Making a dick joke was a strategic error. You put the subject on the metaphorical table. You're now thinking about troll dick.

Dave nods. "Most of the inhabitants of this sorry rock," he confides, "cry themselves to sleep at night at the knowledge that you beat them to the incomparable prize of Dave Strider's undivided affections." There's not enough irony left in this poor depleted universe to sustain statements like that very often, so he kisses Tavros again before he can talk himself into actual sincere confession time.

In which Dave realizes that the situation is stupid in the most ironically enjoyable way.

“Dave, um.” You haven’t seen Tavros this thunderstruck in a while. He points at you with one long, clawed finger. “What are you wearing?” “Oh this?” You tilt your head so that the light catches on your shades, the corners of your mouth quirked in the faintest of grins. “You can thank Egbert for pointing out the irony in our failing to ironically incorporate a literal interpretation of your preferred IM handle into our sex lives. Though we might have to sit him down and have a talk about the appropriateness of buying lingerie for another dude’s dude, if you know what I mean.”

For the meme. Tavros grows wings.

It's not a glamorous job, but you can set your own hours, the pay rate is good now that you know what you're doing, and it leaves you with enough free time to enjoy your hobbies. You like to think you're doing pretty well for yourself.