Myrtle Beach
Ah yes, Myrtle Beach SC. The Redneck Riviera.

In the late 70s my parents purchased a condo as a rental property with some friends of theirs. As it turned out to be a good money maker, they bought several more of them as well. Part of the thought of this was that the owners are allowed two weeks per year usage without it being taxed as a vacation home, so now my parents had these places to go to for free. The only catch? We had to go off-season, which meant going to the beach in February or March. Which meant cold, blustery days spent either sitting around with the folks or freezing my arse off outside. Really nice when you're a teenager.

As there were no bikini babes on the beach, I had to find other ways of entertaining myself. Generally I spent a lot of hours wandering the beach- and once, when I was over 18, I walked about ten miles down the beach, found a store and got a bunch of beer and carried it back with me, drinking as I went, until I was reasonably pissed by the time I got home.

So one night after dinner I went out for a nighttime walk and found a nice little bonfire with people from about 16 to 23 standing around it, bullshitting away. I wandered up and joined the group, and ended up sitting next to a pretty little blonde. A couple of hours later said blonde and I went for a walk along the beach, carrying along the blanket she had been sitting on.

Yes, that was the night I lost the V-plates.

By the time I got home it was about 3:00 am, and my head was swimming with happiness and hormones. As I neared the condo, I found my parents out on the beach looking for me- and got the bollocking of my lifetime up to that point. They had been looking for me for hours, not finding me anywhere, seeing only a couple off on a sand dune. Which meant that they had seen my butt, bobbing up and down with a pair of ankles wrapped around my waist, and had no idea of what they had just seen.

To this day Mom tells the story of how I was gone until the wee hours and worried her half to death. And no, I haven't told her what was going on as she was stewing that night. But if she tells that story one more time, I just may. Hell, she's almost eighty- she's old enough to hear such stories now.

What do you think- should I utterly blue-screen her with this little revelation?
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:54, Reply)