Project Produce(19)
He gaped at me. “A Mr. Who-ie?” Poor Dylan looked like a cartoon character, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
Darn my parents for having made this so hard to talk about. “Um, a Winkie. A Mr. Winkie,” I answered, sinking lower in my seat. Wonder if he’d notice if I slipped all the way under the table to hide? I discreetly pushed the tablecloth aside and peeked under, but got an eyeful of his massive feet. Talk about intimidating.
“Jesus, who talks like that?” he asked, jarring me from my thoughts.
Oh, just everyone in my flipping family. Since there was no chance of escape, I sat up straight and said, “Hey, you’re the one who started with the nicknames. Besides, don’t all you guys name your Mr. Winkie?”
“Believe me. No one calls ‘it’ a winkie.” He went back to the kitchen and returned with a big bowl of homemade sauce and meatballs. “Let me ask you a question.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You mentioned a pickle, so I’m assuming you mean how would my ego be affected if I had a small Mr. Winkie.”
I nodded, swallowing hard, and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
“Then my question is would my Mr. Winkie be a pickle when relaxed or standing at attention?”
Instantly, my face flamed probably three shades of red, and my ears felt like they were on fire. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk about this stuff with me, let alone be so open about it.
I opened my mouth and then closed it three flipping times, unable to speak. The words that formed in my brain sounded so idiotic, I just couldn’t spit them out.
“Because you know,” he continued, “at its relaxed state, looks can be deceiving.”
I squeaked. I actually squeaked out loud. No words, just a high-pitched sound like an over-excited piglet. Darn Professor Butthead for assigning me this topic. All my worst nightmares about this stupid project were coming true. Things couldn’t possibly get any more embarrassing, could they?
Dylan grinned as he added, “But Mr. Winkie does have a tendency to turn into Pinocchio when provoked.”
Okay, the conversation had just escalated from walking around with your skirt tucked in the back of your underwear the one and only time you decide to wear a thong kind of embarrassing, to period leaking mortification. And yes, I’m speaking from experience. The wonderful experience of disaster dating. Needless to say, I hadn’t received a second invitation for a date from those men.
In fact, they left town soon after, leaving me with no one but the geriatrics to choose from. Even I wasn’t that desperate. Though maybe I should have been, then I wouldn’t have fallen for Bob when he’d rolled into town and swept me off my feet. My biggest disaster to date. Although, this date with Hot Britches wasn’t looking too good.
I took a deep breath, deciding if I were going to face my fears and succeed at this project, I’d have to learn to have these conversations with anyone, including men like Dylan. “Um, standing at attention, it’s a pickle,” I blurted.
“Okay, so I guess if I had a pickle, I’d probably have some serious issues.”
“How so?” I folded my napkin in my lap, wishing I could whip out my notebook and start writing without looking strange. Who was I kidding, this entire conversation went beyond strange.
“Put it this way, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get naked,” he answered.
I snorted. “That didn’t seem to bother Flasher Freak.”
“Yeah, well, Flasher Freak’s a freak. And his pickle could be what made him that way.” Dylan disappeared again, this time returning with a large bowl of cooked pasta, and the scents of garlic, basil, and oregano filled the room. “Besides, he could be suffering from Short Man Syndrome.”
“What’s that?” I plopped my elbows on the table. This night had potential after all. I tried not to frown. My idea of an evening with a hot guy having potential consisted of talking about his winkie, instead of using it. I sighed. In a word--pathetic.
“Some people say that a short man is so cocky because his Mr. Winkie is... well, let’s put it this way. I have a buddy who’s--God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this--who’s a pickle, and he’s so damned cocky you’d swear he was packin’ a... a...”
“A zucchini?” I supplied.
“Exactly.” Dylan paused, then arched a brow at me.
“I have a fondness for produce. Too many years of working in the produce department of my parents’ store, I guess. And it doesn’t help that they never used the anatomically correct names for private parts. Gotta love that Irish Catholic upbringing.”