After writing my blog last week, I noticed that some people were a little confused as to what 'Fifty Shades of Grey' was and what it entails.
Instead of copy and pasting sections of the book into my article and causing twodaymag to suffer numerous legal repercussions—I have instead opted for my own version of the classic tale.
This cannot be happening. I think to myself, even though right now I’m technically thinking to myself, too. But you see, this isn’t in italics, so I don’t want you to focus in on it as much. Only the important stuff, like dramatic sentences or clever catch phrases. He’s inviting me into his special office. His office that is…special.
Especially good at deflowering innocent virgins such as myself, I think full of hate-ridden sexual energy that courses through my body like fearful trout swimming frantically upstream to get away from the savage grizzly that is eating their friends one by one.
If you’re wondering why my metaphors are so good, I’m an English major at a non-descript college that is unimportant to this story. I never go to class, I never take a test, I never actually do anything that doesn’t relate to this man—notorious billionaire/secret agent/jingle writer/expert virgin deflowerer, Tristan Cray. The very man who I can’t resist but should.
This is so wrong. I think as I look deep into his chameleon eyes that change colors with his mood. Right now they’re purple—which means he wants to bang. Bang me, I shudder. All night long, I shudder again. Until I am no longer a virgin, I continue, my knees nearly buckling, sending me to the ground.
Right where he wants me.
He smiles at my convulsions; it’s a well known fact that Tristan Cray loves his women so spastic they’re borderline epileptic, that way they can easily be broken. And then put back together again, with his male sex organ.
He gestures with long, sinewy, effeminate fingers to the door behind him. Also, for all of my college education, I don’t seem to have the common sense to not go into Tristan Cray’s special office; even though I know what he does in here. Or rather, who he does. This is so hot. OMG. I can’t believe it’s not butter.
“Annabella Toole,” He says, darkly, his eyebrows raised so high that they merge with his sexy mane of hair, creating a giant torrent of man locks that I want to grab forcefully and use to wash my pure, untouched flesh. “You don’t want to come in here. This is my special lair of naughtiness. I do bad things in here to good girls. And they like it. A lot. Because I’m so good at it. Yes.”
“Who ever said I was a good girl?” I say, shaking like a leaf that would shake if it was alive and a human that was terrified yet aroused.
“Ha!” He caws like a hungry raven. “Silly virgin! I have warned you! Enter if you dare, because I daresay I’d like to enter YOU!”
His dirty talk sends me into a mild seizure on the floor. Tristan cannot handle himself, he cries out as he watches me unwittingly bang my head against the linoleum floor. “Sweet, naughty, convulsing girl! I want you so much! Come, let us majestically bang! I shall release you of your inhibitions, and take you to a world that you have never gone before—a world filled with me, and other vague allusions about your lady cave.” Before I’m done seizing, He scoops me up off of the floor, and then we enter his office…Or rather, his office of SEX. Hot damn. Oh yeah. Did I do that?
His sex office is magnificent. The walls are covered in shelves, holding naughty books, naughty pictures, and book ends shaped like phalluses. In the middle of the room is a bed shaped like a giant desk, with drawers all around, no doubt carrying Tristan’s unending supply of naughty sex objects that he will use on me. He tosses me on the bed so enthusiastically that I fall off and land on the floor, sprawling and utterly vulnerable. He laughs, and it is the most beautiful, horrible, wonderful, terrible, contrasting adjective filled sound I’ve ever heard.
“Get on the bed, Miss Toole.”
I may have dislocated my knee, but I don’t care. I claw my way back onto the bed, desperate to have him have his way with me. But as I watch him rip his clothes off with his own teeth, I suddenly feel a twinge of regret. This is too much. I whimper inwardly. I am so scared. I tremble within myself. Did I remember to shave? I gasp inside my throat, causing me to choke on my own fear. Ruh-roh.
Before I am able to think it’s too late, he’s already reaching into one of the boxes. He pulls out fabric shears, he eyes them widely. What is he going to do with them!?
He exams how they shine in the mood lighting. “I much prefer to cut off your clothes, it’s part of my sick thrill. Because I’m twisted. And dirty. And I enjoy making neck ties out of the scraps of clothes of those who I conquer.”
“That’s so hot,” I say, trying to keep another seizure at bay.
“Yes, yes it is.”
