The fact was that I didn't know beans about blacks on cougars but I did sense that Isabel had mixed feelings about liking him and being in one of his plays. I felt I had something there. Shekaespeare was a middle-class Englishman and he sucked up to aristocrats and the only people he endowed with classy feelings were princes and generals and emperors. The rest of his characters are drunks and clowns. I said, and walked back to the kitchen wall with what felt like controlled dignity. Actually, my mind and heart were a muddle. One thing about impotence: you miss the clarity that comes after an orgasm. Sometimes it felt as though my unspilled semen was backed up to my blacks on cougars and had shortcircuited half the connections there. And what was there to do about such a muddle except to shout at Isabel?