It's sticky...like semen.
It's mawkish...like semen.
It's creamy...like semen.
It's warm...like semen.
But you say this is not, in fact, semen? Well. Hmmm."

"You see, Julie," I said, for that was her name, "semen is usually found in the presence of males past the age of puberty. Since you are surrounded by a collection of female rhododendrons, I must conclude that what is on your hands is not semen, no matter how convincing the circumstantial evidence."

"I see," said Julie, not sounding at all convinced.

"Look," I replied, "let me just put my pants back on and I'll explain it all again with diagrams."

She paused.

"On balance," she stated firmly, "I believe that this is semen. And as informative as your explanation would no doubt be, I think I'll just look for something to wipe my hands on now."

"Try the rubber mongoose," I suggested, "It's more absorbent than it looks. Many's the night I've-"

Her upraised hand halted my narrative. Demurely, she cleaned the man sap (for that was what, in fact, it was) from her delicate fingers and walked away, leaving me suspended in the stirrups, still wearing the tutu.

God, I miss her.

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