She snorts. “You only say that because you have those gigantic arms. Normal guys probably wouldn’t feel the same way.”
I pretend-buff my nails against my shirt. “So many reasons it pays to be a player, baby.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing hard now, which in turn, makes me laugh. Until she stops in front of a sculpture that has my laughter turning to a wince. As I stare at the sculpture of two men having anal sex in what has to be the most uncomfortable position ever invented, it’s all I can do not to cup my dick in sympathy. I just thought that last position was bad.
“I’m really not sure this is possible,” Emerson says as she crouches down to get a better look.
“I’m here to tell you it is NOT possible. Once again, penises are not meant to bend in that position.”
“How do you know?”
“Excuse me?” I half-gesture to my dick, like, what the fuck?
“I just mean, have you ever been with another guy? It could be that you just have a spectacularly inflexible penis.”
“My penis is perfectly flexible, thank you very much. And while I have never had sex with another man, I do shower quite regularly with an entire roomful of them. Not to mention I have watched a significant amount of porn in my life. And never have I seen a penis do that.”
I’m trying not to be insulted, considering Emerson seems to think my dick is somehow inferior to a sculpture’s, but it’s more difficult than it should be. At least until she cracks up, laughing so hard that tears come to her eyes.
“Your face,” she gasps between outbursts. “If you could have seen your face—”
“I’m just saying. My penis is exactly the right amount of flexible.”
She holds up a placating hand, struggles to look serious. “I’m sure it is. Of course it is. Absolutely. I didn’t mean to imply—” She ruins it by bursting into fresh peals of laughter.
It’s my turn to roll my eyes as I head back to the house. Enough is enough. “Don’t we have other houses to see?”
She catches up with me a few seconds later. “You’re right. We do. I’m sorry for teasing you.”
“I can tell,” I say dryly.
“But seriously. Kudos for not freaking out when I asked if you’d been with another guy.”
I frown down at her. “Are we back to you deliberately trying to insult me?”
“I was trying to compliment you, actually.”
“I’m not a Neanderthal, sweetheart.” I deliberately use the hated nickname, just to annoy her. “I totally support consenting adults having whatever kind of sex they want with whatever other consenting adult or adults will have them. So lay off the dumb, homophobic jock routine. It’s 2017.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” But I let it go. She’s not the first one to judge me by the sexist jock mold and she won’t be the last.
“I am. Really.” She starts to say something else, then stops when we make a wrong turn and end up in front of yet another sculpture. “What. Is. That?” she demands.
“It’s the butter churner,” I answer without thinking. Her eyes grow wide again, even as they dart between me and the sculpture. “You know the name for this one?”
Recognizing that I might have just stepped into dangerous territory, I do what I do best in hostile interviews. I prevaricate. “Well, you know, it’s not that obscure of a position. Lots of people could probably—”
“I call bullshit,” she interrupts.
“Why? I’m sure lots of people have done it. I mean, it’s even got a name—”
“A name that you didn’t even have to think about.” Her eyes narrow. “And you can evade all you want, but you don’t know the name of that pose from some porn movie or Cosmo quiz. You’ve done this one.”
“I’m not…I…”
She raises a brow at me.