The next morning she stomps down to the front desk and registers a complaint about the amount of semen in our room—the ideal amount of semen in a hotel room being none, the amount in our room qualifying as an actual wad. She has never felt more alive, you can tell. She is enjoying herself with all the immensity of a recently inseminated elephant. She inserts the phrase “COME on” into the conversation wherever possible, and when the concierge attempts to make excuses, she tells her not to give her that load. The concierge’s face is serene—so serene that I become suspicious. Perhaps she is the
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