You, 

My mother caught me jazzercising naked again.  She walked into my dojo mid brow-kick and saw my exposed anus.  I confronted her later to verify what she saw and it was, in fact, my anus, bitter and slightly parted from the strain of the kick.  I sacrifice endlessly for my physique.  I only hope my sacrifices yield the desired reward, vis-à-vis your vaginal expanse.  I want to grasp a brick in one hand, and your warm shapely breast in the other.  I want to weigh your breast – I want to know its weight.  I want to know the weight of your breast and use that number as the missing value in the algorithm which defines the scope of my love for you.  One day I know we will live together in a vast chateau.  We will spend long evenings – into the twilight of our years – chasing one another through the promenade adjacent to the veranda and along the many corridors of our proud domicile.  As we run, I will find myself stumbling under the weight of my erection for you. 

I hope you like the photo I have enclosed with this letter.  It was taken at Ian’s Bar Mitzvah – I had a belly full of wantons at the time. 

Yours,

Kim Ratner  (From Kleen Start Laundry Mat - we exchanged stares last Tuesday, it had just rained.  I hope to give you a sensual piggy back ride.  Look for me by the condom dispenser.)

P.S.  Do you use maxi-pads?  I’ve heard they are worse for you than douching.

Basil Boyer