"Hey, I heard Rae tell my sister once that Zimmerman and I should just make out and get it over with back when he was alive, so it seems like a general chick thing." The thought made Brandon's skin crawl—not that he was some homophobe or anything, it just wasn't for him. And if she thought that she was going to get him to crack that easy, she had another thing coming. "Make you a deal. You make out with Rae and I'll talk to him about it," he teased. It seemed like it was filed under the "not gonna happen" category, anyway. "I don't think I'll be a pirate. Maybe I'll throw on my dress blues and call it good." That'd get her attention. Maybe.
With a pause and a smirk, he nodded at the TV screen. "Go as Ilsa," he suggested. "Rae can do your hair and my sister can make you a dress or some shit. You said you wanted to be her, so..." he shrugged.
Brandon grinned wryly. "Oh fuck yeah. Ten times is even being nice to me. He's probably about fifty times nicer than me on his worst day." Brandon was a total douchebag, and he was completely at peace with that. "There was this one girl at this cop bar Reg and I used to hit all the time. She would always try the stupidest fucking pickup lines on me. Those lines you hear assholes in movies using? One chick I never fucking slept with and never would if my life depended on it," he snorted a laugh. "Don't worry, I fit my fair share of stereotypes, too. I'm a fucking meathead after all, right?" That was what most people thought, anyway, so he played into it a lot of the time.
"It's all in positioning. If you can shift it just right then it doesn't fucking matter what you're wearing. Not really, anyway. But yeah, the bigger it is the more uncomfortable it looks, in most situations. I remember this one time my ex dared me to dress in tights?" He winced and made a face. "First, last and only time I'd ever fucking do that."
He shrugged. "Cute means more than a kid type thing, you know," he told her. "Why, what would you rather me say?"
She called him a Ken doll and he looked down at himself again. "I do not look like a fucking Ken doll. For one, and I know from experience playing with my niece," he pointed out, "Ken dolls are not anatomically fucking correct." And it was hard as hell to hold a straight face while he talked. "And for two, I won't let you try and put me in a fucking pansy ass outfit." He looked back up at her. "Only shit that won't cramp my style, I'm serious." He paused, then smirked at her last comment. "That so?" he asked her, a mischievous gleam in his eye.
"We've all got our shit, Bea. I wouldn't expect you to judge me for mine, and I'm not gonna judge you for yours." And that was all there was to it.