Normally I don’t get many bug bites, but this summer is the exception. One grew so large it had its own zip code. People started using it for target practice. Then in the course of one day I got five bites, all located on my upper, upper thigh. It’s not bad having bites on that part of your body, if you’re home and have to scratch, as you can do so with abandon. It’s a different story when you’re in public; if you go to town scratching people will think your a pervert. The following is an example.

I was talking to someone and mid-conversation I realized my anti-itch cream had worn off. All five bites were clamoring to be scratched. I tried to ignore it. I leaned in close and stared deep into his eyes, hoping that would take my mind off the itch. It didn’t work. He thought I was flirting.

I started rubbing my legs together, discreetly, hoping to alleviate the itch. It didn’t work. He asked if I needed to use the bathroom. I held my umbrella in front of me, thinking I’ll get the protection needed to scratch and not be seen. It didn’t work. The umbrella opened and hit him in the stomach. I had no idea he possessed such a large vocabulary for foul language. I wanted him to walk away from me so I could scratch to my hearts content.

We walk to my car. I get in and we said, “Goodbye.” I sat behind the wheel and did a quick look around to make sure I was alone. I scratched. Relief! My zealous scratching is accompanied by sighs of pleasure; sighs that unknown to me, are heard by him, as he’s standing next to my open window. He returned to give me back my umbrella he snatched so I wouldn’t cause any additional harm. The look on his face conveyed he thought I was a pervert. I tried to explain to him, but it didn’t work. He ran off. And with my shorts rolled up it was hard to catch him.

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