Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Three

On my way home, Bea's assistant, Eric, calls to invite me to lunch. He refuses to tell me his motive over the phone. Maybe I can scarf more of those little yellow pills to help keep up with my sexual dynamo.

I get a few more blog entries done and meet Eric at the San Diego County Fair. Hmm, beer battered chocolate covered bacon for lunch? Sure, why not? You only die once. I hope he's not a fan of rides, as my stomach has never appreciated them.

"Big E, what's happening?"
"Good to see you, Mormon," he greets while giving me the handshake, shoulder-bump man-hug. "Let's hit the food court. I'm starving."
"Me too."
"So, I wasn't sure if Bea told you, but she has asked me to walk her down the aisle Saturday, and I wanted to make sure you're cool with that."
"Dude, of course I am. You know, she rarely speaks about her parents."
"She was twelve when they had the accident. Her grandmother and various nannies raised her."
"Well, she turned out perfectly crazy and I'm absolutely crazy about her. I just wish there were some way to win over Grandma and make Chris disappear."
"I'm sure it will work out. Love conquers all, Mormon. Ooh, and speaking of love," Eric beams as a handsome fellow approaches, "here comes my man, Neil."

We greet and stroll around the Fair, sampling the artery cloggery that abounds.

"So, gentlemen, I'd like to enlist your help in a stunt I'm planning. Bea is having a girls' night with her friends on Thursday. I want to surprise them with something. Should I hire a male stripper?"
"Wait. Wasn't she on stage for your party?"
"Indeed she was."
"Then you must return the favor," Neil adds.
Ha! No fucking way.
"Yes, dress up in a police uniform and jump out of a cake," Eric teases.
"Right."
"I'm serious. It would be hysterical."
"It would be traumatizing. I'm fifty. I eat cake."
"Oh my god, I still have that uniform from the Pride Parade. It comes with handcuffs too," Neil offers.
"Perfect," Eric cheers, "and you two are similar size. You must, Mormon. Come on. We'll both be there to provide oral, I mean moral support."
"Seriously?"
"Please," they chime, in stereo.
"Fine. Fuck it. I'll chug half a bottle of tequila and do it."
"I'll arrange for the cake and bring Neil's costume to work with me tomorrow," Eric insists.
"Can't believe I'm going to do this. Will Grandma be there?"
"No, Thursday is bingo night at the The Rock Church. She'd never miss that."
"Phew. Now I need a favor from you, Eric."
"Anything."
"Got any more of those pain-thrillers Bea borrowed from you?"
"Indeed I do," Eric agrees.
"Might I have a handful for the honeymoon? I'm probably going to need all the help I can get."
"Of course."

The three of us enjoy the sights, then go our separate ways. I brainstorm ideas to make my emergence from pastry more amusing. This calls for restraints, a whip, and the biggest, blackest strap-on I can find. Hustler Store, here I come.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Two

After good-morning nookie in my lover's condo, Bea hits the shower and I hit eggs on the side of an omelet pan. Once again, I'm derailed by the clinking of spoon against coffee mug. The beast rises.

"Top o' the morning to you, Ms. Aspinwald," I greet and bow.
"French Toast."
"Huh?"
"I'd like French Toast with cinnamon butter."
"Wouldn't you prefer blueberry muffins with a side of rabbit?" I sneer. I can hardly look at her since she defiled my glove.
"You do realize, Blobber, that this wedding isn't going to happen."
"It most certainly is going to happen. Didn't you get the invitation? This Saturday, Coronado Beach, noon-ish. Guests are encouraged to bring covered plates. I could sign you up for deviled eggs."
"Chris is a powerful man. I don't know if you're more brave or stupid ... I'm betting on stupid."
"You know dill-weed has a girlfriend, right? Annie, I believe, was her name. Innocent thing with horrible taste in men."
"She's insignificant," Grandma sniffs as she pushes her reading glasses up her nose and stares at printed pages. "Do you know what this is, Blobber?"
"An excerpt from my blob?"
"Five forty five."
"Ah, it's your weight analysis," I respond while dipping bread in egg batter.
"It's your credit score."
Nosy little nit.
"Right. So?"
"You're behind on mortgage payments and you have four maxed-out credit cards."
"I also have an hairy mole on my ass," I respond while glaring at her.
"My granddaughter will soon realize you're marrying her to get your hands on my money. She'll dispose of you like dryer lint."
"I'm marrying her because I love her, and I'll gladly sign a pre-nup."
"Why don't you accept the offer from Chris, pay off your debts, and find a more appropriate mate--perhaps one with four legs."
"You two will never buy me off. Stop wasting your time."
"Warm up my coffee, and flip those before they burn."

I endure breakfast with the beast as I hear the shower turn off and wait for my love to rescue me.

"I must admit, you're a decent cook. I could put in a word for you at Denny's," Grandma remarks.
"How kind of you."

