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Snatching the cash, the waitress leaves and returns with a whole box of condoms. “They have more in the machine in the bathroom,” she says. “In case you run out.” With that, she leaves us.
Biting her lip, Brooklyn rips a piece of newspaper and dips it into the bowl. And I don’t know if it’s the condoms or the lip biting, but I’d pay a million dollars for us to be in my bedroom right now.
Oh.
Wait.
She unwraps a condom and starts blowing into it. I get uncomfortably hard.
Soon, the condom is a bulbous balloon shape.
Okay…
I do my best to pretend to be chill.
Brooklyn takes the newspaper piece and wraps it around the blown-up condom. She then prepares another piece and wraps it at a different angle, then does it again and again until the whole thing resembles some sort of mummified whale cock.
“Now we wait for it to dry,” she says as I gape at it.
“And then?” I prod.
“And then I paint your face on it,” she explains.
I tear my gaze away from the weirdness to look at her quizzically. “Why?”
“Because it’s you. A papier-mâché version.”
That’s what I thought this thing might be—papier-mâché, not me. Brooklyn mentioned that this art form was her version of surfing.
“It’s already like looking in the mirror,” I say, tilting my gaze back to the cock mummy. “Are you sure you need the paint?”
She downs her drink. “I’m sure.” She balls up a little bit of the newspaper, rolls it into a tight ball, and adds what I’m guessing is an ear to “my” head.
I wonder what her alcohol tolerance is?
As I ponder that, she pulls out her lipstick and draws lips on “my” newspaper face. Looking pleased, she searches for the waitress.
Nope. Wasn’t faking. Before she can ask the waitress for any more alcohol, I gesture for the check and ask Brooklyn, “Would you like to take that stroll across the Bridge of Lions?”
Her eyes glint excitedly. “That one near the castle?”
I check the time. “You know, if we hurry, we could get a quick look inside the castle before our stroll.”
She grabs her artwork and leaps to her feet, swaying a bit. “Let’s do it.”
“One second.” I wait until the waitress brings the check and then toss the required amount of cash on the table, plus another tip. “Now we can go.”
When I stand up, I realize that Brooklyn isn’t the only one who might’ve overindulged. I don’t think the restaurant is usually spinning the way it is now, nor do my legs usually feel like cotton candy.
“Here.” I offer Brooklyn my elbow. “If we’re going to stroll, we might as well do it properly.”
Also, the chances of us falling go down if we’re interconnected—at least I hope so.
Without hesitation, Brooklyn slides her tiny hand into the crook of my elbow, and her touch sends a zing of lust right into my dick.
Just perfect. Walking is going to be even harder now—pun intended.
“This is the last time I drink St. Augustine vodka,” I mutter to no one in particular after a few blocks. “And I mean it… this time.”
