Sexual Revolution, South Padre Style

Having arrived finally at the Southern most point on the Texas coast, Trixie and I have been able to enjoy some warmer temps. South Padre Island is a paradise of sorts with unlimited fishing opportunities and other amenities.

If you have ever been to the beach you know about the good and sometimes bad displays of flesh that can occur there. Normally shy and reserved folk suddenly are transformed into exhibitionist.

Now Ol' Dutch ain’t one to complain about the younger models displaying copious amounts of womanly flesh but maybe there needs to be some form of policing based on square inches shown. Just like the requirement during hunting season for 500 minimum square inches of hunter orange.

This would allow eye pleasing displays to continue and limit the shock and awe from displays of aging flesh.

Spring Break also sprung while we were here and of course there were loads of well-lubricated youngsters showing off whatever it is they have. This included one girl who thought it necessary to display her upper womanhood to us as we drove side by side across the bridge to the island. I am now in counseling trying to figure out what all those piercings are for and Trixie is still trying to wipe the perpetual grin off my face.

This all got me to thinking about how things have changed through the years as far as sexuality and the openness to it we now find.

When I was just a kid growing up we played a game called “kick the can” which involved placing an empty can in the middle of the street and one person guarding it against others who hid in the shadows.

My first real upfront experience with anything of the female persuasion came about at this time. I was running full tilt in the pitch black of a dark moon through Mrs. Bondurant’s backyard and ran smack dab into a clothesline full of ladies undergarments , what my Grandma said were “unmentionables.”

Her copious brassiere wrapped itself around my head and her girdle was somehow connected to my sweatshirt. I ran away from the scene of the crime like Ichabod Crane from the headless horseman and right into the middle of the street. I’m still in therapy for that night.

Alas, this wasn’t Dutch's only run in with women's lingerie either. My ex-wife had a habit of dropping her clothes in the middle of the floor when she went to bed at night.

Answering nature’s call one night about 2 a.m., Ol' Dutch somehow got his feet tangled in the straps of her dainties. One foot in each shoulder harness I raced across the floor in motions reminiscent of a three legged sack race but mine ended when I ran head first into the door.


Howling with pain I awoke the trap setter who applied large amounts of mirth to an otherwise unsettling experience. This gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “booby trap.”

Trixie has finally cleared up the line between exposure and fashion for me and all males. She says that no matter how small the material covering or not covering a persons behind or befront, it’s the thickness of the material that makes it legal. All that stands between the frolicking beach folks and jail time is just one strip of thicker material. And that is supposed to make me feel better?

Things sure have changed and now we no longer need to look through the pages of the Sears Roebuck catalog to find out about the opposite sex but can simply visit a beach, the bank or our local Wal-Mart to see it all. And all this time I thought the old men sat at the exit benches just waiting on their wives.