Chapter 17
The cheers and the chants of “Go, Katie! Go, Katie!” die down after Delia’s toast to the bride-to-be.
Katie swallows the last of her sparkling wine and holds up the glass in victory.
Suddenly, she slams her hand over her mouth and emits a loud, rumbly belch that threatens to rattle the chocolates off the shelves. The rest of the party erupts in hysterical laughter.
“Great! Let’s get started,” Delia announces, completely unperturbed.
So much for the quiet cozy chocolate workshop I hoped might have me feeding Hannah delicious sensual morsels and her licking the melted bits from my fingers.
This is like being…well, it’s like being the only guy at a raucous, drunker-by-the-second bachelorette party for a stranger. Which is every bit as excruciating as it sounds.
It doesn’t help that the women have already dubbed me The Hot Brit. Even though my accent is a mash-up. Americans say I sound British, Brits say I sound American. So I guess my accent is another part of me that isn’t sure where it belongs.
Hannah rubs her hands together with glee, enjoying every second of my torture.
Fuck, I’m a fool for booking us into this.
But since Hannah won’t let us leave and the aim of my game here is to make her happy, which, watching me hate every second of this seems to be successfully achieving, I’m stuck with it.
“Okay,” Delia says from her table facing the class, “you now all have three bowls of melted chocolate in front of you—dark, milk, and white. And we’re going to need to work swiftly before they start to set.”
“Excellent. The sooner we’re done, the better,” I say to myself.
“That’s not exactly getting into the spirit, is it?” Hannah whispers with an evil grin.
“The spirit of chocolate dicks is not a spirit I ever wish to enter into,” I whisper back.
She sucks in her lips to contain her smile as Delia continues.
“First, pick the color you want your penis to be.” She says it matter-of-factly, as if asking someone which shade of paint they’d like for their dining room walls.
“What color will your penis be, Tom?” Hannah asks way louder than necessary. She’s trying to keep a poker face but seems unable to prevent her mouth from twitching at the corners.
“I’m using milk,” Maid of Honor says in a deep, husky voice. “Definitely milk. Velvety. And smooth.”
“Pearly white and never seen the sun,” Mother of the Bride declares. “It’s what I’m used to.”
Hannah grabs a napkin and snorts into it, while Katie makes a barf face at the reference to her father’s genitals.
Jesus Christ, these women are terrifying. And as someone who’s had to literally push back gangs of frenzied fans swarming around a band’s moving tour van, that’s saying something.
“You know what, Delia?” Hell, if we’re stuck here, I might as well go all in and play them at their own game. “Think I’ll use a bit of each and have a striped one.”
Maid of Honor shoots me a suggestive eyebrow raise over her shoulder.
“Very creative, Tom,” Delia calls over the two rows of penis head-boppers. “But before we pour the chocolate into the mold, we first need to make the testicles.”
“Oh, I definitely know how I like my balls,” Bridesmaid #1 says.
“Excellent,” Delia says without flinching. “You all have two smaller bowls to your right. One containing a peanut butter filling, the other chocolate truffle. Choose whichever you prefer and roll them into balls that will fit in the scrotum part of the mold.”
“Practice your technique, Katie,” Mother of the Groom says. “You need to keep my son happy for the rest of his life.”
Hannah and I side-eye each other at the exact same moment. This woman is asking Katie to be sure to massage her son’s testicles in a pleasing manner.
“Oh, she already knows how to deliver a good nut suck, don’t you, Katie?” Maid of Honor says.
I was about to spoon out some peanut butter. But not now. I straighten and turn to Hannah. “We have to go.”
“Nope,” she says, rolling a lump of truffle between her palms. “Aren’t you having fun? Getting a little teste?” She holds up the truffle ball between her thumb and forefinger like I might not get her very amusing joke.
“Does everyone have two balls?” Delia calls out over all the giggling.
“Only him,” Bridesmaids #1 and #2 say at the same time, pointing at me.
According to everyone else in the bachelorette party, that’s the most hilarious thing said by any human ever.
“How are your balls coming along, Tom?” Delia asks.
And that one tips Hannah over the edge. She leans forward, gripping the sides of her table, her body shaking. When was the last time she had a good laugh like that? I don’t care that it’s at my expense—it’s worth enduring all the horrendous parts of this evening to see her let go and have fun.
