Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks (3 page)

I point to Judy Garland’s signature on a
The Wizard of Oz
promotional eight by ten print.

“Now, Eric, this ditty is a gift from me to you if you answer three questions.”

From the bedroom, we can hear Bea struggling to free herself.

“Don’t you hurt him, Silver! Eric is a good man. He was only following orders.”

“Hush!” Eric and I respond in stereo as he admires the still.

“Fire away, Mr. Silver.”

“One, what’s your opinion of facial hair?”

“It doesn’t work for me personally, but I’ve heard a certain young lady remark how she adores the salt and pepper on your chin. I’d say, keep it cropped and you’re fine. Please don’t ever color it, though. I mean, ew.”

“Thank you. OK, two, am I too old to be wearing plaid shirts and loafers?”

“Well, as long as you have on an undershirt, you’re fine. No V-necks, please. I highly recommend going sockless, but I know argyle is your ‘thing,’ so whatever. Have you tried John Varvatos? His fashions are ideal for the mature man.”

“Excellent tip. One more question.”

“Eric, don’t be a hero. Cooperate with him for now. We’ll make this right later,” Bea muffles.

“His gun is so big, Ms. P, what shall I do?” Eric hisses.

“Silver!”

“I like you, Eric. Now, the most important question: Where does Bea’s strange fascination with hockey-related sex stunts originate?”

Eric leans in and whispers, “Her uncle was
very
influential in her upbringing, if you know what I mean. He played goalie for the Canadiens in the seventies.”

“Disturbing. Name?”

“Tomas LeBaleur.”

“You’re the best, Eric. This is for you.” I hand the signed print to Eric. He trembles as his eyes well up.

“I, I don’t know what to say. If you weren’t straight, I’d ...”

“Tut, tut, tut. A ‘thank you’ is sufficient.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, do me one tiny favor and hang out in the lobby bar until I’m through with my naughty friend. There’s a kind bartender working down there.”

“Emily. She works for us.”

“I see. So can you manage to keep Emily company for about thirty minutes?”

“Indeed I can.”

Eric blows a kiss to me and leaves.

“Eric? Silver? Hello? Anyone?”

“Yes, Lovergirl, how can Uncle M be of service?”

I turn on my glove and return to my love.

Chapter Eight

Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties. – Jules Renard

When I see my love, she’s struggling to free her hands. I wink and point at her with a gloved finger. She lies back, exhausted. I walk past her bed into the bathroom.

“What are you doing, Silver?”

“Uncle M.”

“Untie me.”

“Nope.”

I lift the toilet seat and relieve myself.

“Are you peeing?”

“Yeppers. I was trying to hold it because, you know, once you break the seal ...”

“And, I can’t believe you brought a gun here.”

“I didn’t.”

“You threatened Eric.”

“Truth be told, your kind Uncle M simply bribed him with a movie print.”

“Ugh,
The Wizard of Oz
, no doubt.”

“Very perceptive, Lovergirl. You see? I do my homework too.”

I shake twice and dab the tip with a sheet of TP. Bea has somehow managed to free her right arm. Her wrist is chafed.
Serves her right.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“You didn’t flush, you pig.”

“The Rules clearly require me to give samples. I’m one-fourth of the way there. Help yourself when I leave.”

“Gross.”

“Hmm, now, what other samples are required? That’s right, saliva.”

I crawl up from the foot of the bed, reach under her right thigh with my gloved left hand, and gently tug at the top of her glistening cock holster with my index and middle finger vibrating as they straddle her clit. I dive in tongue first as she grabs my hair and steers with her free hand. In mere minutes, she arches into orgasmic bliss.

“That’s one orgasm and two fluids. I’m almost there.”

“Almost where, Uncle M?” Bea asks as she relaxes in the afterglow.

“I have one very hungry Kindle, my love. That Amazon gift certificate is two orgasms from being mine. There’s a new erotic series I’m dying to read.”

“Now, for that third fluid.”

I reach into my satchel, pull out a silver condom, unroll it down my average-sized penis, kneel in front of her, and slide myself in only a tiny bit.

“Shall we play ‘Just the Tip,’ Lovergirl?”

