Yes, folks, another tale of debauchery brought to you by LiLu's TMI Thursdays, and the letter U.
U is for uncomfortable, which is how you're going to feel after reading this. Enjoy!
When I was a wee lassie of about 17 I had my first serious boyfriend. I'd dated other boys before, naturally, but this son of a preacher man was the one with whom I went all the way... and we went all the way every chance we got.
Since we both lived with rather strict and annoyingly-present parental units, we used to go all the way outside pretty frequently during the warmer months. Hey, it was northern Vermont - there were lots of secluded spots in which to boink! Once the temperatures dropped we took to the shelter of our cars, which is yet another reason I plan to be a bitchy mom who never lets my sons borrow my car.
Screw teen spirit! Why does my car smell like sex?!
One time in late summer/early fall, we went to one of our favorite au naturale spots and started getting our freak on.
(cue Barry White)
A day or two later, I started to itch. Not just a little "Ooh, I have a little tickle; I think I'll scratch it and feel relief" kind of itch either... it was a claw at your skin like the town crazy on acid level of scratching. Soon enough, raised red splotches and spots appeared all over, but the majority of them were on my derriere, back, and the backs of my thighs.
I sat there in study hall, scratch-scratch-scratching away at my own ass, wondering what in the name of Judas Priest I had gotten into. A quick check-in with the BF confirmed that yes, he was also itchy and blotchy, but his problem areas were his hands, arms, and... erm, knees.
"FRACK FRACK FRACKIN' FRACK!" We exclaimed.
It was Poison Ivy. Before the end of the week it was EVERYWHERE, and we were miserable sinners who had sinned and now were roasting in the fiery bowels of Hell on Earth.
Ok, maybe that's a touch dramatic, but you get the idea: it sucked.
I remember coating myself in calamine lotion and praying my parents didn't find out. My parents are great people, but talking about doing the nasty and any resulting rashes is just NOT something I felt like discussing at the dinner table. Ever.
Thankfully, within a week the ailment had faded and all that was left were pale pink spots to remind me that I was a fool and an idiot and I deserved every blemish.
Oh, and next time, bring a blanket. ;)