Page 35 of Not Mine to Rescue

With a wheeze, Walt asked, “Why the hell did you give away your number then?”

“I’m a sad, pathetic, weak man.” ’Might as well neutralize their ammo from the start.

They laughed along with me that time.

Kid mused as we shot the shit. “You know, one of these days, you’re going to meet the right one.”

Walt slapped him on the back and jokingly replied. “She’s got to be at least a decade older. Probably a school teacher or maybe a dominatrix nun. Yeah. That’s Wombat’s type. Long legs, high heels, and a ruler. Whap!” He clapped his hands together. “You like ’em like that, right?”

Dominating? No. Self-assured, yes.

“Yeah. A ruler.” I grabbed my dick through my jeans and shook it. “Better yet, make it a tape measurer. Because I out girth you both.”

Kid whistled. “Them’s fighting words.”

Walt frowned. “I ain’t taking him up on that. You ever stand next to him when he takes a piss?”

“It’s rude to look,” Kid shot back.

“Bullshit.” Walt called his bluff. “You’ve seen plenty of dick. How many threesomes have you had? A hundred?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“If my dick was an inch longer, I would.” Walt fired back.

“Did you know that the average taint on adult males is two inches?”

Both men turned to gape at me.

You’d think by now they’d be used to my trivia outbursts.

Kid rallied first. “Did you just say Walt has a one-inch dick?”

“I said nothing of the sort.” Walt insinuated it himself.

With that, Walt protested. “Ya gotta wrap it over your balls first, then have enough left over to insert it and make it good, you dumbasses.”

Both Kid and I shared a look of astonishment that asked, Did he really admit that he’s tried?

Not completely clueless, Walt caught on. “Damn it. You two are dickheads.”

Boots tromped down the back stairs. “Did someone call my name?”

“Thank god, I’m saved by the village idiot. Tell them you need at least seven inches to fuck yourself.”

Kid and I tried not to crack under pressure. Boots stood there, dumbfounded. His wife slipped out of his shadow and stretched her middle finger and thumb apart to measure and then curled both on themselves.

“I don’t think it works like that. Once the blood flow stiffens the⁠—”

Boots wrapped his hand over her mouth. “Baby? They’re not being literal.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. She nodded, and a muffled “Oh,” leaked out.

Walt leaned a bit to get a look at her around Kid’s shoulders. “Is your hand seven inches?”

Olivia shook her head. “The distance from the heel of my hand to my middle finger tip is six and three-quarters. But if I stretch it like this,” she made that gesture again, “it’s seven on the dot.”

“So, if you wrapped your fingers around Wombat’s dick—” Kid’s speculation was cut short.