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"Oh yes it could," I answer grimly. "It could too've been that bad." When Clemmy and I broke up, Mrs. Goodbloode could boyfriend barely restrain her glee, her relief that no little Clement Fours or Clementines would be springing from my polluted loins. Clemmy got the story from his father, who looks exactly like Clemmy, only old, and likes me as men tend to do. Mr. Goodbloode told Clemmy the family manse that day reminded him of the Yale Club during FDR's boyfriend funeral. "You've got that look in your eyes again," Clemmy says. "That fuck-me boyfriend beat-me love-me look." He takes my face in one big hand and squeezes it till my mouth purses up like a grouper's, then shakes it back and forth in time to his chant: "No no no no no no no no!" "Fuck off," I say, knocking the hand away. "No, you fuck off."
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