Monday, April 28, 2014

Fifty Shades of Satire (Chapter 8)

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 Cersei 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 Vin Diesel movie, 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."
     "Why?"
     "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 Rosie O'Donnell.
     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 with her when she visited me. 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."
     "Thanks."
     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 Yul Brynner, bald and hard to understand.
     I bite my bottom lip in antici...PAYSHUN. 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 Yul Brynner 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.
   
     When I wake up, I see Christian standing at the foot of the bed taking off his Haz-Mat suit.
     He looks at me and smiles.
     "Was it good for you, darling Ana?"
     I look around. Why do I smell bacon grease?
     "Yes, darling..."
     "Call me Mr. Grey."
     "...it was wonderful. It was everything I dreamed it would be. It's just that... that..."
     "What?"
     "You know how a woman has an entrance and an exit?"
     "Yes."
     "Why does my exit hurt?"
     "I didn't plan on that, my darling. When I rolled you over, I thought you were flirting with me."
     He climbs back into bed with me. The lingering smell of the rubber suit is intoxicating.
     "So... I'm no longer a... a..."
     "No," he says, "not anymore."
     "Now I'm... I'm..."
     "Yes, now you are a woman."
     "A woman?"
     "Yes, a woman."
     "A woman."
     "That's right, a woman."
     "A woman..."
     "Yeah, a woman."
     "I can't believe it, I'm finally a..."
     "Ana..."
     "What?"
     "Shut up."
     We lay in bed, making small talk.
     "Did you have an orgasm?" he asks, and I love him for how he's always looking out for me. "Because I got mine."
     "I'm not sure," I tell him.
     "What do you mean you're not sure?"
     "I have no point of reference."
     "I'm sorry, my sweet dove. How thoughtless of me. Tell me, how do you feel?"
     "I feel guilty, like I've done something wrong. I also feel soiled and used and vaguely unsatisfied."
     "Well... that's exactly what an orgasm feels like," he says, giving himself a high-five. "Congratulations."
     That being settled, I look around. There's not one picture of himself or his family. Or any indication of who he is or what he likes to do. I ask him how he spends his time when he's not busy exploiting the poor.
     "Until I met you, I spent all my free time searching for my mother's killer."
     I sit up suddenly.
     "You did?" I ask him, my jaw dropping to the floor.
     "Yes," he tells me, "but they've all wanted too much money. I like you, Ana. I like you a lot. You listen, and that's a rare commodity in females. Before I met you, if I wanted a woman to listen to me, I'd have to begin each sentence with 'I'm rich" or 'Here's a dollar.'"
     I snuggle up in his arms, and he hugs me close.
     "Sleep, sweet Anastasia, sleep," he murmurs, a tear welling up in the corner of one eye, his good one.
     Christian Grey? Sad? I don't believe it.
     I close my eyes, the smell of the Chloroform comforting.
     So... Christian Grey has a sensitive side.
     What a wuss.
   
   
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Monday, April 7, 2014

Fifty Shades of Satire (Chapter 7)

The first thing I notice is the smell: broccoli.
     I never should have eaten at the House of Broccoli for lunch before our first date.
     Christian leads me through a corridor away from the Bat-Cave. At the end of it is a door. He opens it. I try to peek through, shivering in antici...payshun.
     Hmm... another door.
     Beyond that one is an aperture, after the aperture, an egress. Once through the egress, we come upon--not a door--but a gate. He opens the gate, and, once through it he bends down and opens a hatch on the floor, like the one in the movie Gravity, but with oxygen. Through the hatchway, I see an opening.
     But an opening to what?
     I have no idea, but I must find out.
     "Christian! Where are you taking me?" I ask, putting away my thesaurus.
     "Did you have broccoli for lunch?"
     I nod.
     "Jeez," he says, holds his nose, and enters the portal.
     I follow him into a large room. It smells of oak and leather. The smell is overpowering, like a bathroom over-sprayed with air freshener. Um, not that I would know why anyone would need to over-spray a bathroom with air freshener.
     I would describe the furniture decorating this room, but writing's hard work. When you combine a lack of imagination with a lack of gumption, all you're going to get is a lack of description.
     I look on his bookshelf. Hmm.. The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure. I look at his DVD collection. Nine & 1/2 Weeks, with Kim Bassinger and Mickey Rourke back when he used to bathe. Something familiar about all that, but I can't quite make the connection. My attention is diverted when I see...
     In the middle of the room is a bed. A big bed. A huge bed. Round, like the one in the master bedroom of the Playboy mansion, except without the 100-year-old horny dead guy in it.
     On the bed, I see something. I walk over and pick it up. It's small, and fits easily in my hand. It has a thin leather handle about eight inches long. Kate tells me eight inches are good, but she won't tell me why. At one end of the handle is a flat square, maybe four inches by four inches, also made of leather.
     Christian is eyeing me intently.
     "It's called a fly-swatter," he says, his voice quiet and soft. "It amuses me to see how quickly one's skin turns pink after the first slap."
     "I don't understand," I tell him. "You... hit people?"
     "I hit women."
     "And they let you."
     "Of course they let me... I'm rich!"
     "And they like it?"
     "I like it, and, in the end, isn't that what's important?"
     "Does it... hurt?"
     "Not a bit." He thought about what he just said. "Um, you were talking about me, weren't you? Because it sure does hurt the other person... a lot."
     "And where do I fit into all this, Christian?"
     Christian pauses. Thinks. And then says, "I... want you to be... my... girlfriend."
     "You're girlfriend? Aren't you too old to have a girlfriend?"
     "And aren't you too old to have never been kissed?"
     I don't answer. He takes my hand and leads me to the bed.
     "But I won't hurt you, Ana," he promises, and I believe that promise. If there's one thing you can believe in from a guy who's trying to get you into a round bed, it's his promise.
     "What do you want me to do?"
     "I'm glad you asked. This room--this bed--is yours... if you want it. You can decorate it however you like."
     "Can I change the color?"
     "No."
     I think about that. And then it hits me.
     "You want me to move in?"
     "Of course not, Ana. Don't make me laugh. Ah, ha, ha, ha! I SAID DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH!" He scrapes something from the bottom of his shoe. "No, Ana, sweet Ana. What I want is for you to be at my beck and call. When I crook my finger, I want you to run. When I say jump, I want you to ask me 'How high?' "
     I knew it. He does like me!
     "How many women?" I blurt. Darn that broccoli.
     "How many women what?"
     "How many women have you... done this to?"
     "Done what to?"
     "Whatever it is you're talking about?"
     "What am I talking about?"
     "Well, I assume you want me to do something?"
     "Do what?"
     "That's what I'm trying to find out!"
     "Don't worry about what you're going to have to do just yet. First I have to explain The Rules to you."
     "The rules?"
     "No, The Rules."
     "Oh, The Rules."
     He pauses. Time passes. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls.
     "The Rules?" I ask again.
     "Yes, The Rules."
     Hmm... The Rules.
   
