This is a Earth Day contest story. Please vote.

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An old, bag lady takes a liking to a man who has shown her kindness.

I'm the type of person who always reaches in my pocket to pass out spare change to homeless beggars. I don't think twice about it; I just do it. Not the best that I can do, it's the least that I can do. What is just loose change to me, may be life or death to them. Sensitive to their dilemma, I try and make the exchange as painless as possible. I can't imagine the horror, pain, and suffering of sleeping in a doorway or beneath a bridge can bring to someone who doesn't even have the warmth and comfort of a bed.

With many of these people having been physically and emotionally abused, even a homeless person doesn't like it if you make them feel bad about their situation. Scratch the surface and they'll erupt in a rage of anger and frustration with being alone without a home. Sometimes difficult to see the person beneath the rags and the dirt, it's sometimes hard to believe the curmudgeon standing before you has feelings, too. Nonetheless, hoping they'll use the money for food or a place to sleep, aside from the sometimes dangerous shelters they are forced to seek, maybe I'm naive in thinking that they won't use what little money they collect panhandling for something else, alcohol or drugs.

In all honesty, who could blame them if they did use what little money they collected to buy drugs and alcohol? After a while hopelessness overtakes their spirit and if a few dollars can bring them some peace and comfort for a few hours, I can understand why they'd want to have a liquid dinner, instead of being harassed in a Burger King, when just for once they wanted to have it their way. Nonetheless, feeling bad for their plight and how their lives have tragically turned out, there go I before God is what I think and the reason why I give my time by passing out meals at the shelter and donate my spare change, whenever I see someone in desperate need of help. Too many people pass by the homeless without giving them a thought, a second of their time, and so much as a dime. Thinking that could be me one day, homeless and on the street, just by a few unfortunate circumstances, I can't be that way.

"If I gave my money to homeless people, by the time I reached the end of the street, I'd be broke," is the reason I heard from a few people who don't give a dime or a second of their time for the homeless.

These are the same people who wouldn't part with a nickel, even if that was the only homeless person they came across. I've found in life that those who are stingy with their money and with their time are stingy with their affection and love. Give me someone who raves with the day and toasts to be broke, instead of someone who saves for tomorrow and hoards for the time when he or she will be all alone with his or her money.

"Why don't they just get a job?" I hear that a lot, too.

These are the same people who think that overweight people are lazy, all blondes are dumb, women are weak, and all minorities are no good. It's easier for them to put people in a box, categorize them, and close the lid on them rather than to deal with anyone who isn't just like them. If only they'd reach out, instead of turning their backs and closing their minds and their pocketbooks, maybe they'd truly help someone in real need and, if we all helped even just one person, we'd help to make the world a better place. Okay, this isn't the part where we all hold hands and sing "We Are The World." This is where we all do our part to eradicate hunger and homelessness. There's no excuse for it in America.

In the way so many people feel bad for a stray cat or dog by adopting a pet, those same people ignore the homeless. Tell me how someone can help an animal by adopting them and that same person not help a human. Is it easier to help an animal? Is it easier to give an animal a pat on the head and some food and water than it is to give a homeless person a kind word of encouragement and some spare change or a dollar? In that vein, I propose we adopt a homeless person.

"I read your Old Bag Lady Is A Recycling Witch story, Ralph, and I wanted you to know that I adopted this bum," said my friend George. "He sleeps in the doorway across from where I work and when I walk by him on my way to work and walk by him on my way home, I give him a dollar."

"That's very commendable of you, George."

"Only, the other day, when he thought no one was looking, I saw him duck around the corner and get in a new Cadillac."

"Well, that's certainly disparaging," I said feeling a bit chagrinned. "Yet, you can't discount all homeless people because one is a fake, a fraud, and a cheater."

"So, I'm just curious," said George. "Who did you adopt?"

"Oh, well, I, uhm," I said a bit reluctant to confess, knowing he wouldn't understand. "I adopted a lawyer and a physician."

