When I was fourteen, this bit of fun was programmed into my genetic code during one hot summer night:
She waited, big smile on face and body undulating, while I applauded. Before I was done, two little boys flanked me and added shrill endorsements, along with clog steps. So I tipped them and told them to be missing; Wyoming flowed to me and took my arm. "Is it okay? Will I pass?"Yummy! Dialog like that makes me all squishy. I've never forgotten that passage. I think I liked the dialog better than the plot (don't tell my fellow Libertarian friends, they would string me up)!
"Wyoh, you look like a slot-machine sheila waiting for action."
"Why you dreklich choom! Do I look like slot-machine prices? Tourist!"
"Don't jump salty, beautiful. Name a gift. Then speak my name. If it's bread-and-honey, I own a hive."
"Uh--" She fisted me solidly in the ribs, grinned. "I was flying, cobber. If I ever bundle with you--not likely--we won't speak to the bee. Let's find that hotel."
--Robert A. Heinlein, The Moon is a Harsh Mistress