Thighs FlambeIncendiary (adj.) 1. combustible, flammable, burnable, ignitable.
Yes, that pretty well describes my thighs all too many times as a child. In the southern states, where I grew up, shorts and short sleeves are the dress code much of the year. Growing up a military brat and having cheap (yes I said it, CHEAP!) parents, most all of my sister's and my summer clothes were either hand-me-downs, cut-off's or charitable gifts from friends. Often they were threadbare and too tight. My mom always told us she was saving for us to have nice school clothes. In her defense we were all active, outdoors kids who were really hard on clothes and, in fact, we usually had nice school clothes (which we were promptly ordered out of as soon as we came home from school).
So getting more to the point, our bare thighs were invariably exposed and vulnerable to assault much of the year, which my mother in particular, took full advantage of. Don't get me wrong, when we were bad....like breaking rules, disobeying, coming home late....a stern lecture in the privacy of our bedroom followed up with a long, hard bare bottom spanking usually awaited us. What I'm talking about here are those times when we didn't do anything really bad.....It was just that my mom was in a foul mood, someone had already ticked her off about something else and she lost patience.
I've read on EP several times about how their mom never spanked in anger. I can assure you that was never the case in our home. When mom was angry someone usually got hit. She was not abusive, nor did she scream or loose control and go psychotic. She would just quickly grab us, throw us over the arm of the sofa, across our beds or over a chair and slap the living crap out of our thighs.
Believe me, it didn't take long and our thighs had angry bright red hand prints and finger marks all over them. And it didn't matter if it was the front or the back of our thighs either. My mom wasn't discriminatory.
A vivid recollection I will share to illustrate my point happened when I was 10 or 11 in the car. We were going to my aunt's house an hour away from home and dad was driving. Us 3 girls were in the back seat, with me, being the middle kid, in the middle. We were bickering and mom had told us to stop. I don't think she as all too happy to be going anyway because she didn't really like my aunt. Anyway, when she said something to us again, I gave her one of my usual smart-*** remarks that so often resulted in my bottom resembling the brake lights on our car. Mom unbuckled her seat belt and I knew I was in for it. She turned around and leaned over the seat and grabbed my arms with one hand and began slapping the tops of my legs into an inferno with the other. It didn't take long for her to do an exceptional job that also made an example, for my sisters to see, of what happened to smart-mouthed bratty little girls. Needless to say the remainder of the trip was made in silence, at least in the back seat. Thru tear flooded eyes I spent that time looking down at my incendiary thighs. They burned like crazy and were flaming red. I could see mom's finger marks all over my legs. When she turned back around in the seat I was crying loudly. In a controlled but angry voice I remember her telling me, "Gretchen Lynn, if you don't stop crying I'm going to have your dad pull this car over and I'll give you something to cry about."