Monday, February 9, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 16c)


But when I think about it...

     Heeey… he wasn’t kidding at all. In fact, that was rather rude. Why do I need to know if he’s going to see a man about a horse?
     I quickly type…
 
From: Anastasia Steele
To: Christian Grey
 
You can be such a thoughtless jerk, you know that?
 
…and then, just as quickly, I shut off the computer.
     There! I think to myself. That’s telling him.
     And then, even more quickly, I think, Osh kosh by gosh! What have I done? He’s the only guy who’s ever shown any interest in me. Well, there was that homeless man, but he only wanted a bite of my tuna fish sandwich.
     And he’s rich, besides. Christian, I mean. Not the homeless guy. Not that I’m in it for the money.
     “Yes, you are,” my subconscious mimes. I hate mimes.
     “No, I’m not,” I cry into my empty room, nobody listening. Not even the chair. I wonder what Neil Diamond is up to?
     “Yes, you are.” That’s my inner goddess , sticking her nose into something that is none of her business.
     “No, I’m not,” I tell her, removing her nose from the part of me that’s none of her business. “I’m not! I’m Not! I’M NOT!”
     I begin to cry. Sob, really. Why are they ganging up on me? The voice in my head that tells me to do those awful things, asks me what I’m doing here. No, wait. That’s Kate. In the other room.
     “What are you doing here?” she demands to know.
     “Why are you making her cry?” she accuses, demandingly.
     “That’s MY job, making her cry,” she says in a way that doesn’t let me use a variation of the word “demand.”
     I go to the door, and crack it open for a peek. By gobs, it’s Christian.
     “Don’t you touch me!” Kate tells him, pressing her body up against his.
     “I’m not touching you,” Christian tells her back.
     “Don’t you touch me!” she yells hysterically, grinding up against him.
     “I’m not touching you,” Christian says, trying to back away from her.
     She grabs one of his hands and lifts it to her breast.
     “I said, ‘Don’t Touch Me!’”
     “I’m not touching you.”
     “Yes, you are. Your hand is on my breast.”
     “You’re putting it there.”
     “No, I’m not.”
     “Yes, you are.”
     “Well, you’re not pulling it away.”
     “That’s because you have a grip like a Master Baiter.”
     This makes her stop. She hesitates, confused.
     “What’s that?”
     “What’s what?
     “A Master Baiter.”
     Christian uses the opportunity to back away from Kate. His hand comes off of her breast with a loud pop! He takes whiff and then wipes it against the leg of his jeans.
     “A Master Baiter is a professional baiter of hooks. The kind you hire when you go fishing. They develop quite a grip from handling all of those wriggly little worms. The best kind are Harvard educated.”
     Christian uses his words as a smokescreen to make his way to my bedroom door. In one quick motion, he opens it. The door hits me in the eye. The force knocks me backward into the wall against the shelves where I keep my bowling ball collection. They fall, hitting me on the head one at a time.
     Boink!
     “Ow!”
     Boink!
     “Ow!”
     Boink!
     “Ow!”
     Boink!
     “Ow!”
     Boink!
     “Ow!”
     Fortunately, they bounce off my head and land on my foot, not causing any damage to the floor. Kate would be so mad if we didn’t get our apartment deposit back. She put up almost a whole ten per cent of it!
     Ana!” Christian cries out, a note of concern in his voice.  “Thank goodness the bowling balls only landed on your head. You could have gotten hurt.”
     I pick myself up from the floor. Hopping on one foot, I rub the top of my head gingerly.
     “I’m okay, Christian,” I say, and then ask, “What are you doing here?”
     “I’m juggling your bowling balls,” he says, juggling my bowling balls.
     “No. I mean, besides that. What are you doing right here. Right now.”
     “I was standing just outside your apartment door, when you sent me that rather rude email. I had to see what was wrong.”
     I immediately fall into his arms.
     “Oh, Christian,” I tell him. “You drive me nuts. Why don’t you ever want to spend the night with me?”
     “Besides the smell? No reason, I guess. I’m just used to living the life of a loner. A sick, perverted loner.”
     “Can’t you see that I need you, Christian? That I want you? That, sometimes in the middle of the night, I would like to wake up, touch you, and know you’re there?”
     “Well, I’m here now,” he says, and takes off his cape with a flourish I’ve only ever seen mastered by Ed Harley. He hands it to me along with his cane and top hat. “Let’s go to bed.”
     “Er… I have a headache.”
     “Like I’ve never heard that excuse before.”
     “No, I really have a headache. Those bowling balls are hard.
     “That’s okay, my sweet,” he says as he removes his bow tie. “As it turns out, I don’t have any condominiums with me, so we couldn’t, even if we could. I’ll just have to amuse myself with all of these sexy italics.”
     He takes off his jacket and shirt. He has a nice chest, in a scrawny kind of way. It’s impeccably shaved, and I like the way it sinks inward like Tom Cruise's. He kicks off his penny loafers. The hole in his sock is perfectly placed. He removes his watch—Wow! A Timex. I can only dream of such luxuries.--then reaches into the back pockets of his jeans. He takes out his wallet, two combs, and a small, shaven rodent.
     “That’s Richard, a trained gerbil,” he sheepishly explains. “A gift for an actor friend of mine.”
     From his front pockets, he removes a handful of coins, his keys, a bottle cap, some string, and a half-eaten apple. Who knew men kept so much stuff in their pockets? He places it all on my dresser, and then he begins to pull off his jeans.
     Hmmm, if he was going to take off his jeans, couldn’t he have just left all that junk in his pockets? He is such a cypher. A Louis Cypher.
     We crawl into bed together.
     “Let’s spoon,” he tells me. “Lay on your side, turning away from me.”
     He is so bossy.
     “Is this how you like to cuddle?” I ask him, playfully.
     “No, I just don’t want to look at your face.”
     I don’t blame him. I don’t like to look at my face, either. Besides, the thought of someone looking at me while I sleep creeps me out.
     There’s movement under the cover. Why, that Christian. He’s such a scoundrel. I feel his hand move over my body toward some place private. And then…
     “Hey, hey! That’s an exit, not an entrance.” I tell him.
     Snore!” he snores, sound asleep.
     Hey! I gasp. What the fudge?
     If that’s not Christian, then who… wait a minute… mmm...
     My, that gerbil certainly is well-trained.
 
 

Fifty Shades of Funny

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