He played his tight swinging bass vamp all over her ass. He banged chords, repetitions, and trills all over her thighs. With his lyric stuffed in her mouth, she sang these words, "I'm a woman. I could make love to a crocodile. I'm a woman. I can sing the blues. I'm a woman. I can crush stone with a pin. I'm an earth shaker."
The neighbors in the next town felt their coital clamor.
He gave this one performance all of his best crying, growling, writhing strength. She repaid him with a cursing moaning hummingbird buzzing multi-phonics. Their ugly lovemaking was the envy of all beasts.
Their whiskey dreams jammed all through that night.
The next days of solos. She never heard his arpeggiated mournful glissandi. He never heard her sad trilling aria melting into blue arpeggios.
She thought souls slow lulls.
He thought so long soul lows.
Silently, they had promised that they'd meet again at that craggy coast around midnight of the year 2020.
He promises to thrill her G String with his wicked vibratos.
She promises to wreak orchestral havoc on his upright bass.