Race for a Penis!

The captivating beauty at the end of the bar, reading her book, caught my attention.
I ordered a drink and coughed loudly; nothing!
I stood, stretched my back as if to remove a nagging stiffness while nonchalantly halving the distance between us; I coughed again; more loudly!
She looked up from her paperback and glanced at me.

‘Hello’, I said ‘that must be a very good book.’

‘Yes’, she smiled, revealing her perfect pearly whites, ‘it is!’

‘What is it called?’ I enquired, smitten.

‘Oh, you wouldn’t be interested’, she blushed

‘Don’t be so sure, I am an avid reader’, I crooned; glad to be making any headway.

‘No, honestly’, she insisted. ‘It would not be your kind of book.’

‘Tell you what; if I have never heard of it, I’ll buy you lunch!’

‘You wouldn’t have, trust me’, she giggled sexily.

‘OK, I trust you but tell me anyway and cure my curiosity; I shall think of it all day and won’t sleep tonight if you don’t.’

‘Very well, it is titled ‘The Male Penis – Myths and Facts!’…see I told you that you wouldn’t be interested’, she laughed.

‘Au contraire’, I said – somewhat shakily – ‘I just happen to be in possession of one of afore-mentioned appendages and I attach rather a significant amount of importance to same.’ I smiled, in what I hoped was an engaging-stroke-sexy rather than Horney-stroke-‘can I please get in your knickers’ manner.

‘Ha-ha, OK’ she smaned.

‘So, what astounding facts or myths have you come up with?’

‘Well, I was just reading about the different races and…well it’s just silly anyway; I’m sure it is complete nonsense!’ she blushed – again.

‘Ah, well, you see now, I am intrigued, now I just have to know or seek medication to cure this longing for knowledge; I may have to go out and buy the book myself.’ I grinned.

‘Oh God, OK, just to save your embarrassment; it states here that the males with the longest penis’ come from the native American tribes and those with the thickest penis’ come from the Indian or Asian continent, ha-ha, so there you are that’s my revelation for the day’. Now she was beetroot and had rendered her carefully applied makeup superfluous. ‘By the way, my name is Karen Mitchell’ she offered. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Hiawatha Sitting Bull-Singe Patel’ I replied. ‘Lunch?’