Sex, or the lack of it, the continuing saga! Winter-1972
Winter-1972
I just pulled off Hwy 1 at, Ft. Pierce, into a beachside park; after a 1,200-mile motor trip from Illinois, just 100 yards from the breaking waves. The only thing separating me from the water was an expanse of sand dune and grass. I kicked of my tennies, was already wearing cut-offs, peeled off my shirt and commenced running across that expanse towards the water. Halfway across I was experiencing excruciating pains below my knees, stopped and looked down at my legs. The bottoms of my feet were covered with a thistle native to Florida called, of all things, sandspurs. On top of them and covering my calves, solid all the way up to my knees, were another Florida native, fire ants. In a split second I realized I was in trouble, with an equal distance to run to the rear from whence I came, or forward toward the water. I chose the water. In the surf I rinsed off the ants, picked off the spurs and washed-out the cut-offs, which I removed in route to the water. To this day I have scars half way up my calves and wage battle against those two pests whenever I encounter them. Years later, as I was house hunting, I had a similar experience with fleas, of all things.
What did this have to do with sex?
Nothing, by the time all the bronzed beauties I was trying to impress saw my lily-white-no-tan-line-butt be made a fool of by sandspurs and fire ants! D'oh!
~me~