Not lady part lice, you sickos — real crabs. Ocean crabs. The kind you mix with cream cheese and make rangoons out of.
Though, to be fair, the ocean crabs I’ve got are probably more like the other kind of crab, considering I keep finding them cozied up in my secret regions and whateva.
The past couple of times I’ve gotten out of the ocean, I’ve felt a prickling on mah boobs, peeked under my bathing suit top, and found four to five newborn crabs posted up on my lady lumps.
I’ve found bugs, dead fish, and live fish in my bathing suit, but before a week ago, I’d never found crabs. Still, I didn’t think they were that bad. Unwelcome, yes, but innocent enough. They were tiny newborn baby crabs, after all! What harm could they do!?
Turns out, when you’re swimming with your married man neighbor, kind of a lot.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned my super nice neighbor, Jay, and his super nice wife, Dee. Jay and I have recently begun triathlon training together. Most evenings after he gets home from work, I’ll run over to ask Dee if he can come out and play. Then, after she says “Hellz yes,” Jay and I will go off on a bike ride or a swim. I know it might sound weird, but I swear it’s as innocent as the little baby crabs I keep finding in my bathing suit. Innocent, anyway, until I inadvertently flashed him my goodies.
Last night, after we finished our bike ride, Jay and I decided to go down to the beach and get some swimming in. We planned to swim out to one sailboat, over to another, and then back in.
About halfway out to the first sailboat, I felt the familiar prickle around my boobal region and knew I was playing host to some crabby guests. A few strokes later and I felt them around my bootal region. A few strokes after that, and I felt them all over my body. Scared if I kept swimming they’d crawl into my earholies, I stopped. And started flailing and shouting and pulling down my bathing suit all over da damn place.
Jay, who hadn’t felt any crabs, thought I’d stopped because something really bad had happened. He looked so horrified I was afraid I’d given him a heart attack. Then I looked down, saw my glow-in-the-dark booble, and realized the only thing I was giving him was a show.
I had about 200 tiny crabs crawling in my bathing suit, stuck in my hair, pinching my arms, and creeping into my mouth; I didn’t really care if Jay saw scary parts of my body. In fact, I flailed all the way into shore, half-naked, screaming, and completely shameless.
At least until later that night when Jay’s wife directed an oddly accusatory statement at me. It was about peeling the plastic wrappers off hot dogs.
“You sure you don’t want a hot dog, Allie? Jay’s got a really delicious hot dog for ya. You’ve just got to peel the plastic off it, though. It’s exactly like peeling off a… well, you know what I mean, don’t you? Don’t you, you little asshole?”