As Bea emerges from the bedroom in her silk robe, Grandma rises to leave. Naturally, she places my credit report in front of Bea on her way out.

"Have a wonderful morning. Bea, your future ex isn't a bad cook at all. He'll make someone a nice housewife someday," Grandma remarks as she exits.
"You made her breakfast? You're such a sweetie," Bea compliments as she crumbles the credit report, tosses it in the garbage, and checks the pan. "Ooh, French Toast. Are these for me?"
"They are."
"And, I see you found the syrup," she teases as she dangles the Mrs. Butterworth from her index finger. "I love syrup."
"Do you know what I'm going to do with that syrup later?"
"Pancakes?"

I take the bottle from her, squeeze a dot on my left index finger, and place it in her mouth. She sucks the tip, teasingly. I slide my finger down her chin, over her neck, and down her chest, parting her robe as I do. Bea tips her head back. I squeeze a bit more between her breasts and let it run a bit before catching the sugary stream with my tongue and planting a sweet kiss on her soft lips.

"I'm going to coat you and lick you to nirvana."

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter One

I'm playing catch with my teenage son. He has his mother's blond hair. It's a typical July day in San Diego--warm, bright sunshine, and not a cloud in the sky. The only sounds are distant birds and the slap of baseball against mitt. Little stinker has quite an arm.


"No curve balls," I warn.
"I know. So, Pop," he asks as he hurls a four-seamer.
*BZZZT, CRACK*
Ouch.
"Yes?"
"I've been kind of seeing this girl at school."
"Seeing her or seeing her?" I pry as I toss the ball back a little harder.
*PFFFT, SLAP*
Not bad for sixty-seven. The old man still has it.
"You know, seeing her. Anyway, I was at her house last night, helping with Calculus."
"Uh huh."
*BZZZT, CRACK*
"Her parents called her downstairs, so I did some exploration."
"And, what did you find?"
*PFFFT, POP*
"Well, since you're always warning me to avoid bedside tables, that was the first place I looked."
Oh, Jesus.
"And?"
"What's a butt plug?"
*BZZZT, DINK, BONK* -- Curve ball, square in the nuts.
"Argggh!"

I double over and feel as though my balls have shot out my ears.

"Honey. Wake up."

Who's shaking me?
"Mormon. Hey."
Oh, it's Bea.
"You had a bad dream, sweetie."
I check my package. All good. "Phew, that was a strange one."
"Tell me."
"I was playing catch with our son."
"Really? We haven't determined that it's going to be a boy, have we?"
"Well ..."
"OK, I'll play along. What did he look like?"
"A cross between a young Wayne Gretzky and the most beautiful woman in the world," I tease as I boop her nose and give her a kiss.
"Aw. And, his name?"
"Pippino."
"What?"
"Pippino. If we have a boy, that has to be his name," I state, matter-of-factly.
"Ha, ha. You're silly."
"I'm not kidding. It's Italian tradition. My first son must be named after my father, Pippino Silveri."
"No freaking way."
Is she serious?
"Yes, freaking way. I'll wrestle you for it," I say as I attack her. She giggles. "How do you manage to smell so good in the morning?"
"Don't change the subject, mister. Our son will not be named Pippino."
"Resistance is futile," I warn as I tug down on the waistband of her pajamas. "Do you hear that, Pippino?" I speak into her pelvis with my fake Italian accept. "You mamma, she's ashamed of-a you name."
"I think it's going to be a girl, anyway."
"Ah, Pippina!"

We laugh and wrestle, which naturally turns into morning sex. Ah, no better way to start the day. I'm thankful her morning sickness subsided, but I never realized women get hornier when pregnant. I'm definitely going to need assistance.

Fornication location, location, location.

Are things becoming bland in your relationship? Is sex usually horizontal and routine, instead of vertical and extreme? Fear not! You don't need drugs or therapy, Sweetiepeep. You need a gentle nudge. It's time to consider doing it in places not typically designed for doing it. For the next thirty days, you are forbidden from having missionary-style sex on your bed. I don't care if you feel you can only hit your peaks that way. Change it up!

I'm your SPS (Sexual Positioning System), and here is your suggested route, which will lead you away from drinking too much and having regretful sex with a neighbor or coworker:

Bathroom--more specifically bent over the sink, in the tub, in the shower, or on the toilet:

• Good: Nothing is cushy, so nobody should fall asleep during it. You have various lotions available at arm's length. Ooh, a razor. Look, a towel--what a handy baby-batter-picker-upper.
• Bad: Toilet seats break. Tiles can leave odd marks on posteriors. You'll notice those spots you missed. Mirrors are not always our friends. Try to avoid seeing your O-face.

Car:

• Good: It reminds one of giddy teenage years. Music is conveniently close by. The woman has to do most of the work, as usual.
• Bad: Leather seats make farting noises. Windows fog. The steering wheel and rear view mirror tend to get in the way.

