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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 83 of the month, the new moon, a good time; if I could just give that smug nitwit an American baby--" "Yes! A little fifth-columnist-an oil, a princeling who could maybe speak for the average American motorist, speedballing on his beloved interstates. . .Daisy we could try." There was something near a chill in the room. She held him, and he stared at the way ovals worked in the symmetry of her face. He tasted her forehead, her cool nose, and what the papers had feted as the bee-stung lips. . . "Yeah but my system, you mean wham, bam--?" "Thank you, sir. And the race is on. The way they watch me--Dory their eyes are like mice eyes--!" She lay back on his bed, aiming her bare legs at the greasy, flyspotted ceiling. The modest, floor-length caftan was up at her hips, and she pointed the brown, filigreed weave of her pubic hair at him, at the greed in his eyes as he feasted them on the damaged but ever-complex sexual mechanism. "You're so beautiful, Daisy, so perfect. Would it mean anything if I told you I love--" "Quick. There's no time for that. We've got to spite the brown bastard, and make a baby. But I'll tell you, you're looking pretty good yourself." |
