The first thought that comes to mind when you enter the restaurant is “clean”, which is one of the reasons it’s my favorite. It’s got a modern-art aesthetic, with chrome dominating all the surfaces. Hell, even the tablecloths look metallic, as they’re made from some type of tinfoil that’s replaced between each customer’s visit—another reason I like this place.
Sitting at the bar are my folks, and though I can see their reflections in the mirrored wall, they haven’t noticed me.
Octomom looks as amazingly youthful as always. She could easily pass for my older sister, and therefore looks a bit like Cate Blanchett in the later parts of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Dad looks like he should be very rich to be with a woman like her, except he isn’t—he just hasn’t aged as well. Octomom says he looked like Bob Dylan when he was young, but now he looks like a hybrid between Danny Devito and Jeff Bridges: a shaggy beard, a beanie hat that hides his bald spot, and last but not least, a thin silver ponytail scrounged up from the hair that’s left.
“Wait here,” I tell Tigger. “I’ll introduce you in a second.”
He nods, and I go over to the bar to clear my throat.
Mom turns, beaming, and puts her hands in a yoga greeting. “Namaste, sunshine.”
“Thing 2.” Dad pats my shoulder, his face lighting up with a goofy grin. “Are you tense? Uncentered? My shoulder rubs have gotten even better.”
Oh, yes, I almost forgot that I’m Thing 2. Since my twin was the first to leap out of Mom’s uterus, she’s considered “the oldest” and Dad calls her Thing 1 (out of 8).
Octomom narrows her eyes at me. “You are Gia, right?”
Since I made my twin pretend to be me at the last “get-together with Gia,” I can’t blame her for being suspicious.
“I’m Gia,” I say. “I swear.”
“Prove it,” Octomom says.
“Downton Abbey sucks,” I say solemnly. They don’t look convinced, so I add, “It’s called a bathroom, not the loo. Elevator, not a lift… and I like the number four.” They’re almost convinced by the last bit since my twin abhors any numbers that aren’t prime to the point where she might’ve looked pained to lie about it.
Before I can come up with something even more convincing, Octomom lunges at me and gives my hair a vicious tug.
“Ouch!” I yelp. “Are you crazy? It’s attached.”
She releases me and nods approvingly. “Not a wig. Might be Gia this time. That or she colored her hair.”
I turn to Tigger and give him a “watch this” look.
“Here,” I say, turning back to my parents. “Can Holly do this?”
With that, I perform the magic trick I prepared for today. It’s a type of levitation where my legs are bent backward as though I’m in a sitting position, making it so my butt floats in the air, defying gravity.
When Neo was dodging bullets in The Matrix, he would do this in slow motion.
This trick is part of the routine I’m preparing for my eventual show. During an actual performance, I’d follow this up with the iconic forty-five-degree lean-forward à la Michael Jackson in “Smooth Criminal.”
“Wow,” Tigger exclaims, and it’s music to my ears. “How?”
Other restaurant patrons express similar sentiments, which makes me feel more confident about adding this trick to the show.
“It’s Gia all right,” Octomom says.
I straighten and wink at them. “As I said. Now come, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
I drag them over to where Tigger is standing, mouth still agape from my awesome display of powah.
“These are my parents, Crystal and Harry Hyman,” I say to Tigger. Then I gesture at Tigger as though he were a museum exhibit. “Mom, Dad, this is Anatolio Cezaroff.”
“Call me Tigger,” he says.
Octomom recovers first and launches herself at Tigger, enveloping him in a huge hug.
“Mom,” I say sternly when the hug goes on longer than what is socially acceptable. With as much sarcasm as I can muster, I ask, “Don’t you want to give Dad a chance to hug my date also?”
When Octomom reluctantly disconnects, her cheeks are flushed and her smile disturbingly coquettish—not that I can blame her.
Oblivious to my sarcasm, Octodad dives for his hug. A moment into it, he starts feeling up Tigger’s back.
“Dad.” My voice is even sterner. “We should get to our table.”
Octodad disengages and looks worriedly at Tigger. “Your shoulders are so tense.”
Tigger shrugs. “I think I’m overwhelmed by your daughter’s beauty.”