"What? You can't adopt a lawyer and a physician. They're not homeless."

"Actually, George, they both are. In this bad economy, upside down in their mortgages, the bank foreclosed on their houses last week. I figure once I help them get back on their feet, I'll have free legal advice and medical care for the rest of my life."

"That's a great idea and you just inspired me who to adopt."

"Hey, George, where are you going?"

"I'm going to see if I can find a homeless stripper to adopt."

"Wow, good idea, George. Now, why didn't I think of that?"

Seriously, I wish I had thought of adopting a stripper. I'd only have to install a pole in my bedroom to make her feel at home. Once he helps her get back on her feet, or helps to keep her off her feet, if you know what I mean, he'll have free strip shows, and maybe more, for the rest of his life. If I put my mind to it, maybe I can find a future, lucky lottery winner.

"What are you going to do with your one hundred million dollar lottery jackpot?"

"Well, I'm going to share it with Ralph. He helped me when I was homeless and down on my luck, when no one else would."

Anyway, back to the story, someone who is homeless can't get a job, unless they have money enough for food and a place to shower, get a haircut, get dressed, and maybe buy some new clothes for the interview to get the job and to keep the job, once they get the job. Many of the homeless want to work; in truth, they've worked most of their lives. They want the opportunity to earn their own way and to take back control of their lives. We can't just cast a wide judgmental net over everyone who is homeless, especially in this sour economy and say that all homeless people are drunks and druggies, because it's not true. Moreover, because our state and municipal governments have turned their backs on helping these people with jobs, healthcare, and affordable housing in favor of budget cuts and appeasing the public for much needed votes for reelection, it's not always the fault of the homeless for being cast from society and abandoned on the streets.

"If I gave them money, they'd just spend it on booze or drugs."

I've heard so many people say that as an excuse to justify them being cheap and uncaring, by not giving so much as a lousy quarter to a homeless person begging on the street. Only the justification of that phrase doesn't work, when walking by a homeless mother holding a child's hand and asking no more of you than pocket change, as you hurry by her and scurry around her. Which one of them is the alcoholic and/or on drugs, the mother or the child?

Having met so many homeless men and women at the shelter, and children, for that matter, when there to pass out food, not all homeless people are drunks and druggies. Most every one of them have a unique story to tell, as to why they're sitting there eating a free meal, getting warm, and hoping for a bed for the night. Especially now with the way the economy has taken a nosedive and thrown so many people out of work and out of their homes, many of the new homeless are good people, people who have never been homeless before and who have worked all their lives, people who are just like you and me. They are people who have fallen upon hard times created by the top most wealthy, who savor their motives of greed by hoarding their wealth and not sharing it.

With too many politicians not giving a care about the average person, they more care about their wealthiest constituents, while lining their own pockets and feathering their own nests, especially when it's time for them to leave office. I've never known a politician that didn't leave office much richer than when he took the job as a public servant, an oxymoron, if ever there was one. Those people who pass by the homeless without giving a care are doing society a great injustice and themselves a disservice by not helping a fellow human being. Too often we are the last resort and the only chance for a homeless person to get what little money they need to survive and to have the hope that they'll make it through life for another day.

You need just to look in the mirror to see the face of the homeless person today. It could be you. Think about it, if with just a loss of a job and the reality of not finding another job, that could be you or any one of us, one day, homeless and on the street. Unfortunately, it takes most people to be homeless to understand the plight of the homeless, before they realize the smallest effort they do will sometimes help and motivate the most. Walk a mile in their shoes.

Volunteer one day at a shelter and you'll return from the experience enriched and a changed human being. For the first time, in an in your face confrontation, you'll be able to see the people behind the rags and the dirt. Just as there are some good, rich people, there are plenty more good homeless people. Just as there are many wealthy people passing out food to the homeless, there are just as many people at the shelter who used to be wealthy, after losing it all to bad financial decisions or dire personal circumstances in life that they were unable to cope with and overcome.

