Page 7 of A Cock and Bull Story

“Definitely a cat shifter,” she laughs.

“If that’s British for alluding to my shaved cat, then I dig it.”

“Shaved, you say?” Arthur, my favorite horny toad, asks.

“Yeah, it’s sexier that way,” I wink at him. “But, sometimes, I leave a patch of hair.”

Arthur and Jude visibly blanch at my words. I expect someone who’s only into chafing cocks to not enjoy vag, but Arthur’s reaction surprises me.Maybe he only digs 1980s’ pussy?Well, I can certainly let my thatched roof grow back over my clam cottage if that’s what he’s into.

“I brought tacos!” I announce, turning the subject.

From this point on—no more innuendos. . .

But,it’s so fucking hard.

Also, that’s what she said, bahahahaha.

Sorry, I swear that I’m twenty-nine and not twelve.

Would a twelve year old even get that joke?

“Tacos?” Jack says with his bushy brows raised.

I notice that they, too, are tinted gray. This guy isdedicated.

“Yeah, I love tacos,” I say with an eyebrow waggle at Elise and Sian.

Shit—was that an innuendo if I actually really do love tacos?

Correcting my errant possible sexual thoughts is fricking exhausting.

“That’s not veryAmerican,” Jack observes, and I stick my tongue out at him.

“It’s the best that I could do—did you want hamburgers from McDonalds?” I sneer, but Jack just laughs.

“That’s what I was counting on you to bring, love,” he counters, and I roll my eyes.

“Don’t be an ungrateful ass—it’stacos. Who says no to a good taco? I sure as fuck don’t.”

Everyone laughs.

“What did you bring?” I demand to the gray and brown haired man.

“Toad in a hole—a perfectly British dish.”

“Sounds delightful,” I lie since I have no idea what Toad in a hole is. . . hopefully,notlike it sounds.

“I brought haggis,” Arthur the Horny Toad declares.

“Isn’t that like sheep’s balls?”

“Sheep’s pluck, actually—the liver, heart, and lungs wrapped in their stomach casing,” Arthur corrects.

I grimace.

“Balls would have been a better choice—we could have dipped them in BBQ or some shit, but good job with choosing a non-suggestive food,” I commend.

The others tell me of their food choices, and I struggle to keep my face straight. What kind of potluck is this? More like a potfuck—actually, that just sounds like a leprechaun orgy waiting to happen. . .and, now, I’m thinking of mythical creatures boning. That’s just great. Although, for argument’s sake, I feel like the ‘Chauns are probably packing some serious gold coinage, if you know what I mean.