This post has no timely relevance at all; it’s just an old anecdote. When I was about 7 or 8, my family went to London to stay with my uncle, who was living there for a couple of years. One of the days we were there, my parents went to Bath and left us behind, saying this trip was just for adults. My imagination was immediately filled with all kinds of mysterious and arcane sexual practices that must be going on in Bath, to warrant a “just for adults” rating. And keep in mind, I was a very naive 7 or 8, so these imaginings were incredibly vague and therefore loomed even larger in the “sexual naughtiness” part of my brain than if I were capable of imagining specific practices.
Then in my mid-teens, I started reading trashy romance novels and also Jane Austen, learned what Bath actually was (just a resort town around some still-working Roman baths) and was forced to conclude that “just for adults” meant they thought it would bore my sister and me. Which was probably true, and heavily disappointing.