When you're living with your parents, scoring becomes a panicked, uncomfortable scramble based more on opportunity than that loving feeling. If you can snag the keys, parking your parents Hyundai Sonata outside a Wal-Mart and turning that spacious backseat into a mobile love shack is a common workaround. But if you don't have a car, you're stuck trying to get to second base in the outfield of a softball field after dark.

Parks are a cesspool of middle school aged kids smacking braces in the bleachers who, later, grow up to be shameless voyeurs, pounding uglies behind the rash-inducing cloak of a poisonous ficus.