Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody (9 page)

He pats his lip and looks at his hand.
Oh no
. . . He cut his lip on my hardened point!

“I guess I won’t be going down on you today,” he says, sighing.

“Do you have AIDS or something?” I say.

“Not anymore,” he says.

“I give blood every three months,” I say. “I’ve never had sex. I’m pretty sure I’m clean.”

“I want to taste you, Anna, and I will. Another day, preferably after my lip is healed.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Earl places one of his long fingers on my lips and I instinctively begin sucking it. He withdraws his finger and I watch him slowly approach my sex, hidden deep within my untamed thatch of pubic hair. His hand disappears into my pubes, and he searches for my love button.

Ah! Oh.
He’s found it. This feels . . . good.

“Do you like that, Anna?” he says, running his finger over my most sensitive spot like it’s a MacBook trackpad.

“Yes, Mr. Grey,” I say.

“Is this how you pleasure yourself?”

I don’t.
The blank look on my face says it all.

“You have climaxed before, haven’t you, Anna?”

I shake my head. “Never.”

“You’ve never even touched yourself?”

Again, I shake my head.

Earl sighs. “You’ve been missing out. If I had your gorgeous body, I would spend every day lying in bed, discovering myself. I would never leave the house.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” I say. I focus my attention on what Earl’s doing with his hand . . .

“You’re so wet,” he says, dipping a finger inside me.

Duh.
I’ve been going through three pairs of panties a day since I met you, Earl Grey.

“Moan,” I moan. “Moan, moan, moooooooan.”

Just as I’m reaching the peak of my arousal, he withdraws his finger. “I’m going to assume you are not taking birth control pills,” Earl says.

I never expected to have sex, ever, so that’s a big “no.” I shake my head.

“It’s okay,” he says. He leans over to the nightstand and pulls a string of condom packets out. The packets are connected to form one long foil snake, which disappears over the edge of the bed. There have to be at least thirty condoms on it.
How many condoms is he going to wear?

Earl tears one of the packets open and slides the condom onto his turgid python. “I’m surprised that fit,” I mutter.
Did I say that out loud? What is this man doing to me?

He just laughs. “These condoms are tailored,” he says.

“So you went into a store somewhere and they measured you? And what—made them just for you?”

“The perks of being part of the .00001%, Anna,” he says.

Wow. Um, wow.

Earl Grey rises above me, towering over my naked, quivering woman-flesh. I can’t believe this is happening—it’s too much like a wet dream about Robert Pattinson to be real.

“Are you ready for my love gun?” he says.

Uh-oh.
“What’s a love gun? Is that a sex toy?”

“No,” he says. “I’m talking about my penis.”

“Oh,” I say. “Then yes. Fire away.”

He positions himself between my legs. I pull my legs up, bent at the knees to expose my sex to him. He has a mischievous look on his face as he kneels and scoots toward me. He places the sheathed tip of his erection at the entrance to my garden of delights like a dart player lining up a shot. I close my eyes and prepare for the sexy time to begin . . .

. . . and Earl is gone. I hear him slip back off the bed and run off.
What the hell?

I open my eyes and spot him. He’s in the library, about thirty yards away. He’s in a low crouch. Without warning, Earl begins jogging straight at me, picking up speed the closer he gets to the waterbed. By the time he reaches the entrance to the Dorm Room of Doom, he’s running at full speed. I close my eyes again and spread my legs wide to receive him. He slams his pink torpedo into me, followed by the rest of his body on top of me. My skull crashes into the headboard.

“Ow!” I yell.

He’s breathing heavy, and stops to catch his breath. “Was that an ‛ow’ for your head, or for your panini?”

“Both, I think,” I say, wincing.

“I told you I play hard,” he says.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but I have no witty comeback for him. I think I have a concussion. He kisses me on the forehead. “You’re tight,” he says.

“I’m a virgin,” I say, before correcting myself: “I was a virgin.”

“Actually, you’re still a virgin,” Earl says, looking down at his point of entry. “I’m in the wrong hole.”

He pulls himself out and changes into a fresh condom. “Let’s try this again,” he says. I must have a look on my face like some poor girl on a blind date with Chris Brown, because he adds, “No acrobatics this time. We’ll take it easy.”

He kneels between my legs again and slides easily into me. This time, I’m sure he has the right hole because it doesn’t feel like I have to take a dump. “Now I’m going to move around,” he says, swiveling his hips slowly.
Is he going to announce every action in bed?

It hurts, but yet it feels . . . good. The physical connection between our bodies strengthens the emotional connection we already have. “You want more?” he says.

“Yes,” I whimper, and he thrusts forward. He swings his hips to the side, then up, then down, like he’s trying to sign his name on the back wall of my carnal cave. Time slows down as Earl speeds up; I’m somewhere in a blissful land where nothing in my life matters anymore, where Earl Grey’s money and power are distant concerns. Right now, in this moment, we are just two people doing the eternal dance between man and woman. I quiver, and shake, and try to contain the pleasure coursing through my body. It’s no use—he’s driving me over the edge, into a world of ecstasy I didn’t know could exist. The only other time I’ve felt this good was when I shot smack with Kathleen.

“I want you to climax,” Earl says. No, he doesn’t just “say”—he
commands
me to climax. For him, I will. For him, I’ll do anything. The walls of my pink palace, responding to his voice, spasm around him. As waves of pleasure roll over my body, he screams my name and I feel his Mount Rainier erupt inside me.

