When she was in high school, my daughter had a T-shirt that read: “Our lifestyle is their vacation.”

Ah, the smug joy of living in a resort town.

It's true, though. While tourists spend thousands of dollars to drop in for a week or two, we have the salt air, the boardwalk and the laid-back vibe year round. 

There are drawbacks to life in a tourist area, though. Especially in the summer.

Still, I don’t complain a whole lot about retrieving burger bags from my lawn, fishing beer bottles out of my bushes or people blocking my car on the 4th of July (actually, I DO gripe about that). 

Listening to the waves when I crawl into bed at night is worth it.

After 27 years on the same Virginia Beach street I thought I’d seen it all: dirty diapers, drunks and drug deals.

I was wrong.

Saturday night, at 7:45, as we settled in for an exciting evening of the College World Series, something in front of my house caught my eye.

A flash of white flesh from the back seat of a black Honda sedan.

People changing out of their suits, I figured. Happens all the time. Most people use beach towels for terry-cloth modesty. Who cares? Nothing's worse than driving home from the beach in a soggy bathing suit.

I glanced again and saw this was two people. Thirtyish. They were out of their suits, all right. And copulating in the back seat. 

Classy.

The sun doesn’t set until 8:25 p.m. this time of year in Virginia Beach, located at 36.8529° N, 75.9780° W, which means they were having backseat sex in broad daylight, in a residential neighborhood lined with sidewalks that families use to lug their beach paraphernalia and where kids ride their bikes.

He had reddish-blond hair. She had brown. Both were sunburned. He was tall and lanky, she was kind of chubby. And no, I don’t care that I'm fat-shaming. Bare your butt in front of my house, I’m gonna judge it. Hers was the size of a midwestern state.

Later, guessing they probably didn’t have a gun and that even if they did, they couldn’t have gotten to it fast enough to shoot me, I thought of all the things I should have done to cause car coitus interruptus.

I could have gone out with my camera, shot a close-up and pounded on the window.

I could have sprayed the car with my garden hose.

I could have grabbed my kayak whistle, snuck up and blasted them with an ear-splitting wake-up call.

But on this night I was on my second cocktail and ready to watch baseball, not porn. I wanted their lewd asses arrested, dammit.

Sadly, the cops didn’t arrive in time to see the live sex show. I saw a desultory squad car pass after the Honda horndog had already pulled on his shorts and his backseat baby was madly tossing on her clothes. 

They got away with it. This once. Next time, I'll be ready.