Boy, does this feel good. Tigger is turning me into a flattery junkie. Before I know it, I’ll be turning magic tricks for a fix.
Fuck.
While I was basking in the compliment, Octodad grabbed Tigger’s hand and is now dragging him to a nearby chair.
“Sit,” he says. “I’m going to recharge your batteries.”
Looking a little stunned, Tigger sits down, and Octodad begins massaging his princely shoulders with his hairy, sausage-like fingers.
Is this a battery recharge or an assault? Octodad works with such vigor his silver ponytail trembles like a seismograph during an earthquake.
Meanwhile, Octomom looks on with envy.
On my end, I want to scream from embarrassment—a sentiment that Tigger doesn’t seem to share. If anything, he seems to be enjoying the impromptu massage. But of course. What did I expect? This is a guy who doesn’t get perturbed when standing with his cock out in a coffee shop.
Why is this happening? What have I done to Octodad for him to behave like this? Did my unwillingness to let him hug me drive him to get handsy with my date?
“Dad,” I plead. “Come on.”
“One sec, just a quick head rub,” Octodad says and begins massaging Tigger’s skull. “Do you feel it? The energy?”
I’m going to need therapy. Maybe it was living with nine females that did Octodad in? Or did he witness a Zombie Tit Massacre of his own?
The other patrons are beginning to stare as well. Between my earlier trick and now this, they’ll remember us forever.
“You have to stop,” I growl at my father.
“Just one more thing,” he says and kneels at Tigger’s feet.
I’m speechless.
Is he going to offer him a reenergizing blowjob?
“Take off your shoes,” Octodad says.
Nope. It’s even worse. “Dad,” I grit out. “What the hell?”
“I’m a master at foot massaging,” Octodad says proudly. “Just ask your mother.”
“Sir,” a new voice says, and I pray it’s a voice of reason. “This table is reserved for a party of two.”
I turn and give a grateful look to the hostess, who’s wearing a stoic expression.
“Are you the Hymans?” She says this as an accusation instead of a question.
My nod looks a bit like I’m hanging my head in shame.
“Come this way.” She gestures to the other side of the restaurant.
Tigger leaps to his feet and helps Octodad stand up.
“What a gentleman,” Octomom says approvingly.
It turns out that the hostess wants us to sit in a private alcove. She’s even giving us a table that’s clearly meant for a bigger group. I wonder why.
“There will be no foot massage,” I hiss into Octodad’s ear when Tigger takes the lead.
“Why not?” my father whispers.
“I don’t know where to start,” I hiss back. “How about this: taking shoes off in a restaurant is unhygienic.”
“Oh, yeah,” Octodad says. “You’re Gia for sure.”
Upon reaching the table, Tigger pulls out a chair for Octomom, prompting her to begin drooling.
Octodad looks at me pleadingly. “Can I sit next to him?”
Okay. I have a new theory about my male parent’s apparent insanity. He sees Tigger as the son he never had. After all, it’s not a secret how much he’s always wanted one. Both Octoparents have. After girl twins, they used assisted reproduction technology in the hopes of getting a male child. When cruel fate gave them girl sextuplets instead, Octodad lost a marble… or six.
Tigger pulls a chair for me next to Octomom. “Sure thing.”
Hey, at least if I sit side by side with her, I won’t be embarrassed by the lustful looks she’s shooting at my fake date.
A waiter appears out of thin air. “Can I get you some drinks?”
I ask for a sealed water bottle while everyone else goes for the restaurant’s signature drink: sangria with Rioja wine, peaches, nectarines, and pears.
“So,” Octomom says to Tigger when the waiter is gone. “Are you really Gia’s boyfriend?”
Shit. This is what happens when you have a trickster reputation.
“Of course,” Tigger says. “Who else would I be?”
“A male friend pretending to be one,” Octomom says.
Tigger smirks. “I don’t believe a straight man like me and a woman as gorgeous as Gia could ever be platonic friends.”
Even though he’s teasing me about Waldo, all I can focus on is the “as gorgeous as” bit. I know he’s just playing a role here, but it still feels amazing to hear. That addiction to compliments is imminent.
Octomom’s forehead furrows. “You might be the boyfriend of one of her many sisters, who’s returning a favor. My daughters are all about exchanging favors, like gangsters.”
