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security is.’ And then he called out to one of the other security guys, and the two of them took hold of my elbows and steered me into a room that said ‘Official Business Only.’ I knew I was in trouble then.”
    “Did they search you all over?”
    “Let me tell you, ‘gangbang’ would be another word for it. I thought it was over, and then one guard, the less nice one, said to the other, ‘We’re going to have to call in the Pearloiner.’ And the nice one said, ‘No, let’s not.’ But then the Pearloiner came in. She was about forty-five, superpatriotic, big hair, big high heels, big patriotic tits, fake. And she goes, ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve determined that your clitoris is not a carry-on item.’ She’s like, ‘It’s swollen and oversized, and it’s over the weight limit, and it’s a security threat, and I’m going to have to remove it now.’ Then she clapped her hand to my crotch, and I felt this sharp painful tugging, and I saw my clit go into a tiny clear baggie, with a numbered label on it, and then a gloved man took the top off of a large jar.”
    “That’s just so sad and so wrong,” said Shandee.
    “Yeah, and since then I’ve only had three good comes,” said Zilka, “and they were all in my sleep. I used to come so big. I used to shout and kick, sometimes even fart if I was by myself and really bearing down. Now I can’t come at all. Nothing to rub against. I still think about sex a lot, though, and I still get incredibly turned on. It’s about as frustrating a situation as you can get.”
    “So what are you going to do?” said Shandee.
    “Well, a few months ago I was dancing at Carbon Fiber in Chicago, and this girl Cheyenne who’d also had her clit stolen at the same airport said she’d heard the Pearloiner had gotten in big trouble with the FBI, finally, for abuses of her authority, and that she’d gone AWOL and somehow managed to sneak over into the House of Holes, where she’d been making a nuisance of herself—stealing more clits, of course. So Cheyenne and I decided to track her, and that’s when I came here and met Lila, who said she’d help if she could. I worked the Penis Wash for a month—that was a kick. Now I’m a greeter.”
    Shandee was moved. “We must help you get your clit back,” she said, socking her fist. “You can’t just have that pleasure stolen from you. You have rights!”
    “Thanks,” said Zilka. “If you spot a woman with big hair and spike heels and a jar full of stolen clits, let me know. Precious baggage.”
    They were still for a moment, listening to the clink of plates from other tables. The warm wind sang in the gorse.
    “Thanks for telling me,” said Shandee.
    “I guess it’s time for me to take you to the Penis Wash, eh?”
    The Penis Wash happened in a concrete-floored room. Five recessed floor tracks emerged from five openings in one wall, their low archways covered by flaps of cloudy plastic. Men lay face up on massage tables that rolled slowly forward on the tracks. Drifts of foam moved on the shiny wet floor. A sound of clinking filled the air; the massage tables were being drawn forward by loops of chain under the floor. The soap smelled wonderful.
    Each woman had a washing station, with several pedals to control the spray of water.
    “The right pedal is soapy water, the left pedal is rinse water,” said Zilka. “Enjoy.” She left.
    Shandee tested the sprayers and the pedals. The water was warm. A man emerged through the dangling plastic flaps and was slowly pulled toward where she stood. A preliminary curtainlike blast of warm prewash water drenched him, and as he reached Shandee’s station and came to a stop, he lay dripping, strapped to the table, his eyes closed. Shandee looked at the other women, who were all busily spraying their men. The speakers were playing something without words and with lots of twelve-string guitar. She cleared her throat.
    The man opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Hi,” he