     The Do's & Don'ts?
     The Rules?
     What's this control freak narcissist going to call them next?
     The Ten Commandments?
     "I also call them The Ten Commandments," he says, handing me several sheets of paper and a potato.
     "What's with the potato?" I ask him.
     "What potato?"
     Hmm... The Ten Commandments.
     Unlike Moses, he's oblivious to the burning bush. I can't believe it, over a hundred pages in, and I still haven't seen any action.
     I look at the cover sheet. At the top is Christian's company's logo. A cross. But instead of a crucified Overlord Xenu in Galactic Prison, the one being crucified is a winking Christian Grey himself. And with one loose hand, he's offering--not salvation--but a shiny new penny.
     Underneath are two words written in a foreign language. Latin perhaps?
 
iamsam samiam
 
     I don't understand the significance. Or the symbolism. But I do understand I'm hungry.
     "Before I go through this..." he says, indicating the contract, "...with you, I just want you to know that you don't have to do this. You're free to leave at any time, no hard feelings."
     No hard feelings? So what else is new?
     He goes on: "I'll call Crockett. He'll be more than happy to take you home and put a bullet in your head."
     Just as I eye the potato for immediate ingestion, he casually takes it from my hand.
     Dang that Christian Grey! How does he know?
     He places the raw root in the front pocket of his pants, giving him a nice bulging effect that Kate likes to call the "nice bulging effect."
     My thoughts are swirling in my head like flies around an unwashed chimichanga. I have butterflies in my stomach. I hope Christian doesn't notice them missing from his collection. I'm so confused.
     "Can I have that potato back?" I ask him.
     "What potato?"
     That Christian Grey! That Christian Grey! Oh, how I hate that Christian Grey. He wants to talk, I want to play. Oh, how I hate that Christian Grey.
     He removes the cover sheet and we go through the contract line by line.
     He asks me, "Will you do it on that bed..." and he points to the bed in question, as if there are any other beds. What does he take me for? An idiot? "...you idiot?"
     I answer him, "I will do it on that bed."
     "Will you do it on your head?"
     "I will do it on that bed. I will do it on my head. I will do it all, you'll see. And I will do it all for free."
     "Will you do it in this room? Will you do it very soon?"
     "I will do it in this room, and I will do it very soon, and I will do it on that bed, and I will do it on my head. I will do it all, I swear. And I will do it all with flair."
     "Will you surrender yourself to me? Will you surrender willingly?"
     "I will surrender myself to you. Willingly? That's what I do. And I will do it in this room, and I will do it very soon. And I will do it on that bed, and I will do it on my head. There is nothing that I won't do, as long as I do it all for you."
     "Will you do it and beg me please? Will you beg me, 'Please, with cheese'?"
     "I will do it and beg you please. I'll even beg you 'please, with cheese.' I will surrender myself to you. Thrillingly, fillingly, willingly, too. In this room, and very soon. In this bed, and on my head. All these things, I swear I'll do. All these things, and others, too."
     "Will you promise not to tell? Will you promise not to smell?"
     "I wouldn't, couldn't ever smell. My hygiene's good. I wash with gel. And I will keep my lips closed tight. Unless, of course, they're nudged just right. I'll egg and beg you 'please, with cheese,' and sweet surrender willingly."
     "Like a brain-washed Limbaugh manatee?"
     "Like a mind-numbed robot chimpanzee. And I will do it on that bed. And I will do it on my head. And I will do it in this roomie, with an itchie hitchie gitchie goomie. Just, please, let's do it very soonie. Let's bip and bop and bang and boomie. Yes, I will do all that you say. And I'll do YOU, my Christian Grey."
     Christian eyes me intently.
     "I think we're ready to take this to the next level," he finally says, reaches into his pant pocket and pulls something out and offers it to me.
     OMG! What can it be? A ring? So soon?
     "Here," he says. "Have a potato."
   
     After dinner I take a closer look through the sheets of paper.
     Hmm... the only thing they have typed on them is "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." Over and over again. Every one.
     All except for the last two pages.
     The first one is a purchase order for my soul in exchange for carnal pleasure. The other one is an I.O.U. for my firstborn male child.
     "Do you want me to sign these, too?" I ask.
 
   
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