On the Perils of Shagging in Hammocks

Being a Cautionary Tale from the pen of an Evil Beta

"This was your idea, Kurtis. Bloody 'hammock in the sun', indeed..."

"Sorry, Croft." The voice issuing from in between folds of netting doesn't sound remotely sorry, but rather insufferably smug. It's hard to see why, since he's no closer to his goal than he was when they first started over half an hour ago.

It had been his idea, and it seemed like such a good one at the time, when, in a happy-go-lucky haze of sunshine, cocktails, and hormones, he had spotted it - a wide string hammock, just like the one he'd always dreamed of - suspended invitingly between two palm trees in a patch of sunlight, looking as if it were waiting for them.

He should have known better.

And she had rolled her eyes a bit, but being also influenced by her hormones and a few too many cocktails, had finally laughed and agreed, allowing him to tug her over there by the hand.

She had settled into the hammock without too much difficulty, but it was when he attempted to join her that their woes began.

The hammock had been designed for one. And apparently it knew this, because as he tried to slide in beside her, it had tipped in an unmistakeably disapproving manner, depositing him unceremoniously onto the ground while she clung grimly onto the canvas sides.

The same thing had happened several times. But now, undeterred and still horny, he finally manages to climb back in on top of her now in a tangle of limbs which, to the casual observer, might resemble a heap of fornicating squid.

(The 'casual observer', currently orbiting a nearby rock pool, is greenish, about eight inches long, and has extremely sharp teeth. It is worth noting that the pool's other inhabitants, sensing danger somewhere in their dim crustacean brains, have speedily withdrawn beneath shelves and clumps of seaweed, or dug themselves into the sand, and are now nowhere to be seen.)

After many tries they achieve a precarious balance. Lara's bikini comes off with deceptive ease, followed by Kurtis' shorts. A series of careful manoeuvres puts them in approximately the right position, her legs clasped around his middle for stability, but, unable to see what he's doing, Kurtis aims wrongly and instead of her warm, welcoming flesh, encounters the hammock's tight mesh instead.

"Oh my God..."

"Kurtis? What?"

"It's...trapped!"

Looking at Kurtis' horror-struck face, all traces of smugness wiped away by his predicament, Lara is overcome by a fit of laughter that apparently doesn't impress their temperamental hammock, because it shakes threateningly again, twisting from side to side. Kurtis starts to panic in earnest.

A stream of bubbles, a kind of sub-marine snigger, breaks the surface of the rock pool.

"Lara, please for the love of God please, keep still!"

"What, are we going to stay here all day?"

"Yes," he says grimly. "Keep still, dammit."

She does, but can't resist pointing out, "Your arse is going to get sunburned."

He risks a glance over his shoulder. She's right, it's already starting to redden.

His renewed struggles to extricate himself result in a fatal imbalance, and despite Lara's valiant attempts to redistribute her weight to correct it, in the end he's heavier than she is, and the situation is lost.

Sea and sky swap places, the horizon spinning crazily in a blue blur, and when the revolutions finally cease, they find themselves suspended face down a few feet above the golden sand, hopelessly trapped in twisted fabric. To make matters worse, a party of tourists, guided by a small boy wearing shades and a Nirvana t-shirt, has appeared in the distance and is making its way along the shore, getting steadily nearer.

At least his manhood has worked its way free, though not without consequence. When they get out of this, it's going to be a while before they try anything similar. He closes his eyes and thinks longingly of icepacks.

Just as he's thinking that they'll have to hope one of those tourists has a pocket knife to cut them free, the hammock's tortured bindings unravel and give way with a snap, and the two of them find themselves scrabbling on the sand like large pink spiders, grabbing at palm fronds with which to cover themselves. Lara considers making a dash for the sea and immersing herself up to the neck in water.

The abrupt removal of their weight has made the supporting palms shudder violently, and the reverberations shake loose the largest coconut of all. It drops, with cruel inevitability, onto Kurtis' head, connecting hard before landing in two neat halves beside him on the sand.

"Dinner!" says Lara brightly, pointing at it, but then another use occurs to her.

The tourists' surprise can only be imagined when, on arriving a few minutes later, they find a man and a woman sitting side by side beneath the mangled remains of a hammock, wearing fixed smiles and swimwear that appears to be made from strategically-placed coconut halves. To say that the party moves on quickly would be an understatement.

"Some reunion this turned out to be," mutters Kurtis, one hand massaging his skull, the other protectively holding his coconut shell in place somewhere lower down. Lara, for her part, wonders if she'll ever be able to prise those things off her chest. Meanwhile, the magnificent specimen of pisces nephilus does a few jubilant victory laps of its pool, and a little way down the beach the small boy clutches his sides in helpless laughter.

And now, gentle reader, I bid you adieu. Don't try this at home!

Don't try it on holiday either. In fact, don't try it anywhere. Seriously, it just isn't worth it.