“Almost there, Delia.” I take some peanut butter mixture and rapidly form it into two spherical shapes I refuse to refer to as balls.
“Great. Now pour a little of your chosen chocolate into the scrotum, just to coat the mold. Then drop the balls on top. One in each sack.”
“Did she think someone might try to squeeze two into one if she didn’t specify?” I whisper to Hannah.
“We have no idea what bachelorette-related chocolate disasters she has in her past,” Hannah replies, plopping her truffles onto the layer of chocolate now in her mold.
Delia’s eyes scan the room, checking that we’re all keeping up. “Fabulous. Now take the rest of the melted chocolate and fill up the mold with it. Make sure those balls don’t float away now!”
“Can we make them sag a little more?” Mother of the Bride asks. “I haven’t seen a pair this taut for decades.”
“Mom,” Katie protests. “I don’t need to hear about Dad’s droopy balls.”
“Well, they’re where you came from,” Mother of the Bride retorts, slopping the last of her white chocolate into the mold.
“Everybody done?” Delia asks. There’s a murmur of agreement around the room. And I have to say, my striped effort is working well. I’d be delighted with it if it were shaped like anything else.
“Pick them up carefully and follow me,” Delia says. “We need to let them rest in the fridge for a few minutes or so to chill.”
“To harden, you mean,” Maid of Honor says, glancing at me again.
Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.
“Yup, we need to get them all nice and firm,” Mother of the Groom adds with a little too much delight.
I brace myself for a follow-up about how monumental her son’s erection probably is, but thankfully she picks up her mold and follows the others to the back of the shop where Delia is holding the fridge door open.
“Come on,” Hannah says. “Pick up your penis.”
“I could learn to dislike you, you know.” But I do, indeed, pick up the bendy pink rubber mold.
“Slide it in,” Bridesmaid #1 says to a peal of laughter as Katie puts hers in the fridge.
“Mine’s a tight fit, but I think I can squeeze it in,” says Bridesmaid #2.
Now they’re all laughing so hard they might be in danger of puking.
“Tom, Hannah. Don’t lurk at the back. Come on.” Delia beckons us toward the fridge and the gaggle of giggling, penis-headgear-wearing women.
“Do you always come last, Tom?” Maid of Honor asks as she cocks her hip and rests a hand on it.
The reaction is deafening.
Mother of the Bride throws her head back and howls. Katie leans on Bridesmaid #1’s shoulder as she doubles over. Bridesmaid #2 grabs her belly and cries, “Oh, too much,” while Mother of the Groom leans against the wall, her whole body rocking.
Hannah stops in her tracks, laughing. “Stop it, you guys.” She tries to focus on the chocolate mold she’s carrying. “Or my penis is going to slop everywhere.”
And they’re off again, all blocking my path so I can’t even get to the fridge.
“Tom,” Delia says, coming to my rescue and holding out her hand. “I’ll put it in for you.”
“Oh my God,” howls Mother of the Groom, as she slides down the wall till her backside hits the floor.
“Everyone has to stop,” Katie says, straightening her veil and wiping her tear-stained face. “I can’t breathe.”
“My stomach hurts,” Bridesmaid #2 says, gasping for air.
“Best. Bachelorette. Ever,” Bridesmaid #1 says between snorts.
I pass my mold to Delia with a quiet “Thank you,” only moderately confident that those words don’t contain some innuendo that’ll set them all off again.
Delia takes Hannah’s mold too, slides them both into the fridge, and takes out two more bottles of sparkling wine before closing the door.
“I’m delighted you’re all having such a good time,” she says. “I wanted Choc Full of Love to be a place of joy, and it looks like we’re managing that already.”
She pops open one of the bottles. “You can all enjoy another glass of fizz and browse the other goodies while we wait.”
“Is this really what women laugh about in private?” I ask Hannah, cupping my hand over my mouth. “Dick jokes?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes. Not usually in quite such a concentrated amount. But sometimes.”
“Here you go.” Delia arrives to top up our glasses. “Thank you for being great sports and joining in. Especially you, Tom.”
“It is quite the education. But I’m driving, so no more wine for me, thanks.” Which is a terrible shame because getting smashed is exactly what I could do with right now.
