Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody (6 page)

“I was going to, but then your little brony decided to make a scene,” he says. “I couldn’t risk taking you back to your apartment, only to have Jin and Kathleen show up and start another fight.”

“Kathleen’s a total B, but she didn’t have anything to do with the fight,” I say defensively. “And Jin just gets territorial sometimes.”

“Jin is dangerous,” Earl says. “I tried my best to defuse him.”

“I’m sorry things got so out of hand. I’ve never seen him so . . . bloodthirsty.”

“Then all the more reason to stay away from him,” Earl says. “You think you know someone, and they go all psycho on you one day . . .”

“So what are your big, dark secrets, Mr. Grey?”

The smirk returns to his face. “I think you know, Anna.”

He sidestepped the question the first time we met and he uses expensive body wash, which could only mean . . . “You’re gay,” I whisper.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I thought . . .”

“Try again, Anna. Say it. Say what’s in your heart. You know my dark secret . . .”

The weird shopping list with the duct tape and rope could only mean . . . “You’re a serial killer.”

“Try again,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Okay. One more time.
You know this, Anna.
He lives a life of luxury insulated by his wealth and privilege, and he has no regard for anyone else’s feelings except his own . . . “You’re a corporate executive!”

He throws his arms up comically. “While that’s true, that’s not a secret,” he says. “I’m a Dungeon Master, Anna.”

What?
My inner guidette screeches to a halt on her hamster wheel. I have no clue what he’s talking about. “What exactly does a Dungeon Master do?”

“I’m into BDSM,” he says.

“Is that a workout thing, like Zumba?”

“No, Anna, it’s not anything like Zumba. BDSM is a live-action role-playing game: Bards, Dragons, Sorcery and Magick. I play with women in my dungeon and things can get . . . a little hot.”

“Is there no air conditioning in your dungeon?”

Earl sighs. “I mean ‛hot’ as in sexual. BDSM role playing is very naughty—that’s probably why a good girl like you hasn’t heard of it.”

“Oh, S and M. Like that Rihanna song,” I say. “The one about whips and chains.”

“The what?”

“Nevermind,” I say. Earl is only six years older than me, but sometimes the gulf between our ages seems like something I can’t bridge. It’s like he’s a 104-year-old vampire in a twenty-seven-year-old’s body.

“So you’re into some kinky shit,” I say. “That’s your biggest secret?”

“You don’t know the depths of my perversion,” he says.

I’ve already seen him at what I figured was the depth of his shame, buying a Nickelback CD. Do I want to know how deep his perversions go? Does he want me to follow him down that rabbit hole, into the dark recesses of his kinky rich-guy mind? I’m just a simple virgin—
oh no.

“Did we make sandwiches together last night?” I mutter.

“What?”

“It’s just my timid way of asking if we did . . .
it.
”

“Are you asking if we had sex last night, Anna?” he says, letting the question hang in the air for a moment. “No.”

“Phew. I was worried because I’m . . .”
Uh–oh.
I’ve said too much. I can’t let Earl Grey know I’m a virgin! “My . . . armpits are a little sore. TMI. Sorry.”

“I don’t think one can ever have too much . . . information,” he says suggestively, though I don’t know exactly what he’s suggesting. He cocks his head to one side and uses his gray eyes to pinch my inner guidette’s love handles.

“Anyway, room service will be here shortly with breakfast,” he says. “If you want to brush your teeth or take a shower, I’ll let you have the restroom first.”

“Thanks,” I say, getting out of bed.
Woah.
My head starts spinning and it takes a moment to steady myself. Earl watches me, with more bemusement than concern. I stagger to the bathroom and shut the door.

I turn on the water in the shower and wait until it warms up before stripping and stepping in. The water pours over me, washing away my hangover
. I wish Earl were in here with me.
I need Earl Grey. I need his kisses, I need his long fingers, and I need his slicked-back hair . . .

Why didn’t he take advantage of me last night? All I’m getting from him are mixed signals.
He buys me tea; he tells me to stay away from him. He practically kidnaps me from a nightclub; he doesn’t ravish me in his hotel suite.
I slept next to him all night long, and he didn’t touch me. As I rub the cheap and inferior hotel body wash all over my body, I think of Earl Grey touching me . . .

There’s a knock at the door. “Breakfast,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, my daydream shattered.

Breakfast is spread out on dozens of trays across the table. Since Earl Grey is, well, Earl Grey, he’s ordered two of every item on the room service menu. There’s enough food here to feed us for a week. We’re both in hotel bathrobes, our naked bodies tantalizingly within arm’s reach of one another underneath our robes.

“Why did you buy me the Snooki book?” I say, crunching down on a strawberry-jelly-and-Nutella-smothered slice of toast.

“Because I can,” he says, popping a hard-boiled egg into his mouth. “And because I felt bad for leaving you to walk back to Walmart by yourself.”

“I’m a big girl,” I say, sipping from a glass of hibiscus juice that I’ve just squeezed. “I can take care of myself.”

He chomps into a full head of Napa cabbage. “I’m sure you are. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying about you. The world is a bad place. You need to be careful.”

I twirl
Spaghetti alla puttanesca
on my fork. “Do I need to be careful around you?”

He looks at me solemnly, his gray eyes full of earnestness. “I already told you: I can be a cruel person,” he says, cracking a lobster tail, squirreling a piece of meat out of it, dipping it into fresh melted butter, and sucking it down.

“Then why keep after me?” I run my tongue up and down a stalk of cooked asparagus.

