People have normal ways of reacting to things. Burn your hand? Move your hand. Trip over something? Regain your balance. Getting stung in the ass by a bee? Stop the bee from stinging.
Only when I'm in social situations, I don't react normally. Especially when I was younger, the trauma of simply interacting with a stranger was enough to put me into panic. Throw some complicating factor into the mix, and chaos would ensue.
One of these looming venues of awkward social chaos was the bank. Dealing with the tellers, giving them the deposit slip, and standing there was all too much for me, yet my mother decided to force me into such situations so that I would get used to it.
When I was twelve, the bee incident occurred.
Nervously I approached the teller, determined to carry out my task as painlessly as possible. As I inched the papers across the counter under the safety glass divider, I felt an odd sensation in the general butt region of my pants. A crawling sensation, if you will. And suddenly a stinging feeling. I stood there, focusing on the countertop with all my might, struggling to stand still while my butt was being systematically ravaged by some unknown intruder.
“For deposit?” The teller asked, yet to notice that her latest customer was completely incapable of normal bank procedure. I didn’t answer, and clenched my jaw as I felt the stinging get worse.
The crawling continued. I felt another sting on my other butt cheek. I remained frozen, determined to complete the deposit I had come here for.
“Do you want a receipt?” the teller asked me cheerily, flipping her blonde hair out of her face. She leaned forward, squinting her eyes for a moment, staring at me as I looked up at her astonished, struggling to focus on the task at hand, my face getting even more red than before. I had completely forgotten about this part of the procedure. Do I want a receipt? Wait. Do I have to talk now?
Might as well keep it positive. “Y--yes,” I said, looking down immediately, and just as quickly regretting my decision to have to stand there longer as the crawling had moved to an area somewhere around my butt crack, and I felt another sharp pain. I resolved to stand there until I got the receipt though, determined to complete my normal-person task with as much normal-person poise as I could muster.
It seemed that my pants invader was working hard on a very low tramp stamp, stinging me several more times right above my crack.
“Here you go!” the teller said as she gave me my receipt. With a shaking hand I grabbed it, and made my move for the door. As soon as I got to the sidewalk, I reached behind me and folded down the back of my pants. Out flew the bee, triumphant. The ass battle had been won. Along with a temporary inability to sit, I gained the realization that my ass could withstand far more trauma than my social self could.