“No, Uncle M, I need you to fill me,” she begs as she grabs my hip, trying to pull me in.

“Answer one question and I’ll give you all my lovin’.”

“Fine.”

“What’s the story with your Uncle Tomas?”

“Oh, Jesus. I’m going to kill Eric.”

“Tell me,” I order as I withdraw a bit.

“You might not like it, Uncle M.”

“Tell me.”

“OK. He took my virginity.”

I withdraw entirely and try to process what I just heard.
Kind of creepy; kind of gross; kind of hot, actually.

“That sick bastard! I hope that fucker is in jail.”

“Mmm, stop swearing and do me!”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen and, actually, we were in love. He’s not a blood relative, Silver.”

“It’s still twisted.”

“Yet you seem hard as a rock.”

She’s right.
Why does this turn me on? Yuck!
Someday I’ll meet this man and make him pay, but right now, I’m her uncle. I enter her fully as she arches in joy and comes again ... and again, this time with me. I lie on top of her kissing her neck as she caresses my head and shoulders. I pull out, push myself up, slide off my condom, place it on the nightstand, and smile.

“Well, Lovergirl, that’s at least three orgasms, three fluids, and one gift card for Uncle M.”

“You’re one fluid short.”

“What? Blood? You don’t think I’m actually going to leave you a blood sample, do you?”

“No. I’m going to take one.”

I catch a glimpse of her right hand as her fist crashes into my jaw. Lights out.

Chapter Nine

Never date a woman you can hear ticking. – Mark Patinkin

I’m walking through a field of marijuana plants. The scent is overpowering and delicious. Suddenly, I feel a sting on my left arm. A psychedelic bee licks her lips, winks, and flies away. I fall and lie in a clearing, staring at the clouds as they take various forms.

*Tap, Tap, Tap*

What’s that noise?
I try to sit up, but I’m weak. I tilt my head forward and see a door in the middle of the field.

*Tap, Tap, Tap*

“Hello?”

I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to rub them clear. I realize my arms are bound. A room comes into focus.

“Housekeeping.”

The door opens. Two maids stand in the doorway of the master suite, eyes wide and giggling. I’m bound to the bed, naked except for ...
oh, no
... underwear—Bea’s Montreal Canadiens underwear.

“I’m sorry, sir, would you like us to come back later?”

“No, actually I’d like you to untie me.”

“Is someone else here?” one of the maids asks as she approaches me cautiously. She looks into the closet as the door is ajar. I see the tripod with one missing camera.
Fuck! The camera! How could I have forgotten?

“Nobody is here. Please untie me and stop looking at my package. I’m not a damned Canadiens fan.”

“If you say so.”

“Flyers rule.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just untie me.”

They each untie my arms. I sit up and undo my feet.

“Thank you, ladies. Perhaps you could come back in an hour or so.”

“Of course,” they respond. I hear them chatting and giggling as they leave the suite.
Bea will pay for this.

As I run my tongue under a fat lip, I realize my left shoulder is sore too. The bee sting. She must have drugged me. On the bedside table, I find my love glove. It is arranged with the fingers curled in, except the middle one.
Cute.
There’s something in the palm. I open the fingers and find a $25 Amazon gift card.
Well, at least she doesn’t welch on her bets.
Under the glove is my copy of Bea’s Rules with a “sign here” sticky note pointing to the line above my name.

Thankfully, my clothes are here, folded neatly. I quickly remove the panties, toss them, get dressed, and go down to the lobby in search of a large espresso to clear my head. The kind barista brews a strong triple and offers an apple fritter. I grab a Union Tribune, sit, and plot my revenge. Suddenly, I hear the patrons seated behind me giggling. They’re reacting to odd noises coming from the TV.
Holy shit! I’m on TV, and I’m not doing the news—I
am
the news.

I leap to my feet, stand on a chair, and power off the TV before somebody recognizes the embarrassing shot of me tied to a bed in panties.
Fuck.

My phone rings. It’s my mother.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Hey there, stranger. How have you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Just getting the guestroom ready.”

“Ma, that was supposed to be a surprise. Did Neal tell you?”

