“To have sex with a deer, or with a cartoon character?” Chon asks.

“Both,” Ben says. “And may I point out that Bambi is an underage animated ungulate? Not to mention a male?”

“Bambi is a boy?” O asks.

“Again, Bambi is a deer, ” Ben clarifies, “but, yes, he’s a boy deer.”

“Then why are so many girls in Playboy named Bambi?” O asks.

She likes Playboy and is grateful that Stepfather Number Four keeps them in his “home office” desk drawer so Paqu Paqu is what O calls her mother, the

Passive Aggressive Queen of the Universe — doesn’t see them and get pissy because she is an older version of the centerfolds who is constantly attempting to airbrush herself via expensive cosmetics and more expensive cosmetic surgery.

O is pretty sure that the National Geographic Channel is going to do an archaeological dig on her mother in a futile quest to find a single original body part, a private joke that explains why O gave Four a pith helmet for his last birthday.

(“Why, thank you, Ophelia,” a puzzled Four said.

“You’re welcome.”

“What’s it for?” Paqu asked, icily.

“To keep the sun off your vagina,” O answered.)

“Girls are named Bambi,” Ben says now, “because we are culturally ignorant, of even pop culture, and because we crave the archetype of childlike innocence combined with adult sexuality.”

His parents are both psychotherapists.

Ben, oh Ben, O thinks.

Hard body, soft heart.

Long brown hair, warm brown eyes.

“But that’s me, ” O tells him. “Childlike innocence combined with adult sexuality.”

Short blonde hair, thin hips, no rack to speak of, tiny butt on her petite frame. And yes, big eyes-albeit blue, not brown.

“No,” Ben says. “You’re more adult innocence combined with childlike sexuality.”