The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

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Those of you who have read my initial memoirs and followed with me the vagaries of erotic inconstancy which was my lot to observe at the seminary of St. Thaddeus remember with what a dismal mood I took my leave of that illustrious institution, having observed at first hand (or, more accurately, first-skin) the orgiastic behavior which imbued seemingly each of the members of that holy order as regards conduct towards young, hapless maidens.

And so when I found myself outside of that edifice which had housed so many scenes of carnal ardor, I let myself be wafted by a gentle southerly wind which took me to the memorable little village in Provence. As I had always wished to see France, I welcomed this fortuitous disposition of the elements and was content to settle in that charming hamlet which is so appropriately named Languecuisse. (The name itself suggests romantic physical encounters, since in translation from the French it means ‘Tongue Thigh.’) At Languecuisse, as those of you who have read the second volume of my autobiography are doubtless aware, I sought the opportunity to relax in this bucolic setting, where grapes were trodden out by the bare feet of entrancing young girls and women on whom the Gallic sun had smiled – and with good reason. I found that a kind of primal and yet enduring joy was fostered by an atmosphere of which wine-yielding grapes were harvested and laborers tilled the soil in expectation of their just reward. There were amorous frolics which I espied in my flea's way, and which, after the almost inevitable monotony of captivity in that English seminary, I looked upon with a less jaundiced eye.

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