Warning: You might think this is a little gross.

I spent a lot of time outdoors in the woods this past weekend, and only discovered Monday night the wealth of bug bites this had bestowed upon me. Naturally, they were all in (shall we say) a couple of delicate, sensitive and well-covered areas. Like right under my socks.

“Ah,” I thought, “bug bites. Fortunately I don’t scratch bug bites, because I have willpower!”

I believed that, too. What I didn’t count on was all the walking and bicycling and shoe-wearing I get to do in the summer, and the fact that I have to dress up for work now. By the time I got home last night, I was no longer mentally fit to stand trial. Black socks get hot, and they chafe.

At last, I tore off the beastly things and went at my ankles like a crazed badger. It was glorious, ecstatic, full-body pleasure; it was sex with a thousand Claires. I have no regrets.

I’m paying for it now, of course, but I have willpower again. I know I can resist. And most importantly, today I’m wearing white socks.