Butterflies and teenagers

Monarchs don't give a shit who watches.

There she was, body all contorted, eggs pushed out of her body, missionary position. He was manically crawling on top of her, flapping his orange and black wings, his butterfly hips thrusting but missing the mark, like a drunk, body-painted frat boy on an episode of MTVs Spring Break.

They were right in the middle of the garden. They didn't even find a milkweed bush or stand of lavender to hide within. My friend P. and I squatted over them, watching their Discovery Channel antics making crude remarks and trying to reproduce porn movie music with our laughing mouths. Bow chicka bow bow. 

A little boy with a plastic box came wandering down the path. We giggled. "I'm looking for fig beetles." he said very matter of factly. "Hey, look! Monarchs! I've never held a Monarch!" He reached down. P. and I tried to stop him but he was determined. "Is that one OK?" he asked, pointing to the one on the bottom. "Yeah, she's just resting." I said. What was I supposed to say? I didn't know this kid or his mom or how much he knew about "the birds and the bees." Or butterflies in this case.

He shoveled both of them into his outstretched hand. "I think they're making babies," he said, cradling the conjugating couple. I burst out laughing and P. said under his breath, "Yeah, and now he has blue balls. They're pissed!" 

That's what you get for doing it in the middle of the farm. 

When I was in high school my friends and I would pile into my family's trusty Mercury Sable and head for the border. Straight to Revolucion we would go, laughing when the bouncers would sit us on their laps or try to kiss us, brushing past the boys waiting in line. Beers in hand, lights flashing to the rhythm of blasting dance music, we would climb onto boxes and poles and stages and into sweaty pits of underage testosterone. We wore short shorts and colorful clingy tops, arms spreading like wings as we shook adolescent hips. We'd rub up against the boys as we danced, engaging in behavior forbidden anywhere else but on those dirty dance floors. We were returning to our roots, young butterflies that we were.

Teenagers don't give a shit who watches.

Often we would piss the boys off, running away from their bulging pants. Not willing to finish what they say we started. 

That's what you get for trying to get some on a Tijuana dance floor.  

(cue Discovery Channel song)