Teresa leans over and whispers. “Let’s fack with Susie.”
I nod in agreement.
Teresa then motions to the other side of the restaurant. “That guy over there is succulent.”
“You mean that hawkish one in the turtleneck that looks like Rube Goldberg?” I ask.
Susie looks at her sideways.
“Yup, that’s the one. I’ll bet he’s from Brazil.”
Susie scoffs. “My guess is he’s some cuckload from the burbs living in squalor.”
“I don’t care where he lives Susie. I’m not looking for love.” Teresa says. “I want to be manhandled. I want him to grope my soaking wet spot.”
Susie is clearly horrified. She’d much rather be talking about Gnana, cupidity or even flotsam.
“I can’t use my crotch rocket forever,” Teresa continues.
“You’re gambling that his penis doesn’t have a weird bottlenose shape or some other malformation.” I say. I keep a straight face even though I know Susie suffers from ithyphallophobia, a fear of erect penises. I order miso broth and another zambuki topped with s’mores and wait for Teresa to continue her jab.
“I imagine him thrusting and pounding balls deep, undulating on top on me with his pulsing—“
“Don’t say it!” Susie blurts, twisting the beads around her neck. “That’s insanity!”
“Say what?” Teresa grins. “That I want him to slam and suck my moist—“
Susie plugs her ears. Teresa may have gone overboard, tending to be verbacious.
“I hope he’s into bukaki, plays soggy biscuit and commits gallicide. I want to enchant him with my anal cream pie.”
“That sounds bad for your digestion.” I snicker.
Susie abruptly leaves the table.
“I’m just kidding, Susie!” Teresa calls, but it’s too late for redemption.