I met a man who lost everything in the stock market. Intelligent, educated, and articulate, he lost his mind, when he lost his money. Talk to him for a while and you'll see the man he once was has been devoured by lunacy. Disillusioned and disenfranchised, after he had no more money to pass out and when all his friends and relatives turned their backs on him, refused to help him, and wouldn't even listen to him, he walks the streets talking to himself.

I met a woman who's house burned down. A single Mom, she lost everything, what little she had. She had no insurance and one of her three children died in the fire and she suffered severe burns trying to rescue her baby. The hospital patched her up with emergency medical care, but sent her on her way, when she was unable to pay. Instead, they referred her to social services and the free medical clinic. Afraid they'd take her children away and put them in foster care, she was willing to brave the streets. Except for her memories, which were now soured by grief, she didn't even have photographs left to remember the life she once had.

I met another mother, who's love of her life, her teenage daughter, was killed by a drunk driver. She not only lost her daughter and her best friend that day, but she lost her job, her house, her mind, and her will to live. We can't just ignore the homeless. By ignoring the homeless, we ignore ourselves. Any one of these stories could be your story, one day. Now is your chance to change your reality by helping them to help themselves.

Keeping the faith and staying positive, when you literally don't even have any place to go to the bathroom, is not always an easy thing to do. Too busy buying lattes at Starbucks and lunch at McDonald's, before getting in our cars to go home to our houses, condos, and apartments, the average person is unable to feel the suffering of the poor, disenfranchised, and homeless. It's easier to ignore them and to walk by them without stopping and stooping to their level to drop a mere coin in their upheld cup. Shame on you. How can you be cruel, so unfeeling, and so uncaring?

Nonetheless, this story isn't about all the homeless people as a whole. Even though I just did, I didn't write this story to make a social statement about homelessness and about the plight of too many of the citizens in America today. This story is about one particular woman, an old bag lady that I befriended on Earth Day.

Her name was Gladys. As if drawn to her, as if meeting her was my destiny, I met her one day, when I was taking out my trash and she was going through my barrel.

"There's nothing in there," I said, not meaning to frighten her, but I did. Immediately, she backed away and started pushing her carriage to the next barrel. "I have some recyclables for deposit that I can give you," I said running back in the house to get the cans that I don't put out until the following week on recycling day. "Here," I said handing her the bag.

It wasn't much, maybe enough to get something to eat at McDonalds. If I had the foresight to bring my wallet outside with me, I would have given her a few dollars. Still, I'd rather see her take my cans than just have the recycle collector dump them in his truck. Too lazy to bring them back to the store to get our return deposits, here we all are faithfully collecting our bottles and cans and giving them away to recycling. Someone is getting rich off of us thinking we're somehow saving the planet by recycling our Coke, Pepsi, and beer cans and bottles. Give me a break.

Expecting her to say thank you, I guess, for giving her a bag of cans worth not much more than a dollar, she didn't say anything. She just smiled at me, nodded her head, accepted the bag, and walked away. Yet, she made an impression on me and I couldn't stop thinking about her.

All that day, having never seen her before and having never seen a homeless person in my neighborhood and on my street, until today, I couldn't help but wonder about her. I wondered how she became homeless. I wondered where she lived and how she lived. Surely, someone like her collects Social Security. Yet, if Social Security is the only income she has, where can she afford to live on that meager amount of money, when rent would take most, if not all, of her Social Security check? If she's homeless, how does she get her check? Does she have a PO Box?

Maybe she collects Food Stamps to subsidize her Social Security. I wondered if in collecting Social Security, if she was eligible to receive Food Stamps, too. I wondered about the welfare programs and if she was eligible for aid. I wondered if she had medical care? By the frightful state of her, I'd assume that she didn't have medical care or even a place to live, poor thing.

