According to the Rumanian girl, our friendship begat in her a spiritual and intellectual crisis. Her association with me, she said, had caused her, directly and indirectly, to defile, in a single afternoon, the three things she held most dear: her allegiance to the Eastern Orthodox Church; her study of literary theory; and her sweet relationship with a Swedish phys-ed student named Sven.

I protested my innocence and, while I admitted that the butt plug was my idea, I insisted that the use she made of it was the result of her own native depravity. "Don't deny your nature," I warned. "Remember Herr Aschnbach."

Still, she was resolved to have no more to do with me, and the day after finals week ended came to my apartment retrieve her paperback copy of Death in Venice and a Wall of Voodoo CD.

Four deep-blue bottles of Heavenly Secrets Oils of Bliss massage oil just happened to be sitting atop her copy of the Mann classic. Her huge black eyes widened as she picked up the bottle of naturally-scented "Berry Luscious" oil (my personal favorite is the "Forbidden Honey," although the "Hot Lips" and "Chocolate Ecstasy" varieties are cool, too). "Man, I've got some knots..." she sighed. That afternoon, her spiritual crisis deep ended.