Stuck at the WB with "Poets & Writers"

I’m stuck in Whataburger and I don’t want to be.  Rain from Tropical Storm Hermine is slashing out of the sky.  As much as I don’t want to be in the WB, even more of me doesn’t want to get soaked to the bone, as my grandmother would have said, running to my car. I don’t want to be at the WB because I think I may have just written the opening of my book-after-next (meaning the book to be written after I write my secon
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Swinging at the WB

I’m sitting in Whataburger trying to work on my sex book.  I’m editing a chapter in which I meet swingers – lifestylers, partner-swappers – through Craigslist.  But I’m having trouble concentrating because there’s a lifestyle group meeting in my neighborhood this weekend.  Part of me, a large part of me, wants to be at their party watching and reporting.  Since I can’t, since I need to write rather than report, I cam
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Mixed Emotions. Then What?

I saw something the other day that caused mixed emotions in me.  It was a hardback book, spread-eagle in the middle of the parkway, its pages flapping in the wind as cars drove over it.  Now the cars weren’t smashing it with their tires, thank God.  They were straddling it.  (Yes, I know, there are lots of sex puns there.  They’re not intended.) My mixed emotions came from the fact that I was so thrilled that someone
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"Sex. Sex. Sex, right, sex."

Some people have to force themselves to not think about sex. I have to force myself to think about sex.
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Right now I’m struggling to write this because I’m sitting in Whataburger. Let me back up.
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