[Who says Dave's joking?]

I'll disguise them tastefully as fancy flowers, and you'll never know. Only me.

[He's not laughing outright--he's still riding the self-satisfaction too much (the actual happiness, the feeling that he did something good) to ruin his seated peacock preening--but the wide grin is in his voice, humor light on his tongue. He bobs his head to the side.]

Well, me and Jade, probably, because I bet Jade will know all the flowers that look like peen and can advise me on the goofiest ones to embroider in.

[He removes one hand to gesture grandly. The scope of his nefarious scheme is a wide one, motherfuckers.]

You'll always have to wonder if you're sporting fine menswear slathered in literal hidden image cock. Like one of those optical illusion pieces you've gotta go cross-eyed to make out. The perfect gift. Shit, I should market this pronto.

[And then, with enough bullshit delivered, apparently, Dave returns to birthday snuggles and lowers his voice again, like he does when he means stuff.]

I was thinking. Shirt sleeves, pants pockets? That way you don't have a huge piece of stitching to rub you weird on the inside of your shit.