Tuna on Top staggered out of the prelube, blinked blearily at Cockamole in the afternoon light, and rubbed a hand over her face. “Dude… where’s my trail?”
“Nice swagger, my dude” Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring nodded to Mouth Down South.
“Brah, this broasis has the best noodles,” Squeal 4 Me slurped as they looked out the window. He pulled his second pair of sunglasses over his sunglasses.
Outside by the Soul Cycle, they could see a commotion on the sidewalk, as the normally oblivious tourists parted to let twenty bros in matching ‘Pumping Iron’ tank tops dash. A faint scent of Axe body spray wafted through the air, while the clinking of puka shells could be heard over even the din of the kitchen.
Bitch’s Bitch was perturbed. Wrinklepecker had been right by him, watching him slam a PBR, but then he got distracted by the debate between Bush and A Rack and Can’t Rush Anal about which flavor of La Croix was superior, blackberry cucumber or lime, and Just Get It Over With had given them some other sort of beverage while Minor 69er was going on and on about coconut flavor, for crying out loud. Dickweed had just ruined the brojo by reminding them all of the weird pesticides or preservatives or cockroach semen—whatever—that the drinks supposedly have.
Anyway, Bierectional had claimed that Wrinklepecker had gone left, which come to think of it may have been the problem. And now he was stuck with Menage a Lot and Do Her Well, who were too busy talking to some randos to let him know if his polo shirt was making him look fat. Dick Simmons snapped a photo, and Bitch’s Bitch cursed himself internally. Who was he fooling? He should have gone shirtless.
Vagina Dentata was pretty sure he wasn’t a bro, because he still liked nerdy things, and it wasn’t like he was in a frat or anything. Just a normal social group organized primarily around drinking and doing stupid things while taking pictures of themselves. Definitely not a bro.
“I remember the last time I hung out with you dudes,” Little Beef proclaimed.
“She was the president of the frat,” Just Doesn’t Get It stage whispered.
“Hush!” yelled Little Beef. “It used to be we’d slam a double-ended dildo in you guyses mouth to shut you guys up.”
“I heard that ended when someone bit it off,” Udder Moron whispered back.
“Here’s the broffeur of the hour,” Good Shit Lollicock bowed to Hand Pump. Muff Daddy rolled his eyes and counted his cash.
“You know the last time I saw your face, I fell over and faceplanted in my front yard.”
“And to think,” Hand Pump remarked to Cosmopolitits. “I took up with this group because they were the nicest of all our clients at the time.”
“That’s Stinko de Drinko for you,” Fuck Norris whispered.
On All Fours looked down at her shiny new boat shoes, pulling Cuming Mutha in front of her as Five Angry Inches paced by.
“Everyone take a deep breath in,” My Little Porno commanded. “And out.”
Prison Wallet jumped all over Gondalerrhea and licked him thoroughly, forcing him out of the downward dog pose.
“I don’t think even the hash can turn yoga into bro-havior,” Hello Titties whispered to Gloryhole.
“Oh yeah?” muttered Crabs.
“I started late and look at how I’m almost done,” Eat My Pussy proclaimed. “All of the poses, and you all had nearly thirty minutes on me.”
“Dude, do you think I should be in lululemon for this or is my North Face fleece ok?” Shaft asked Big Cock Chains.
“Neither of those are gonna show off your guns,” Gingervitis advised. “Go for a singlet, fuck the weather.”
“Dude, this rep is so intense,” Tongluess’s Penis groaned.
“You’ve got it bro, you’re a beast,” Jack the Ripper encouraged him. “This brogram is the most brolicious thing I’ve experience in all of Bro Francisco, and that’s saying something.”
Tuna looked down at the creature she had wrought, closed her eyes, and shuddered.