Delia smiles and heads off to refill the ladies’ glasses.
Hannah’s brow furrows as she watches them. “Does the bride seem a bit off to you? I know she was laughing along with everyone, but there’s kind of a sadness about her too.”
I hadn’t noticed, but looking at the women now, she’s right. Katie’s smiling and joining in, and she’s shrieked at the dick jokes, but she has an air of melancholy, a distant look in her eye.
“Cold feet?” I suggest to Hannah. “That happens, right?”
Hannah turns her attention to me. “Did you get cold feet before your wedding?”
My stomach knots. Thoughts about my wedding, my marriage, my ex-wife, are not something I want to invade our evening.
And it brings Louisa’s infuriatingly selfish demand for the house in France right back to the front of my mind. I’ve still not replied to her lawyer’s email or her text. Nor any of the half dozen increasingly impatient and entitled texts since.
Thankfully I’m saved by Delia starting a talk on the history of chocolate.
As she speaks, she points to a series of framed prints of antique illustrations and photos of cacao plantations and manufacturing equipment hanging on the back wall. “Cacao was domesticated in sixteenth-century Mexico, where the Aztecs developed it into a drinkable chocolate, and appreciation for the initially bitter treat later spread across Europe and to the United States.”
After more details of changes in the chocolate-making process over the years, she wraps up her account by opening the fridge door and peering inside.
“These are good to go,” she declares. “Come pick up your penises and we’ll get to decorating.”
All the women knock back their drinks and trot toward Delia, giggling and asking how “firm” or “hard” their chocolate is. The bride brings up the rear.
“Katie,” Hannah touches her arm as she passes by. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” Katie looks like she’s trying to brighten her expression. “This is such fun. And the gang are so funny.”
“Pardon me for asking.” Hannah lowers her voice. “It’s just that you seem a little down.”
Katie smiles a sad smile. “That’s so sweet of you to notice.”
And it is. Has motherhood given Hannah a sixth sense for these things?
“There was a bit of a hiccup with the honeymoon.” Katie pauses to swallow, her eyes filling up. “We’ve been saving for it for two years. Supposed to go to St. Lucia for a once-in-a-lifetime trip. But there was a fire at the hotel, and they’ve had to cancel everyone.”
“Haven’t they booked you in somewhere else?” I ask. Organizing might not be my strong point—chocolate penises, anyone?—but I sure as hell know how customer service is supposed to work.
“February is high season.” Katie sniffs and wipes her nose with the heel of her hand. “All the decent places are already full.”
The conversation is cut short by Mother of the Groom prodding Katie with her chilled chocolate mold. “Time to pimp your penis, daughter-in-law-to-be.”
Katie slaps on a smile and heads back to join the others at their workstations.
“I brought yours over for you,” Delia says, placing mine and Hannah’s on our tables before heading to the front of the class.
“Now to add the finishing touches,” she declares. “But take care as you peel them out of the molds. No one needs a broken penis.”
“Ha. Remember Alexander?” Bridesmaid #1 nudges Bridesmaid #2.
“Hell, yeah,” Bridesmaid #2 says. “That thing could see around corners.”
I’d hoped by now Hannah and I would be heading off into the night, our bellies full of delicious handmade candies, and I’d be about to get a taste of something even sweeter.
But instead, I find myself holding a fully solidified chocolate penis by its peanut butter balls. This is not how I’d ever expected this evening to go.
“Oooh, mine got air bubbles in it,” Katie says through a pout.
Maid of Honor leans over to take a look. “Kinda looks like genital warts.”
“You’ll find the base is flat,” Delia announces. “Stand them upright in front of you, and we’ll get to decoration.”
I look around the room. Every woman is standing in front of a vertical eight-inch penis. Some are light brown, some dark, and one—courtesy of the Mother of the Bride—is bright white.
“First let’s dip the balls,” Delia declares.
“That’s what Graham said to me on our first date,” Mother of the Bride quips.
Even I snort at that one.
Katie’s not so amused, though. “Again, Mom. Please. No Dad sex jokes.” She sticks out her tongue and makes a barfing noise.
“That’s the sound you’ll be making on your wedding night, Katie,” Bridesmaid #2 says.
