’s ten degrees or less inside the building, and if you take off your pants you’ll either die or some important part will freeze off.
c) making sure you’re fucking who you think you’re fucking. The middle of the night in the middle of the winter is awfully dark, and we all know how much it sucks to wake up next to Mr. Wrong when you thought you were makin’ out with Ms. Right.
3. Sex in the summer = mosquito bites in highly inconvenient places.
I laugh whenever I hear San Franciscans complain about mosquitos. You don’t know bugs til you go to Maine. I do want to be sympathic, I do, but complaining about mosquitos in the Bay Area is like complaining about the snow in Oakland. You get my point.
4. No sex toy stores like Good Vibrations. Ordering online is always a possibility, but if you want to walk around an actual store, you get the same sticky-floored, poorly-stocked, leering-salesperson store you’d find anywhere but San Francisco (and other liberal-ish cities).

Oh! But you want to know something funny? Of course you do. I think there was a bakery on the main street of my town that had a secret room in the back, where you could rent porn.

I think. Since this is not a fact, and since I’m always hungry for more readers, I’ve posted a bulletin on my highschool’s Myspace page and let them all know I write sex blogs and articles, and that they should come and read this one.

Mainers: Am I right about the porn in the back of the bakery? I think the bakery was a bit down the street from Ari’s.

hoping someone replies,
jameson.

Recently:

brain camp.
pop (corn) day.