Maybe she had been collecting unemployment and exhausted her claim. Maybe she just fell through the cracks in the system, like so many of us have. Maybe she doesn't know about any of the programs that are available to her, that is, if there are any programs available to her. Maybe with all the recent budget cuts, they cut the programs that she needed not to be out on the street and homeless.

Maybe she's crazy and doesn't mind living on the street in the way that I'm horrified by the thought of being homeless, if I lost my job, my house, my car, and was unable to get another job. There's something wrong with this country, the greatest country in the world, when too many of our citizens have turned to begging pocket change and collecting bottles and cans to survive. There's something wrong with this country, when the only hope we have of living a comfortable life is to win the lottery.

After I saw her that first time, I noticed that she came around every week going through the trash looking for bottles and cans. Maybe she had been coming around for months and I just never noticed her. Some of my neighbors shooed her away, as if she was a stray cat or dog, instead of a homeless woman, a human being, and a person.

Being confronted by this one woman in my own neighborhood and in front of my house, I couldn't help but feel bad for her and her plight and be so outraged by her circumstance in a country that has widened the gap between the very rich and the very poor. I couldn't help but feel that I had been chosen to help her and turning my back on her would surely be tallied, when I stood before Saint Peter.

"He's the guy who ignored the homeless woman. He's not Heaven material, Saint Peter," said an angel holding a list of names and my name wasn't on it.

Not wanting to delay her, giving her every courtesy, so as not to embarrass her, I always made sure I had a bag of cans ready for her to take away with her.

"I'll leave the cans on my front porch," I said, "so that no one else will take them. You just come up and get them."

"Thank you," she said. "That's kind of you."

I turned to go back in the house and then stopped. I realized I was being rude. Anyone else, I would have introduced myself and at least asked her name.

"What's your name?"

"Gladys," she said.

"Please to meet you, Gladys," I said. Fearing germs and/or diseases, I was afraid to offer her my hand or to get too close to her, so I kept my distance. "I'm Ralph," I said with a wave and a smile.

She was layered with clothes, rags mostly, as if she was wearing everything she owned, probably to stay warm. I wondered if her clothes were her bed, too. I couldn't imagine sleeping in a doorway or even a shelter, a room filled with other homeless people. Even there, for fear someone will take them, she must watch and guard what little possessions she has.

The next week, I packed a lunch for her, a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, an apple, a banana, a few cookies, and a bottle of water, along with a ten dollar bill inside. It wasn't much, but it made me feel better doing it. I did that for several weeks. I figured instead of having my employer garnish my wages for my donation to the United Way, a faceless charitable organization top heavy with administrative salaries, expenses, and bonuses, why not cut out the middleman and give it directly to Gladys. No doubt, having fallen through the cracks, obviously, she was never on their charitable donation radar anyway. I figured the United Way never gave her a dime or a care, in the way that I gave her a bag lunch and a ten dollar bill each week.

Her face lit up, when she smiled and when she saw me walking out with her weekly lunch bag. I didn't know if she was happier to see me or to receive her lunch bag. I figured she was grateful for the food and for the money. Maybe that's all she had to eat that day.

She didn't talk much and I didn't want to push her to talk for fear of embarrassing her and scaring her away. I was curious to ask her the questions that I had, but I didn't. I didn't want to invade her privacy. I looked forward to seeing her once a week and giving her a bag of goodies. It made me feel as if I was doing my part and doing something to help the homeless by helping one person at a time. Unofficially, I guess I adopted Gladys.

Passing it on, maybe my one act of weekly kindness would motivate someone else to do the same. Maybe I was scoring points with the great point counter, point giver, and point taker-away in the sky. Maybe one day, her shoe would be on my foot and I won't be so proud to accept someone else's charity, if I gave of myself now that I could and should.

Then, after seeing her for weeks, Gladys stopped coming around. I still saved my bottles and cans figuring she was sick, until I had collected a big trash bag full of them that must have been worth close to twenty dollars. Only, her daughter, as young and as beautiful as Gladys was old and ugly stopped by my house.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Carol."
"Hi Carol. I'm Ralph. Pleased to meet you," I said shaking her hand.

