She grimaces at the phrase get your fuck on. It's deliberately crude, more so than most of what Fifty's said; while he's clearly not one to mince words, she wonders if he's taking respite in the ugly directness of the wording.

"What do you become?" she asks, rather than commenting on the need to copulate. (Get all sticky, she hears Dr. Lecter say in the back of her mind, nearly as clear as a real voice. Fifty isn't the only one who finds appeal in provocation.) The nature of her desires is complicated, real interest dampened by the ways in which others' eyes seem to rest on her body at times she'd prefer them anywhere else. Setting a timer on the action only makes her more ambivalent about the act itself.