Monday, April 28, 2014

Fifty Shades of Satire (Chapter 8a)

Christian is pacing back and forth in panic. He runs a hand through his hair, then the other, and then his feet. He's looking more Brad Pittiful than Brad Pitt.
     I look up.
     Holy cow! It's already Chapter Eight and still no chitty chitty bang bang? The way it looks, I'm going to have to buy Christian's little soldier some ginkgo biloba, because it's forgotten how to stand at attention. When it comes to getting lucky with Mr. Rich Guy, it seems I'd have a better chance defeating Tywin Lannister for the control of Westeros. I'd go on, but, like an aging Ron Jeremy, I've only got one or two good metaphors in me and then I'm ready for a nap.
     I offer Christian my hand and help him up from the fetal position he's curled up in on the floor.
     "Why didn't you tell me you've never had sex?" he asks.
     "I did," I answer.
     "When was that?"
     "When you weren't listening."
     "Darn right I wasn't!" He shakes his head. "And to think, all of the filthy disgusting things I wanted to do to you."
     "You make sex sound so... so... dirty."
     "Sex IS dirty... if you do it right. Sex is like a roller coaster, Ana. It's fast, it's furious, and on a hot day you really sweat a lot." He eyes me a crotch level, because that's where the joke is. "You're what, twenty-one? Your hoo-hah's almost past it's expiration date, and you haven't even been kissed."
     "I have so been kissed."
     "Pets and stuffed animals don't count."
     "I'm not talking about pets and stuffed animals. Although, I did kiss my dog once, but that was the only time."
     "It made him throw up."
     "I'm talking about a man, Ana. Have you ever been kissed by a man?"
     "My grandfather kissed me goodbye once."
     "How was it?"
     "He slipped me the tongue."
     "How is this even possible, Ana? You're beautiful in an ugly kind of way. I don't understand why there hasn't been a long line of men waiting to take advantage of you."
     I'm on the verge of tears. My bottom lip is quivering like public housing at the Andreas fault line.
     I look at Christian Grey. He's eyeing that very bottom lip. He wants that very bottom lip. My bottom lip is like a magnet to his steely resolve. Like catnip to a kitty. Like an all-you-can-eat buffet to Monica Lewinski.
     He cups my chin between his thumb and forefinger and gives it a nice wiggle.
     "It's nothing to be ashamed of," he tells me. "Ana, you don't understand. I'm not just some kind of monster, I am a monster. You don't know what you'd be getting yourself into."
     I do my best Groucho Marx impersonation.
     "But I'd know what you'd be getting into," I tell him, wagging an imaginary cigar in my imaginary hand.
     "Run, Ana," he begs. "Run as fast as you can."
     "Oh, Christian," I over-emote, "is the thought of making whoopee with me that disgustipating to you? Am I that hideous to look at?"
     "No, Ana. It's just that the last virgin I dated was a disappointing lover. She just laid there, waiting for the Rohypnol to wear off. Later, she would bring her cat. That stupid thing would never stop spitting and scratching and crying and biting. The cat was nice, though."
     I look deep into his eyes where I see Vladimir Putin.
Knock, Knock!
"Who's there?"
"Vladimir Putin."
"Vladimir Putin who?"
"Ol' Vladimir sure is Putin the screws to the Ukraine."
     "Christian," I tell him, "I want this. I want this. Don't be such a passive-aggressive."
     "I'm not a passive-aggressive," he corrects me. "I'm aggressively passive."
     "I don't care what you are. You promised me, and I'm holding you to that promise."
     "And I'm a man of my word, Ana. Unfortunately, that word is 'sicko'."
     "I don't care, Christian. I. Don't. Care." My voice is a staccato, which I think is some kind of Italian food. That makes me hungry.
     "As you wish," Christian finally gives in.
     He lifts me in his arms. How romantic, he's going to carry me to his bed. He takes two steps and puts me down.
     "Um," he says, breathing heavily. From the excitement, I think. "You don't mind walking the rest of the way, do you?"
     "No," I tell him.
     "Fine, fine," he says. "Give me a few seconds. I'll catch up."
     I go to the bed and take off all my clothes. Finally, some action. Now I get to experience... Hey! Is that a transporter?
     "A transporter?" he asks.
     "You know, like in Star Trek."
     "My dear, the technology to 'beam' something from one place to another doesn't exist. You must be as smart as you are beautiful."
     Er.. ah... wha?
     Christian stands before me. Naked. Not a stitch of clothing on. I can't help it, my eyes are drawn to his bo diddley, because it helps the joke. It reminds me of Vin Diesel, bald and inarticulate.
     I bite my bottom lip in anticipation. He drools in response. Pavlov's dork.
     "I've wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you," he tells me, finally getting his wind back.
     "What? Bite my bottom lip?" I say, pretending a coyness I don't possess. I lost it betting on the Cowboys.
     "No," he says. "Show you my Vin Diesel impression."
     He looks at me laying before him. A feast ready to be consumed.
     "Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?" he asks me, out of the blue.
     "I do have a tattoo," I tell him.
     "You do?"
     "Yes," and I show him. "It's the Chinese character for 'Yo Quiero Taco Bell'."
     "I was thinking more along the lines of a full-sized picture of a thin body tattooed over your fat one."
     Geez... all this conversation. I'm hoping it doesn't affect my ability to have an orgasm. Kate tells me that everything affects a woman's orgasm.
     "What about men?" I remember asking her.
     "For men," she told me, "only two things will: pepper and spray."
     Fortunately, I don't see either of those items.
     Christian climbs into bed with me.
     "Get ready, Ana," he tells me. "Get ready for the most exciting night of your life."
     I am so ready for this. I've only been waiting my whole life to... to... zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
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