“No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try . . . I can’t keep myself away from you,” he says, peeling a long carrot and, not to be outdone by the suggestive asparagus show I just put on, fellates the carrot for three solid minutes.

Did you hear that, babe?
my inner guidette says.
Earl Grey, the hottest gorilla you’ve ever laid eyes on, can’t stay away from you.
I look down into my egg drop soup, hoping to catch a reflection of what it is that Earl Grey is so taken with, but instead just see a mess of gross-looking bits of shredded egg. I push the bowl away.

“I’d like to drop my eggs in your soup,” he says, dipping a strawberry on the end of a long-stemmed fork into a fondue pot of melted chocolate.

I peer up at him, and he’s got that wickedly wicked look on his handsomely handsome face again. “Are you hitting on me, Mr. Grey?” I tease, lightly drizzling balsamic vinaigrette on my spinach salad.

He giggles. “I scream, you scream . . . we all scream for ice cream,” he says, licking a chocolate-and-vanilla-swirl ice cream cone.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, carving a turkey and removing the gizzard.

Earl unwraps a McRib, which isn’t even on the McDonald menu right now. He smothers the sandwich with barbecue sauce, and asks, “Have you ever worked in fast food?”

I shake my head.

“Too bad,” he says, washing down his McRib with a Shamrock Shake, another out-of-season menu item. “I like girls who can take orders.”

“Is this your way of asking if I’ll play this kinky BDSM game with you, Mr. Grey?”

He sighs, setting down his grilled corn on the cob. “Could you at least act like you’re shocked? If you’re not shocked by how naughty and perverted my deviant tastes are, it kind of drains all the tension out of our relationship.”

“So I should be shocked that you like to do bad stuff to women? Do you sexually abuse them against their will? That would be really shocking.”

“No, that’s not it at all. I mean, they’re into it. I only do it if they like it. Sometimes they’re more into it than I am, to be honest.”

“But you really injure them? That’s why it’s shocking?”

“No. They’re fine. Some mild redness occurs on their bottoms, but that fades in a few hours.”

“I’m not following,” I say. “Why am I supposed to be shocked?”

“Anna, if you’re game, then why are we tiptoeing around the issue?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been DTF since we first met.”

“Then, without further ado . . .” He sweeps the food off the table, just for dramatic emphasis. He pulls a bugle out of his bathrobe, sounds a long note, and clears his throat. “Let the fucking begin!”

Chapter Eight

A
T ONCE, Earl Grey’s mouth is upon me. His arms crawl up the back of my robe as his tongue penetrates my lips. Our mouths create an airtight seal, and our tongues battle it out for supremacy. His is the more dominant tongue; I let my tongue go limp and submit fully to Earl Grey. For the first time in my life, I have found my purpose: to be a doormat for this ridiculously wealthy, attractive, impossible-to-resist man.

Suddenly, he withdraws his tongue and releases me from his grasp.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have started kissing so soon after eating. Your mouth tastes like you ate an entire garlic bulb.”

“That’s because I did,” I say.

He sighs. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll wait here.”

I lower my gaze and walk to the bathroom. I close the door. There’s only one toothbrush on the sink, and it belongs to Earl Grey. I pick it up and run the bristles over my lips. It’s like a six-inch piece of Earl. I slide the toothbrush into my mouth and, angling my head and neck, slowly ease it down my throat.
Mmmmm
. . . I can’t wait to deep throat Earl’s—

“Hurry up, woman,” he says from the next room, startling me. I drop the toothbrush straight down my throat. I’m such an idiot! My inner guidette rolls her eyes. The toothbrush is caught in my esophagus; I can’t breathe. I clutch my throat and try coughing, but it’s no use. My body crumples to the floor . . .

“What is going on in there, Anna?” Earl says with concern in his voice.

I try to call out, but nothing comes out of my mouth except drool.

The door swings open, and Earl Grey stands above me. Earl Grey, my savior!

“My God, Anna, what are you doing on the floor?”

I motion to my throat with both hands. Earl, immediately sensing the gravitas of the situation, props me into a sitting position. He kneels behind me and wraps his arms around me. He attempts the Heimlich maneuver, but it’s no use. I’m fading into unconsciousness quickly . . .

Earl lays me on my back and tilts my head back. “I can’t lose you, Anna,” he says. “I can’t!”

He pushes his long fingers into my mouth. I feel them creeping down my throat. He carefully backs his fingers out, holding the toothbrush between his impossibly long index and middle fingers. I breathe again, and it’s the sweetest breath I’ve ever taken. Air is like cable TV: you don’t appreciate it until you don’t have it.

“Thank you,” I say to Earl. If his fingers weren’t so freakishly long, I would be dead right now.

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Anna,” he says. It’s an emotional moment, and we both pause to gaze at each other.
Is he going to kiss me again?

Earl stands up and helps me to my feet, for the second time in two days. Or the third time. I’m losing track of how often he saves me from myself.

“Now brush your teeth,” he says. “That garlic is really quite overpowering.”

I nod. He closes the door on his way out of the bathroom.
No playing around now. Just brush your teeth, go out there, and ride his D to O-Town,
my inner guidette says.
You got this, babe!

I squeeze out a dollop of mint toothpaste onto Earl Grey’s toothbrush and begin polishing my teeth.
The faster you do this, the sooner you can lose your virginity to Earl Grey. Mmmmm
. . .
Earl Grey
. . . The more I think about him, the more the toothbrush becomes him, and I swear I don’t know how it happens but thirty seconds later I’m on the floor, choking again.