Not knowing who she was, figuring she was the neighborhood Avon lady, I figured she was soliciting something. Maybe she was running for office and needed signatures. Maybe she was a real estate agent wanting to know if I wanted to sell my house. For sure, she wasn't at my door selling Girl Scout cookies. If she was, I'd buy them all.

"Here," she said handing me a green, plastic, trash bag. "My mother wanted you to have this."

"Your mother?" I looked at her, while accepting ownership of the bag. "Who's your mother?"

"Gladys, the homeless bag lady you've been kind to and befriended."

"What is this?" I held up the big bag. Weighing, at least, twenty pounds, it was heavy.

"Open it," she said.

When I opened it, the bag was filled with one dollar bills.

"What's all this?"

"My Mom died."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Carol."

"Thank you for your kindness to her," she said smiling at me during an uncomfortable pause. "I used to check on her, whenever I could. She never let me in her apartment but met me outside. I had no idea she was pretending to be a homeless woman, until I went inside her apartment and saw her tattered clothes and the way she lived. She had bags and bags of money everywhere. Each bag had a person's name and address on it and each bag contained ten thousand dollars."

"I don't understand. Why are you giving this to me? Why not keep it for yourself?"

"I can't."

"Why not? Please take it," I said handing it back to her. "It was your mother's money. I'm uncomfortable accepting the money."

"There's a curse attached to the money, not for you but for me," she said looking at me. I could sense she wanted to explain, but was reticent to trust me. Then, she gave me an engaging smile that made me trust her. "Just as there is a Heaven and a Hell, just as there are good and bad, just as there are demons and fairies, there are good witches and bad witches."

"Good witches and bad witches? Okay? So, what are you saying? Are you saying that your Mom was a good witch?"

"Yes, as am I, but I'm still learning. She was my teacher and my mentor. She left me all her books and writings."

"Wow," I said. "You're freaking me out a little. When I saw your Mom, I just saw her as a homeless woman. Now to find out that not only are there witches good and bad, but that she was the former and you are, too, is a bit overwhelming. Forgive me if I find this a bit difficult to digest," I said staring at her, but she was so beautiful that I couldn't stop myself from staring. "Please, I'm being so rude. Won't you come inside?"

After she told me she was a witch, albeit a good witch, I didn't want to piss her off for fear that she'd turn me into a toad or a lizard. She followed me inside my house. Upset that Gladys was dead and excited by her daughter's visit, forgetting that it was a bag full of money, I left the bag of money on my inside front porch, where I leave my recyclables for Gladys to take. It was safe there. I live in a good neighborhood. Moreover, I felt uncomfortable accepting the money, anyway and maybe I figured that if I brought the bag inside my house, I'd be taking ownership of it.

I suddenly pictured Gladys redeeming all her collected cans and bottles for money and stuffing the money in green, plastic trash bags. For sure, she must have collected tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of bottles and cans, millions, even, to save that much money, bags of money, each containing ten thousand dollars. It must have taken her years. Amazing.

"Please have a seat," I said walking her into my living room. "Can I get you something to drink?" I wondered what a good witch drank figuring that they all drank what the wicked witch of the west in the Wizard of Oz drank, menstrual blood mixed with Kool Aid. When I discovered that, I never drank Kool Aid again. "I have coffee, tea, diet soda, water or--"

"A cup of coffee sounds good."

"How do you take it?"

"Black with one sugar."

I was looking for something out of the ordinary, but other than her good looks and her smoking hot body, she was ordinary. If I saw her on the street, I'd never think she was a witch, good or bad, just hot. I'd never think she was a practitioner of the occult, black magic, and a follower of the dark side. Okay, I've been watching way too much spooky television.