“You know your brother can’t keep his yap shut. I’m so excited. What a nice Mother’s Day gift. You’ll be happy to hear there’s no rain in the forecast.”

“That’s nice. I sure need a vacation. I’ve had a rough night.”

“Did it by chance involve the future mother of my grandchildren?”

“Not likely.”

“Really?”

“Ma, I have to run. Let me call you back later today.”

“Okey dokey. Say, will your lady guest be sharing the room with you?”

“What lady guest?”

“Bea.”

“WHAT? How on earth do you know Bea?”
Lovergirl is completely under my skin now.

“She sent me a lovely package with my favorite gourmet teas and a kind note saying she was anxious to meet me.”

“No, Mother, she won’t be staying with me.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated. I gotta go, Mom.”

“If you want to talk about it ...”

“Not now, Mom. I’ll call you later. Love you.”

“Love you back.”

“Bye.”

Advantage Lovergirl. Not for long.

Chapter Ten

Men forget but never forgive. Women forgive but never forget. – Anonymous

Lovergirl won’t answer my texts, so I call Eric.

“Dude, what’s up with your crazy boss?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s ignoring me.”

“Actually, she just has a full schedule this morning. I’m glad you called, though.”

“Why is that?”

“She asked me to set up a lunch appointment today between you two.”

“When and where?”

“The Courthouse Cafe at noon.”

“All the restaurants in town and she wants to eat at the fucking courthouse?”

“Yep.”

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Oh, and can I ask you a question, Mr. Silver?”

“You just did.”

“Clever. No, really.”

“Shoot.”

“Why did your parents name you Mormon?”

“They didn’t. It’s a nickname, Eric.”

“Cute.”

“I was a chubby kid. Whenever Mother made my dinner plate I’d say, ‘More, Mom.’”

“Aw. So what’s your real name?”

“Jew.”

“WHAT?”

“It’s short for Jude.”

“Oh, thank God ... or whomever.”

“Tell Bea I’ll see her at noon.”

“I will. She asks that you bring the signed document.”

“We’ll see.”

I tie up some loose ends around my house, and pack for tomorrow’s trip back east. I wonder what that camera captured and what it will cost to get it from her. I can’t stand being at a disadvantage. Right now, she owns me.

Still confused about her choice of lunch venues, I park at the courthouse and enter through security. It is as one would expect: full of police, lawyers, and criminals. I find the cafe and scan the area for Bea. No luck. It’s five after noon.
Have I missed her?
I grab a cup of (awful) coffee, pick a table for two, pull out my phone, and wait. The text rings in.

Bea Plastique: Dearest, Uncle M: It seems I’ve been assessed a five-minute major for fighting. I’m stuck in a penalty stall. Please rescue me.

Oh, Jesus.
The games never cease with this woman. Penalty stall? What the hell is she referring to? It’s a penalty
box
, not a stall.
Oh, shit. She’s in a bathroom stall!
No doubt she has picked a ladies’ room stall to make my hunt more difficult.

Mormon Silver: Bea, stop playing games. Where are you?

Bea Plastique: 4:30 remaining.

Mormon Silver: There must be four bathrooms on this floor alone. Where are you?

Bea Plastique: 4:15 remaining.

I can’t let her beat me. The clerk behind the counter points me to the closest restroom. There are police everywhere. I can’t walk in, or I’ll be fucked. In fact, I’ll be fucked either way, but I prefer the kind that doesn’t involve a TASER. I need to find an accomplice. There’s a Latina woman sitting outside a courtroom—obviously a call girl. I approach her.

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself, handsome.”

“Are you busy right now?”

Bea Plastique: 3 minutes.

Fuck.

“Court is in recess until twelve thirty.”

“Perfect. How’d you like to earn twenty dollars?”

“Man, you are brave, soliciting a woman in a damn courthouse.”

“No, no, not for that. I need your help. I’m looking for someone and I think she’s hiding in a restroom.”

“Kinky.”

“Forty dollars?”

“Make it fifty.”

“Let’s go.”

I show her a picture of Bea on my phone as we jog to the first bank of restrooms. She darts in and checks.
 

Bea Plastique: 2 minutes.

“Nothing?”