Don't Make Me Blush!

I recently told this story at Chris’ apartment; excuse me if you’ve heard it before.

I was, for a brief time, a Girl Scout. And before that, for an equally brief time, I was a Brownie. In my one year of Browniedom we had a big ol’ Girl Scout convention in the Shenandoah Valley and my mother, wonderful as she was, came along with us as a chaperon/craft instructor.

Since we were fourth graders and had never camped out before, we stayed in the lodge – girls on the floor, moms on cots. Fifteen minutes after lying down we figured all the quiet “old” people must be asleep on account of being really old and stuff. My friend Emily began telling a saucy campfire story which started with, “A man went to doctor because he had a red ring around his dick.”

I gulped. My mom, though undoubtedly fast asleep on account of the decrepitude (I was 11, I thought 43 was old), was lying just feet away from our huddled pre-adolescent mass – dangerously close to the utterance of words that also mean “penis.” So I offer…

“Um, how about you use the word ‘hotdog’?”

Emily sighs under the weight of my squareness, “Fine, there was a man who went to the doctor because he had a red ring around his hotdog.”

She looks at me, I nod, she continues on to a punch line that I won’t understand for, umm, probably five years. The ring around said hotdog is cleared up by a little lipstick remover! (Note: In eight grade, a friend would claim to know someone whod had oral sex…I think she is talking about “talking dirty” because oral = mouth, mouth = talk…transitive property…)