WICKED MAID CHURNING BUTTER (AFTER MR. ELKIN)

Even as a bear, I was unpopular. But I had no choice. I’d already made the change over, so I had to live with it. As a human, I was a disaster. No better or worse than the average fellow, you might say. No, say I was the worst. Please say it. And I thought being a bear would bring me luck, affection, and, most importantly, more food—perhaps, when by a river, a 10-pound salmon. What was once financially out of my reach at the supermarket would now be a claw’s grab away. With some practice and a little inner fortitude I could do that. After my operation, I rumbled straight to the beautiful Sequoias of California, and the second I arrived I had sex with the biggest, hairiest bitch-bear the world has ever known—hear me out on this—she took my paw in her paw and jammed it between her legs. Once inside, she plunged it around like a wicked maid churning butter. Yes, my arm ached, but oh … and after it was over, after we kissed and banged noses, I gingerly pulled my arm out of her crotch and lifted it into the air to see dripping from my sopping limb a glistening blur of uterine juices. Then, of course, we did other things, things only a heart should know. I’m not bashful, I’m a bear; I always will be. My hearing’s improved. I have not changed my name, I am forever Benjy, remember me? the stupid lonely jerk—sad and smelly, but at least I fucked a bear, what have you done?