Pile on the Honey

If you are related to me in any way you May Not read past this point. Take the day off (you've earned it).

Last week I started a series called "Oh, Those Summer Nights," featuring "adult" stories for husbands to share with wives, wives to share with husbands (and only for single people if they were scared they were about to succumb to temptation and sin).

The response has been much larger than expected. Several people have asked if I am keeping the people who send me stories anonymous. Yes, I am. I am telling no one, and that means NO ONE.

As an offshoot of that, I've had more than a few queries as to who wrote these stories; amateur sleuths trying to figure it out. Because I'm keeping things anonymous I've neither confirmed nor denied authorship, which I'm sure has spawned a thousand rumors. To those people let me say this: I am not telling you who wrote what, even if you happen to guess. So don't try. Just enjoy the stories if they are your cup of tea, and be grateful I'm providing this service.

And on that note, it's time for the second installment. Today's story is a tad more adult than last week's, but that doesn't seem to bother many of you. Anyway, enjoy the sweetness of HONEY.


I was going to write a movie review of BRICK or a column on world affairs, but pain has left me unable to concentrate. About the only thing I've been able to write about coherently are people that anger me. So, I'm starting a new tradition: consigning people to The Pile. Of course, upset as I am, I had to put it on Hyperion X, but if you need some righteous anger, go visit The Pile, and see if you belong. (And when you're done, check out the HyperionX Table of Contents, for all your goat-sacrificing needs.)

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