He begins. It’s a long, arduous process as it’s a chilly day and I’m wearing three layers. It takes him a half hour alone to saw through my underwire. But it’s worth it. The joy that he gets by making millimeter length incisions is worth losing my clothes—and my dignity. It takes him four hours in all, but he laughs and cries throughout the entire process, marveling at the different fabrics and patterns and all of the different design options they give him. He’s so fashionable, it’s insane. Insanely hot, that is. Yeah buddy.
He stands over me, his face victorious as holding the fabric scraps of my clothes, throwing them into the air. “Yes! Yes! Excellent!” He cries, pontificating gloriously. “And now, we begin with the debauchery, with the humiliation, with the deflowering that I have been waiting for since the moment you stepped off of the street and into my life. Get ready, Annabella Toole, for the night that will define the way in which you relate to men and think about your own body image for the rest of your life!”
The seizing begins once more, and as I shake, I feel my body, and coincidentally, my vocal chords, erupt in a desperate plea. “T-t-t-take m-m-m-me!”
Tristan runs his finger through my non-descript hair color so that almost any female reader can instantaneously put themselves in my torn up shoes. But for the record, I am white. This is a racy book, but let’s not get too crazy with the demographics.
“Yes, my sweet naughty child who stammers with the grace only the most seasoned of my epileptic partners have, I shall tear you apart, and mark my words, you will like it. And will be begging for more as soon as I am done! I will ride you like a stallion, but it will be so long, so arduous, that after I am done, the other jockeys will marvel at the fact that I turned a young strong stallion into a heaping mound of Elmer’s glue!”
I prepare myself for the feeling of utter bliss; the moment when Adam and Eve join together once again, creating the perfect being, the being known as the eight-limbed beast with two backs and three heads, the very same beast that will usher in the end of the world, when Tristan speaks again. “…but only after you sign this well thought out naughtiness contract that gives me free range to do whatever I’d like to you! Haha! I’ve got you now!”
From another drawer, he plucks up a massive contract, and unravels it over my nudeness. It’s long and written in crayon, signifying Tristan’s screwed up childhood, that made him into this sex monster. Which makes all of his debauchery okay and humanizes him—which makes my female brain only want to do him more. Yabba dabba do!
“Tristan! How dare you do this to me! I agreed to sex it up with you, but not to all of this.”
“Sign it, or else, I will leave you here, in my office of sex, unsatisfied and alone, doomed to stare at my phallic symbol book ends until you’re driven mad with desire!”
“You bastard! I don’t even know what half of these sexual positions are! What on earth is a dilapidated donkey?”
“That’s not until stage three of our sex-plans, and it’s incredible, trust me. Are you even looking at the charts? We wouldn’t start out with that, first, you’re a strong horse, then, you’re a tired mule, and not until after that do you become a dilapidated donkey. Of course, we can only engage in stage three on a full moon and with the humidity being at least seventy percent, but for your convenience I’ve also included a sex almanac at the end of the contract for easy reference and planetary guidance for what debauchery filled act will best jive with our rising planets.”
How can he be so thoughtful? I think, falling in love with him more and more. I no longer care about what the contract entails, or what it means about me or my self-worth. I don’t even care that it tells me how to talk to him, or what to eat and when or how I’m supposed to dot my i’s, for the record, with an open circle because its combination with the straight line underneath makes him giggle—none of that matters anymore. Because I want to get laid, really, really badly.
He hands me his phallus shaped quill pen and I sign the contract in red ink. He cries out in jubilation when the signature is dried. He throws the contract to the side of the bed, and giggles impishly. “Annabella Toole, get ready for massive Toole to be all up in your Annabella, if you catch my drift.”
I laugh, shy yet brazen, reluctant yet bold, virginally yet whorishly, “Of course I do, I’m an English major, word play is like second nature to me—that is, if I had two natures, and one of them was obsessed with engaging in hide and seek with words.”
“Clever, wondrous girl,” He whimpers like a kitten deprived of catnip that is hidden deep within me that can only be reached using his member. “I cannot wait any longer, let us begin the overly detailed description of us unrealistically yet totally doing it after this long and drawn out anticipation that has ceased to be sexy and is bordering on tediousness! No matter what happens after this point, this long and detailed description of intercourse is sure to disappoint the reader!”
And then I cried out when totally and super hotly banged, thinking about how no matter what happens, I will never be able to get over Tristan Cray—nor will I ever be able to say no to him. No matter what happens, we will always have unfinished business. That will last us at least three more books to completely work out.
And most likely sap away what little dignity I have as a writer. POW! Right in the kisser.
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