On a sales assignment in Arkansas, he struck up a conversation with a young lady in a bar.
After a half dozen drinks, he suggested they get their own bottle and retire to his motel room, and she readily agreed.
“Say, how old are you anyway?” he asked as the obviously young lass was disrobing.
“Thirteen,” she replied with a shy smile.
“Thirteen??? My God, girl! You get those clothes back on at once at get the hell outta here! Are you crazy?” he thundered.
Pausing briefly at the door, the perplexed nymphet smiled and asked, “What, are you superstitious?”