Jazzed

It was a balmy night out and I was feeling thelonious. I hadn’t had any tatum in so long I could have bixed a choir girl.

But I wouldn’t have to. The moment I entered the Luboff Lounge, the babe with the giant eubies fixed me with a “come duke me’ look. She uncrossed her legs and I could see almost all the way to birdland. I felt a tingle in my tito puente, and with a smile, I had her.

This is it. No sooner had we closed my front door than this hot django had grabbed me by the hines and pulled me close. I insinuated my hand under her sweater until I found one of her brubecks, then I slowly traced a circle around her lee konitz. “Oh, baby,” she cooed, “you make my red norvo wet.”

She unzipped my getz, and reached in to cradle my johnny hodges in her hand. “I’d love a little mingus, darling. My gillespie is aching.”

By this time my king oliver was ready to take a solo; I could hardly wait to coda, but I obliged her. She hoisted her skirt, and I saw that she wasn’t wearing any basies. I dove right into her satchmo and attacked her lennie tristano. “Ooh,” she moaned, “I want your krupa! Zoot me! Miff me! Fill my cootie williams!” I was ready…almost.

I felt in my pocket. Uh-oh. “Sorry, sweets,” I said. “No blakey tonight. I’m all out of condons.”

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