“El? Um, that omelet I promised you?”

Ella dropped her head, a mock frown.

“Well, it turns out there was just one egg.”

“That one,” said Ella, nodding to the egg in Van’s hand.

Van returned the nod.

“Then you meant to say ‘there is just one egg.’” She smiled. “No time like the present.”

Van wrinkled his mouth.

“So what do you propose we do?” Ella asked, reaching out, cupping the cap of Van’s cock. “With one egg we can’t even make decent pancakes.”

“How about indecent pancakes?” Van said.

“I’m not sure they’d be fluffy enough,” Ella said.

“You’re right. I know how you crave fluffy.”

“Well, when it comes to pancakes, I’m a craven creature.”

“So that leaves us the question of what to do with this egg,” Van said. “You can’ make an omelet without...”

“Breaking some eggs.” Ella gave Van’s penis an affectionate squeeze. “Eggs plural. So how about we play a one-egg game.”

“You mean like at picnics, where you carry the egg in a spoon across the room?”

“I had something else in mind,” Ella said.

“Pray tell.”

“They say it’s very difficult to break an egg simply by squeezing it in your hand.”

“They do?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you want me to squeeze the egg in my hand? To try to break it?”

“Exactly.”

“And how is this a game?”

“While you’re squeezing the egg, I’ll be squeezing your cock.”

“And the object is...?”

“For you and the egg to come simultaneously.”

“Ella, you’re so ... inventive.”

“One thing though.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know about the light.”

“What about the light?”

“Kitchen light isn’t really erotic, is it? I don’t think it’s conducive to ... I mean the egg deserves some respect.”

“What about my cock? Doesn’t it deserve ... Oh, now I get it.”

“Get what?”

“The joke. Which came first, the chicken, i.e. my cock, or...”