76 A vow to torque like Taz

“What’s WITH this guy?” wondered the white-haired sensualist. “He should be whispering sweet nothings to me instead of that cell phone.”
She flailed for ideas, grabby from frustration.
“Here I am, available. For foreplay, I will be like all the first Rolling Stones songs. For the actual uniting right up to the boom-shakkalakka-boom, I’ll be like ‘Walk On The Wild Side’ when Jimmy Smith lets his band go crazy. In the afterglow, I’ll boop like Betty Boop, all joy and contentment. God! I’ll even cuddle, if he turns out to be one of those goopy guys. I’ll be myself, if he wants. Why doesn’t he want?”
She pinched the inside of her forearm, and found it acceptably springy.
“Taz! I hear intellectuals like Taz. I’ll be Taz!” She vowed to spin until her freshly washed white sheets were as torqued as a Fosters Freeze tall vanilla softie.
“Honorable Ross!” Frisco whispered, “Baby Drew truly alone! Uncle Joe out! Plip Plop Coffe Shop in very violent state . . . ha ha ha ha ha! Boss, you very funny! I mean . . .” Frisco scanned his scholarly persona to convey sentiments he’d intended, which his humble origins far down the avenues in San Francisco’s Sunset District hadn’t prepared him to elucidate.
“. . . The condition which persists pour le moment in the cafe is inexorably violent.” His genuine voice resumed. “However! Other baby act cool. Big baby bottle, little baby-sips! Very interesting.”
“Very interesting,” _____ _____ mimicked perfectly, without the slightest mockery. Her desire to be introduced to the Frisco Ninja was intensely professional, besides a need to know more about associates of the man next to her in the Mustang.

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