Tigger winks at me. “Your daughter has a cute birthmark under her right breast. Would the boyfriend of one of her sisters know that?”
That birthmark is tiny. How closely was he looking at me?
Also, I love that he thinks it’s cute.
Mom strokes her chin. “Her twinsie knows about the birthmark, and so might the other sisters.”
I heave a sigh. “This is ridiculous. Tell me honestly, if Tigger were your boyfriend, would you let any other woman borrow him?”
Octomom looks thoughtful. “Good point. He’s not a borrow.”
Our drinks arrive, and the waiter places the menus in front of us before leaving.
Eyeing Tigger speculatively, Octodad pours sangria for everyone except me. “Maybe he’s a male escort?”
I roll my eyes. “If he were an escort, I wouldn’t be able to afford him.”
“Not true.” Tigger grins at me. “I’d give you an amazing rate.”
“See,” Octodad says triumphantly.
I shake my head. “Please take out your phones and google ‘Anatolio Cezaroff.’”
While they do so, I unscrew my water bottle and take a sip.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out and sneak a peek.
It’s a text from Tigger.
Your parents are sweethearts, especially compared to mine.
Well, it’s a relief that he feels that way so far. I was half expecting him to run away screaming by now.
Just wait, I reply.
He grins and sips his sangria.
“Wow.” Octodad looks up from his phone with a stunned expression. “You’re a prince?”
Tigger shrugs. “It sounds fancier than it is.”
“And you’re from Ruskovia,” Octomom says in awe. “Did you know her twin’s boyfriend is from Russia?”
“I’ve met him,” Tigger says. “A nice guy… for a Russian.”
“Many Eastern Europeans don’t like Russia, thanks to their Soviet past,” Octodad says in a professorial tone.
“Tell us what Ruskovia is like.” Octomom is almost bouncing in excitement. “And what it’s like to grow up as a royal.”
Sipping his drink, Tigger tells them some of the things I’ve already heard, but I learn a few new tidbits too, like that his family has an honest-to-goodness motto: “In tradition, strength.”
After he tells them what he does for a living, he asks them the same, and I cringe.
“I’m a penetration tester,” Octodad says proudly. “But it’s not what you might think.”
“He penetrates computers,” I say with an eyeroll.
“No, I penetrate computer systems,” Octodad says.
“And me,” Octomom adds with a grin.
“Of course.” Octodad looks at his wife as if she were a slice of ham. “Though that’s a hobby, not a job.”
Shoot me now. If they start talking about their sex lives, Tigger will run for sure—and I’ll sink through the floor.
“And what do you do?” Tigger asks Octomom, unfazed.
“I’m a chick sexer,” she answers with relish.
“Which also sounds like my hobby,” Octodad says with a wink.
My eyes are tired from all the rolling. “Mom helps large commercial hatcheries separate baby chickens into male and female.”
Octomom sighs. “Nowadays, I do more around our farm since my job is slowly being replaced by in-ovo sexing.”
I start typing a text to Tigger under the table:
Please do not ask what she does on the farm.
Too late. Before I can click “send,” he asks that very thing.
“Do you know what you want?” the waiter asks, appearing next to me.
Everyone looks at one another.
“I know what I’m having,” I say. “I’ve been here before.”
“Why don’t you order as we check the menu?” Octomom says.
Whew. The farm question is forgotten.
“I’ll have the Pan Tumaca,” I say to the waiter. To everyone else, I explain, “This is their signature dish. A yummy toasted bread with salty tomato and olive oil.”
“I’ll get the same,” Octomom says.
“I’ll get a Tortilla Española,” Octodad says.
“That’s a potato-and-egg omelet,” I tell him.
“I knew that,” he says, but I can tell he’s lying. “I want it.”
“I’m very hungry,” Tigger says, his eyes roaming the menu. “I’ll get a Pan Tumaca also, and a Tortilla Española, and chorizo.”
All blood drains from my face. “Chorizo is sausage.”
It was also not on the menu before, or else this place would’ve ceased to be my favorite.
Tigger closes the menu and hands it to the waiter. “Yeah. Pork sausage. I went hang gliding in Spain last year. Love that stuff.”