Other than believing her at her word, there was nothing to tell me that she was a good witch. I knew what made for a bad witch but I wondered what made for a good witch. Maybe a good witch goes around doing good deeds, such as she just did, by delivering people bags of money. I wondered if I had to declare that to the IRS. Nah. They'd never believe me anyway.

I could see my tax form now. Other income? Ten thousand dollars in one dollar bills. Source of income? From the good witch.

"When I first met your Mom, I wondered how she came to be homeless and when--"

"My Mom was very wealthy and so aren't I," she said. "Heat of fire, warm him with desire."

"Pardon?"

"I said my Mom was very wealthy and so aren't I," she said smiling. "Love and passion can't interfere with clothes of fashion."

Every time she said something, she mumbled something else under her breath, immediately after, as if repeating a line of poetry. I don't know if I was more stunned, when she told me that Gladys was dead, Gladys was wealthy, when she said those unnerving rhyming words, or when she flashed me her black panties, when crossing her shapely legs. To be honest, I think it was her black panties that got my attention.

Now, I couldn't help but wonder if this good witch was putting me under a spell. Surely, I was already mesmerized by her good looks and fabulous body. She looked a bit like a young and better looking Cher, but without all the sequins, sparkles, and tattoos.

"Carol," I said, as if suddenly charmed by her name when saying it, "is it hot in here or is it just me?"

Honestly, what the Hell kind of name for a witch good or bad witch, for that matter, is Carol anyway? I figure it would have been Isadora, Gwendolyn, Selena, Elvira, Sabrina, Samantha, Endora, or Tabitha. She stared at me with cat like eyes and suddenly I was hot, burning up, as if I had a fever, but not from sickness, but from love, lust, and desire. Just by looking at her beautiful face, voluptuous body, abundant breasts, big, green eyes, and full lips, I was beginning to perspire. From the erection that suddenly made my pants tighter, I was actually getting sexually aroused.

Very odd and terribly peculiar, I don't remember doing it, until it was off and there beside me on the sofa, but I removed my shirt and then my pants. A woman I had just met, I was sitting across from Carol in just my underwear. What the Hell was that about? As if an out of body experience, when I looked down I had an erection, the biggest erection I ever had. I put my hand over it to cover it, while suddenly feeling so very embarrassed.

"It is a little bit warm," she said unbuttoning a button of her long, black dress that, when unbuttoned, allowed me to see her abundant cleavage.

She wore a dress that buttoned all the way down and, as if in slow motion, I watched her unbutton all her buttons, before she removed her dress. Just as I was sitting there in my briefs, she was sitting there in her black bra, black barely there panty, black garter, and black stockings. Wow. She was hot, but I was feeling even hotter.

Yet, I couldn't help but think that if she was, indeed, a good witch, shouldn't she be wearing a pastel dress, instead of a black one, holding a magic wand, wearing a tiara, and sprinkling me with fairy dust or do I have my movie characters confused? Staring at her in her black lingerie was a bit disconcerting, albeit quite arousing. Suddenly, as if she was a bad Nun and I was the male lead in a porn video, I had sexual thoughts of having sex with a good witch.

What if she's not a good witch but a bad witch? What if she's not a witch at all? What if she's not even Gladys' daughter? What if she's a door-to-door hypnotist that takes advantage of attractive men? What if I think I'm attractive but am not so very attractive? Who cares? She's beautiful, has a body to match her face, and she's sitting across from me in her underwear. I want her. Boy oh boy, I'm gonna get lucky today.

"When my Dad died on Earth Day a few years ago, my Mom lost her senses. Yet, somehow Earth Day was the catalyst for her to do something to give back. She abandoned her house to live on the street and started collecting bottles and cans to support herself, while ridding the streets of all the litter."

"Wow, I always said that every homeless person has a unique story to tell and so didn't your Mom."