“Nah, she’s practiced enough not to gag,” Maid of Honor adds.
“Okay.” Delia claps her hands to restore order. “There are a couple brushes on your table. Paint some melted chocolate onto the balls, then dip them in one of the pots of sprinkles. You should all have white, milk, dark, and rainbow.”
“You’re definitely doing rainbow, right?” Hannah says. “Just to make it more ridiculous?”
“Because without sprinkles this is not ridiculous?” I daub my chocolate balls with melted white chocolate, then dunk them in the dish of rainbow sprinkles
Bridesmaid #1 points at Mother of the Groom’s dark chocolate masterpiece, which now sports white chocolate-sprinkled testicles. “Yours looks like it’s got gray hair!”
“I’m going with what I know,” she says with pride.
“Then once you’re done,” Delia continues, “you can decorate the shaft with the brushes or the piping bags. Actually, I have some blueberry chocolate in the back if anyone would like that for veins.”
“Oh, I think I’m all good for veins,” I say, louder than intended and in a sudden silent moment in the room.
The women all erupt in laughter again, apart from Maid of Honor, who gives me another silent over-the-shoulder raised eyebrow.
Terrifying.
I turn to Hannah and lower my voice. “Please. Please can we go now?”
“We’re almost done,” Hannah says, painting trailing lines up the shaft of her penis.
“That’s a good idea,” Bridesmaid #2 says, indicating Mother of the Groom’s penis, now sporting white chocolate dripping from the head.
There’s a general murmur of agreement that hers is a truly inspired artistic addition, and within seconds every penis in the room gets a dollop of white chocolate ejaculate. Apart from Mother of the Bride’s, who, since her penis is already white, uses milk chocolate for the cum.
“Kind of looks like yours has diarrhea,” Mother of the Groom tells her, clearly an art critic in the making.
“You’re not going to—” I turn to look at Hannah’s. “Oh, you are.”
She beams at me and stands back to admire her work. “It came out great.”
“The decorations should set pretty quickly,” Delia says. “Just run your fingers over it lightly to check before you put it in your box.”
And that’s the final straw. It’s the fifteen thousandth dick joke that takes me down. I try to stop myself but fail miserably, dissolving into the same laughter as everyone else. I bang my forehead with my palm in frustration.
“I didn’t even mean it that way,” Delia protests.
But I’m pretty sure the innocent-looking candy-colored chocolate shop lady is a savvy businesswoman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
Hannah’s hand is on my shoulder. “See, I knew you’d have fun if you’d just give in to it.”
She’s holding her chocolate creation on a piece of parchment paper across the palm of her other hand. “But we can’t take these home. I don’t want Dylan, or Maggie and Jim, to see them.”
Shit. She’s right. I nod to the gaggle of women who’re topping up their glasses with one for the road and heading toward the shelves to browse the other chocolatey offerings. “Should we donate them to the cause?”
“Hell, no,” Hannah says. “This stuff smells delicious. I want to enjoy mine.”
She glances at the bachelorettes, who all have their backs to us. Then her eyes fix on mine as her tongue emerges from between her lips and she slowly—agonizingly slowly—licks some sprinkles off the left ball.
My non-chocolate gonads tighten, wishing for the first time in their lives that they were covered in bits of candy.
My heart rate rises as she glides her tongue up the shaft, scoops up some of the not quite set yet white chocolate cum and draws it into her mouth, half closing her eyes as she groans at its deliciousness.
Jesus fucking Christ, the last place I ever expected to get a hard-on was during a chocolate genital-making workshop surrounded by a bunch of horny, dick joke-making, semi-drunk bachelorettes. But apparently Hannah’s hotness trumps all that.
Her eyes flick again to the bachelorettes, who are still safely facing the other way. Then her lids drift half shut as her tongue re-emerges and runs under the rim. She opens her mouth wide and sucks on the tip, gliding her lips over it, and sighs. “God, this is good.”
“Okay, you dirty chocolate-lover.” I lift the dick from her hand. “Enough.”
I place the creation in the gift box on Hannah’s table, close the lid, and thrust it at her.
If I don’t get every part of me on every part of this woman in the next few seconds, there’ll be an accident that creates bachelorette party memories no one needs.