Chloe had an irreducible and miraculous genius for sexual mating. She didn’t do anything special, different, or perverse, she was, rather, well behaved and timid in bed, like a warm, good wife. So why were the men worn out at dawn, why did they need the rest of the day to recover? Why did they look for her, with glassy eyes, every night thereafter? Why did one sonnet leave you cold, while another, written by a great poet, following the same rules of prosody, and also using words, shake you to your depths?