He withdraws and falls onto his back on the waterbed. We both take a moment to catch our breath. After a few minutes, he turns to face me. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

I close my eyes. Hurt?
Yes. No. I don’t know
. It’s such a complicated question. Physically, my nether regions feel like they’ve been through World War III. I definitely don’t want to look at the white bed sheets with the lights on. But once I get past the physical pain of losing my virginity, all I can think about is how the act of joining our two bodies brought me closer to another person than I’d ever thought possible. And not just
any
other person, but Earl Grey. It’s like our mutual orgasm was a sign from the heavens that we were destined for each other, like our bodies are in sync at both a biological and cosmic level.

“I actually feel kind of great,” I say.

Earl doesn’t say anything.

“Earl?” I say, opening my eyes and looking at him. I guess there won’t be any Round Two this afternoon, because Earl Grey is sound asleep. I place my head on his chest, and soon I’m drifting off as well . . .

Chapter Thirteen

W
HEN I WAKE UP from my nap, I’m alone in bed—
Earl Grey’s
bed. He’s left a green lava lamp lit on the nightstand, and it looks totally sweet bathed in the Dorm Room of Doom’s black light. If you would have told me a week ago that I’d be here, I’d have called you crazy. Insane. Wacko. But it’s real. Well, at least as real as sparkly vampires.

In the distance, I hear mournful tambourine playing. I get out of bed to investigate. I pull on my panties and find Earl’s button-down shirt, which smells faintly like his coconut-lime body wash. I slip into his shirt and follow the sound of the music into the living room.

While I slept, the sun set and downtown Seattle lit up, marking the end of another gorgeous day in the Emerald City. The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the city at night is amazing, but not as amazing as the view of Earl Grey. He’s still naked, and he’s sitting on a barstool with a tambourine in his left hand. He shakes it rhythmically to a tune only he can hear in his head. His eyes are closed, and he’s completely lost in his playing. He has a sad, anguished expression on his face, like white guitar players have when they’re playing the blues. A single lamp beside him illuminates his body like he’s on display in a museum.
I’d pay twenty dollars for the Earl Grey exhibit.

I walk quietly toward him, drawn in by his forlorn tambourine playing. He’s holding the instrument with the same long fingers that were all over me. I smile inwardly at the memory, even though it happened only a few hours ago. I can’t wait for those long fingers to be on me again.

He must hear me approaching, because he stops playing and opens his eyes. “Hello, Anna,” he says.

“You can keep playing,” I say. I hope he’s not mad at me for disturbing him.

“Playing the tambourine . . . or playing you?”

Oh my.

“You’re good,” I say. “At both, ah, ‛instruments.’ What was that song?”

“A little something by Poison that I have vague memories of my mother singing to me when I was a child. The song is called ‛Every Rose Has Its Thorn.’”

“Which one of us is the rose?”

“Ask me later,” he says. He looks me up and down, sipping my body in like a baby drinking apple juice from a sippy cup. “
Risky Business.
I like it.”

“Risky what?”

“The dress shirt and underwear look. Nevermind,” he says.

He seems sadder now than when he was playing, so I change the topic of conversation. “How long have you been playing tambourine?”

“Since junior high school,” he says. “The tambourine is only one of many percussion instruments I’m trained on.” I try to imagine the broad-shouldered, sexy beast before me as a child, but it’s impossible.

“Anna, your finger is in your nose again,” he says.

I yank it out. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You have no idea how badly it turns me on when you do that,” he says. “If you pick your nose in public, I might not be able to stop myself from taking you where you stand.”

“Yikes.”

“Which reminds me: Are you feeling okay? From earlier, I mean,” he says, his eyes wandering to my nether regions.

“Yes,” I say. “More than okay.”

“Good. I’m glad,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

I shrug. “I had a big breakfast. Remember?”

“How could I forget? Then what
are
you hungry for, if not food?”

“I think you know the answer to that, Mr. Grey.”

He hops off his barstool and we head back into the Dorm Room of Doom. Looks like Round Two will happen after all . . .

Back in his waterbed, Earl flips me over onto my stomach. “On your hands and knees,” he growls.

“Yes,” I say, raising myself.

I feel a firm hand slap my behind. “When we’re in the Room of Doom, address me properly, Anna. ‛Yes,
Sir
.’”

“Yes, Sir,” I say. It feels so natural.

“Good girl,” he says, rubbing the spot on my bottom where he spanked me. I love his touch.

I hear him tearing into a foil condom packet. “I’m going to do it to you doggy style,” he says.

“Should I bark?” I ask.

“Why would you bark?”

“Well, I thought maybe that’s why it’s called ‛doggy style’ . . .”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t bark like a dog,” he says. “I’m not into bestiality.”

“Well, someone’s not very kinky,” I mutter.

“Just hold still,” he says, thrusting powerfully into me from behind. He grabs ahold of my hair and pulls gently. “You like?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir,” I say as he slides in and out of me. It’s not as romantic as earlier, but there’s a raw, primal feeling to what we’re doing that makes me want to howl like a wolf. I’m afraid if I do, though, he’ll stop, and I can’t bear the thought of him stopping midcoitus.

I moan, and then moan again, and again, and again, until his rhythmic thrusting pushes me over the edge. This time, my orgasm turns my arms and legs to jelly, and I collapse on the bed.

“Turn around and sit up,” he orders me.

“Yes, Sir,” I say, giggling. He’s screwed me silly! I can barely move, but I somehow manage to sit up. I rest my back against the headboard.

“Now I’m going to make babies with your face, Anna,” he says, crawling toward me on his knees.
Can that thing fit in my mouth?
I wonder, staring at him. I have a horrible flashback to earlier in the day, when I choked on his toothbrush—twice. This is no toothbrush.

Earl straddles my body and points his man of steel at my mouth. Up this close, Grey’s anatomy looks like a nineteen-inch nail.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “You can do it. It’s just like sword swallowing.”

Gulp
. “I’ve never swallowed a sword before,” I say, staring down the barrel of his love gun.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s weird. Well, I’ll give you a lesson then.”