In the wake of a severe bout of turbulence the person sitting next to you on a plane usually becomes slightly more animated, even flirtatious. Why is that? Simple: the threat of imminent death arouses your adrenal gland and you start feeling horny. It’s the physiological reaction known as the fight, flight, or fuck response. Chances are that when your plane’s going down, someone will be going down on you and the rest of the passengers will be going at it like rabbits. So, with this idea in mind, why not consider for you next holiday a trip into the danger zone and double your pleasure?

If you’ve ever wanted to experience an Intifada in your loins, or throw some rocks and then get them off, perhaps it’s high time you considered the Gaza Strip as a potential holiday destination. Few realise that the actual name of the territory derives not from its geographical shape but from the most favoured pastime of its inhabitants. And who can blame them. In terms of recreation there isn’t a whole lot to do. Well, apart from having sex that is –the average Gazan woman bears six children during her lifetime, a pretty good strike rate. With at least thirty percent of the male population aged between fifteen and twenty-nine a girl could do a lot worse than top up her tan on Rafah beach. In demographic parlance, Gaza suffers from a phenomenon known as ‘youth bulge’, so the likelihood of being penetrated by a young Palestinian man’s missile is high. If you’re feeling especially horny, why not spice things up further and dress overtly provocatively, perhaps a Donna Karen kippah coupled with Jimmy Choo slingbacks. There is absolutely no shame in wanting to act out a kidnap fantasy. After all, you haven’t experienced true love until you’ve experienced Stockholm syndrome.

Visiting conflict zones in search of sexual exhilaration is not as outlandish as you might think. Take for instance the recent death of David Carradine, star of the 1970s television series, Kung Fu. Discovered hanging in a Bangkok hotel wardrobe with his crown jewels and throat tethered together by an electrical cable, Mr. Carradine’s death was widely reported as misadventure. An initial appraisal of the scene certainly lends weight to the prima facie evidence that he had a penchant for asphyxiphilia. Much less widely reported, however, was the fact that broadsheet newspapers were strewn throughout his room, a shortwave radio was tuned to the BBC World Service and his television was flickering with the imagery of a Southeast Asian news channel. No, Mr. Carradine did not opt for autoerotic asphyxiation to heighten his orgasm; he got his sexual kicks from the rolling news coverage of Thailand’s imminent descent into social anarchy. If you haven’t already experienced it there is something deliciously craven about engaging in a sex act during a coup d’état. Even the word itself carries with it a vaguely erotic connotation. Realistically though, given the economic climate, a junket to Thailand will probably be an unjustifiable financial extravagance, so why not consider staying in a local Travelodge. Check in, make yourself a cup of tea, tune into Sky news and indulge in some breath control play with the Corby Trouser Press.

The urge for illicit copulation in conflict zones can arguably be traced back to the Viking invasion of East Anglia in 865 AD. Upon hearing rumours of Norse incursions along the eastern seaboard, hundreds of downtrodden wenches throughout Mercia began to cajole their fat, hairy, Anglo-Saxon spouses into moving toward the coast: “Oh, it’s a lovely place to bring up junior,” they would argue. “The fresh air will do wonders for our scrofula,” they would plead. The real reason of course was that they longed to be raped and pillaged by strapping Scandinavians called Erik. No coincidence, then, that by 1016 AD the Viking leader who ostensibly ruled England went by the name of King Cnut.

If visiting a conflict zone seems a tad too dangerous, why not plan an excursion to one of Mother Nature’s hottest erogenous zones: that awesome nubbin of nature, the volcano. There has only been one volcanic eruption on mainland Europe within the last hundred years, Mount Vesuvius. It’s due. another. Located in Southern Italy it razed Pompeii to the ground during the summer of 79. Despite the obvious threat it posed, the citizens of Pompeii were clearly enamoured by it, of that there is little doubt. While excavating the ruined city, eighteenth century archaeologists encountered an inordinate amount of phallic symbology. There were images of cock everywhere; cocks on walls, cocks on floors, cocks on pavements; cocks used as door handles, cock-shaped coat hangers, cocks on clocks. When asked the time of day most Pompeians would check their sundial and invariably reply: “ten past cock”. It is rumoured that even today, during quiet summer evenings, just as the sun sinks behind ancient Herculaneum and warm siroccos from North Africa meander lazily through the ruined streets, ghostly voices from distraught Pompeian children can still be heard crying: “Mentula, mater, adest non deficiente moreto.”

Roughly translated: “Oh no Mummy, not cock and salad again”. In fact, Pompeii had so much cockage on show that even Priapus would have blushed. Experts in Roman cockology have yet to reach consensus as to why the citizens were so fixated with the phallus. Some claim it was good luck charm, others a decorative or functional feature. The obsession could, arguably, stem from the fact that there was a fucking great big volcano looming over them and that they should reproduce as often as possible.

If the thought of being covered by an ejaculation of hot magma from a 4000 foot bulbous cone turns you on, but the thought of visiting Berlusconi’s Italy turns off, try Java or Hawaii. And although admittedly slightly off the beaten track, future generations might visit the Jovian moon of Io, the most volcanic body in the solar system.

Pompeii had been devastated by a huge earthquake a few years prior to Vesuvius blowing its top and just like volcanoes, earthquakes have the potential to send your libido level off the Dichter scale. The geographical metaphor of an enormous crack opening up beneath you should be enough to create a seismic event and grind your tectonic plates together. Given that geophysicists predict more than a ninety-nine percent chance of California experiencing a magnitude 6.7 or higher quake within the next thirty years, the west coast of America represents your best chance to experience ‘the big one’. Love-making during, or soon after, a serious quake will also afford you the one legitimate opportunity to ask your partner the most clichéd post-coital question in history: “So, did the earth move for you?”