It takes all my willpower to keep my mouth shut regarding sausage. I know from experience that my truths are not welcome at the table.
But seriously, sausage? Hang gliding is way safer. Sausage is made from all the parts of an animal that no one wants to buy. No other food item has had more media coverage, everything from foodborne illnesses down to the grossest stuff I’ve ever heard—like when they found human DNA even in the vegetarian versions. And the worst part? The traditional casing for sausages is intestines.
It’s like some butcher’s idea of a cruel joke.
On a separate note, it reminds me of the Dos Equis ad where, “when he goes to Spain, he chases the bulls.”
“Great choices,” the waiter says. “The chorizo especially—it’s a new item. The chef makes it from scratch from Mangalitsa pigs.”
Ugh. At least this is a fancy place, so the chef might use high-quality cuts of meat. Hopefully, that means Tigger will survive this.
“To answer your earlier question,” Octomom says when the waiter leaves. “I do everything at the farm, but my favorite is husbandry.”
Shit. Octomom is like a fucking elephant. If it leads to embarrassment, she won’t forget.
I give Tigger my best “please don’t ask” look, but he doesn’t seem to get it and raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
Sure enough, Octomom tells him the story of how she brought Petunia—a piggie who was like a pet to us growing up—to orgasm during an artificial insemination session.
“It improves the chance of piglets by six percent,” Octomom says proudly.
Dammit. Is she thinking of switching jobs from chick sexer to pig orgasm bringer?
Tigger just nods.
I hope that picturing Mom mounting and fisting Petunia ruins his appetite for that chorizo.
“Anyway,” I say, looking from one parent to the other. “Tell us about your New York tourist adventures.”
This has to be safer than farm topics, right?
Tigger sits straighter. Being more or less a tourist himself, he’s clearly interested.
“So much to tell,” Mom says. “Yesterday, we went to a foot party.”
Is that what I think it is? Please let it not be.
Tigger arches an eyebrow. “A foot party?”
“It’s a get-together for people with a foot fetish,” Octomom says.
Sadly, it is what I guessed.
By Houdini’s toes, what have I done to deserve this?
Before anyone can elaborate—and I know they want to—our waiter comes back with a tray.
As the plates are placed in front of everyone, I wish most reverently that they’ll forget this topic of conversation, but I know they won’t.
Yep, as soon as the waiter is gone and Octodad tastes his omelet, he says, “To spice things up, we’ve been researching all sorts of kinks.”
I bite into my bread with desperation. Maybe a miracle will happen and they’ll follow my example, stuffing their mouths with so much food that they’ll stop talking.
“Yeah.” Octomom picks up her bread. “Turns out, we both like foot play.”
Nooooo. I can’t unhear that. Also, with that disturbing new information in mind, was Octodad trying to get kinky with Tigger when he offered him that foot massage earlier?
Should I be jealous of my own father?
“The food is getting cold,” I say and give my Pan Tumaca another huge bite.
That seems to help. Everyone attacks their meal, and there’s blissful silence for a couple of minutes.
As I’m eating my second Pan Tumaca, my phone vibrates.
It’s a text from Tigger.
Impressive. I didn’t even see him type. Then again, I’m doing my best not to watch him eat the sausage, because yuck.
Once again, myodik. Love your initiative.
What? The last time he said that was when he thought I intentionally took his video call with a dildo in my hand.
Was I just eating my bread seductively? Licking tomato from my lips?
I peer at him.
His lids are hooded, like I’m doing more than eating to seduce him.
What the fuck?
I sneak a glance at Octomom to see if she’s noticed.
Octomom has a piece of bread in her hand, but something is off about her posture. She’s slumped low in her chair, almost as if—
No. Please no.
I raise the metallic tablecloth and use my phone as a flashlight.
For a second, I refuse to believe the information my eyes are sending back to my brain, as every little detail adds to a truly disturbing whole.
Octomom’s shoe is off, which is bad. Her foot is naked, which is worse. And it’s clear she’s taken the foot fetish to heart: she has on an impeccable purple nail polish, an ankle bracelet, and a toe ring.
Of course, what makes my brain hurt is not the adornments on her foot, but what it is doing—and where.
It’s rubbing a humongous pants tent… on Tigger’s crotch.