"Living on the street was her way of meeting people, people of quality. She even wrote a book about it. 'Living Life on the Street.' Here," she said reaching in her handbag and handing me a copy of the book. "You're in there, too. She even autographed it for you. She doesn't mention you by name, of course, just by description. After all that I read about you, I just had to meet you. Thank you for being so kind to my mother. Friend of mother, kind man stand, take my hand, and be my lover."

As if I was hypnotized, I felt compelled to stand and remove my underwear. I was naked. Standing there in front of a stranger, a good witch, a beautiful woman, I just exposed my cock to her. I watched her reach around behind her and remove her bra. Oh, my God. Wow, she had great tits. Then, she stood, too, and removed her panty.

Her jet black pubic hair was fashioned in the shape of a miniature witches hat. She also had a tattoo of a black cat over her left breast. She looked down at my cock and rolled her eyes and suddenly I was embarrassed that I only had an average sized cock. Only, this time, when she said her rhyming words, she didn't even try to mask them by saying something else.

"Hickory, Dickory dock, add three inches to his cock and make him as hard as a brickyard."

"Wow, I feel so macho," I said looking down at my new appendage. "Are you kidding me? This is so awesome."

I couldn't help but feel a bit like an X-rated Pinocchio. My cock was sticking so far out that I could poke a hole in a wall with my cock, it was so hard.

This was all so surreal. Was I dreaming or imagining this?

"You're welcome," she said with a satisfied smile.

"Carol, I--"

"Don't talk, Ralph, just kiss me."

I kissed her and immediately, she parted my lips with her tongue. Never have I felt such passion for someone, as I was feeling now for her. I carried her into the bedroom and we had inspired, magical, and possessed sex. Never have I made love to a woman in the way that I was making love to her now. I couldn't believe it. Instantly, I was in love.

"Carol, I can't believe this, I--"

"Ralph, shut up and kiss me," she said. "Make him linger with bigger fingers," she said.

When I looked at my fingers, they appeared longer, thicker, and were bulbous at the fingertips. My fingers were frog like only bigger and longer.

"Wow, what happened to my fingers?"

"Spring has sprung, so give him a bigger tongue," she said.

"Holy shet," I said instead of holy shit.

Suddenly, I could barely talk, as my tongue was so much wider and longer. I felt as if I had a tongue bigger than my dog's tongue.

With giant fingers, a bigger tongue, and a man sized cock, I gave Carol an orgasm with my fingers and my tongue, before giving her another one with my huge cock. Did she do that? How could she do that? Maybe it's just my imagination. Not so crazy about the bigger fingers and tongue, but definitely, if she can really add three inches to my cock and make it as hard as a rock, then she really is a good witch in my book, a very good witch, indeed.

When our lovemaking was over and she was getting dressed to leave, the green, plastic bag that I thought was filled with one dollar bills was filled with my bottles and cans that I had been saving for Gladys. Suddenly, Gladys reached down and took the bag with her. Carol is really Gladys. Oh, my God. Eww. Did I just have sex with Gladys? Gross. What happened to Carol? My fingers and tongue returned back to normal. I could talk again without a speech impediment. Then, when I looked down at my cock and it was the same size as it was before.

"Well, that sucks."

Did I dream all of this? Was I hypnotized? Then, I remembered that I still had her mother's book as proof that I didn't dream this or was hypnotized, 'Living Life on the Street,' still sitting on the coffee table. Only, when I picked it off the table, it was just a pad of blank paper. I could have sworn it was a book. Suddenly, the song, The Hotel California, by the Eagles started playing on my radio.

"Welcome to the Hotel California...You can check out any time you'd like, but you can never leave."

Now, every week, unable to resist her, Gladys returns as Carol but leaves as Gladys. I give her what she wants, my recyclable cans, bottles, and a bag lunch, and she gives me what I need, hot sex, along with a temporarily bigger cock, albeit bigger fingers and tongue, too. My neighbors saw me, when I was standing on my front porch naked and now no one talks to me because I give to the homeless, an understatement. Go figure.

Happy Earth Day.

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