Bring Me An Apple With No Worms

AFTER ATTENDING A BRIEF WRITER'S WORKSHOP and reading and presenting several stories and poems, I got a letter from the cute female instructor. "I feel there is something lurking deeper behind your words than fornication, defecation, and masturbation. The class is quite taken with you. The plump young lady that writes about her chiropractor performing the Harley-Davidson kick start maneuver on her sacroiliac is obsessed with you. The old grandma that keeps bringing you vagina shaped cookies is crazy for you. The gay guy can't remove his eyes from your well endowed crotch. You have blown my mind with your work and persona. I wake up at night and have to reach for Mr. Buzzy while fantasizing about you. The community center has agreed to fund an anthology of our collective writing. Would you agree to be editor?" I wrote back in the affirmative with a dinner invitation. One thing leads to another, happily I might add. Later I submitted some poems about having sex with gay zombie dogs; I felt I wasn't the proper judge of my own work.

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