Outdoors:

• Good: The additional sensations of the elements, such as wind and dew. Fluids are disposed of in the most bio-friendly ways possible.
• Bad: Sand, grass, or pebbles in ass crack. In a word: YouTube.

Pool or Hot Tub:

• Good: Additional lubrication provided free of charge. Chlorine sterilizes, to a certain extent.
• Bad: Floating sex goo and the possibility of encountering some that isn't yours. Air bubbles are often assumed to be rising farts.

Kitchen:

• Good: Access to sex aids, including food and frozen goodies. Counters are conveniently set at penis height, depending on your nationality.
• Bad: I was looking forward to having cucumber slices on my salad, and now ... ew, just ew.

My adventure in writing "Mommy Porn."

In order to complete my coattail-riding parody, I've been forced to read the Fifty Shades trilogy. I've made it through the first two. "No great accomplishment," you say? I disagree. Making it the entire way through one of these books--keeping in mind that I have external ovaries--is like running a marathon ... in mud ... in high heels ... after eating five Doritos-shelled tacos.

I haven't cringed so much since I saw Joe Theismann's leg snapped.

Still, life is best lived with an open mind and an open heart. Perhaps one day I would enjoy taking the virginity of a hyper-orgasmic punching bag. Doubtful.

My greatest concern lies around the first post-Fifty sexual encounter I have. (Been on a bit of a slump, lately. Sorry, Coach.) Chances are Ms. Next will have read the trilogy, and is unlikely to be familiar with my parodies. Here's a list of things that could happen:

• She'll fantasize about Christian Grey and yell out his name, which will cause instantaneous deflation.
• She'll murmur any-fucking-thing.
• She'll moan into my mouth. (I just burped-up a little.)
• She'll begin using safe words before I get her jeans off.
• She'll want to be face-down on or about Chapter Ten before permitting penetration.
• She'll expect me to own a helicopter with a silly name like Barney Slapnuts.
• She'll request me to kick her boss in the kerbangers or buy out his company, if she has a bad day at the office.
• She'll scare the piss out of my cats by making guttural sounds.

Thanks to that evil James woman, I'm going to have to rewrite my sexual playbook. The plays that worked pre-Fifty, simply won't do. I've had to tear this page out and shred it:

1. Drink bottle of wine.
2. Watch The Notebook, or something similar.
3. Go to bedroom.
4. Light candle.
5. Disrobe.
6. Kiss.
7. Go down on her.
8. Hint for her to return the favor.
9. Mount, poke taint, concede to guided insertion.
10. Flop over.
11. Be mounted and play with boobs.
12. Orgasm.
13. Think of clever things to say.
14. Fetch towel.
15. Wipe.
16. Find clothes in dark.
17. Walk out to car.
18. Kiss.
19. Speak words of appreciation.
20. Sleep.

The post-Fifty playbook needs some Bill Belichick shit. What's a man to do? How does one fit anything that won't cause yawning? I'm at the drawing board, making room for:

1. Butt plugs.
2. Fungo ass paddles.
3. Vodka enemas.
4. Hiney beads coated in mint jelly.
5. Super Soakers.
6. Brass balls that are inserted ... Fuck, I have no clue how this is possible or pleasurable.
7. Remote controlled vibrators.
8. Whips.
9. Fake stock portfolio statements showing seven digits.
10. Nipple clamps.

This could drive me toward early retirement.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Fifteen

I drive down to the Hyatt, fighting traffic all the way. I park on the level near the Blue Room and text Bea.

Mormon Silver: The package has arrived.
Bea Plastique: Ha! Is it still in its hard, protective shell?
Mormon Silver: No, luckily it has returned to its original shape.
Bea Plastique: Not lucky for me. :( Anyway, I'm running late and will be there in thirty minutes. You can go ahead in and wait for me.
Mormon Silver: I don't have a key.
Bea Plastique: Check your email. I sent you the link and code.
Mormon Silver: OK. See you soon.
Bea Plastique: And don't touch anything in there ... yet.
Mormon Silver: Yes, ma'am.

Sure enough, I have an email from her on my iPhone. I click the link and enter the code. The door buzzes open. Fancy! I bring along my love glove. Time for exploration.

I cruise around the room, inspecting the various unfamiliar instruments. Dickhead's paddle is still hanging on the wall. I have half a mind to take it to her mischievous butt. I didn't realize my last time here that there are additional rooms. I find one with an actual (non-rubberized) bed, a TV, and, naturally, a mirror on the ceiling. Then, I try another door, which opens to a playroom with a pool table and an air hockey machine. Hm.

The bed looks comfy so I plop down on it and begin thumbing the remote. Thankfully, the video that comes into focus isn't me in panties, but it is porn. There's no limit to her kinkiness. The video shows a nude redhead wearing a masquerade mask, lying on a bed next to a tray filled with assorted lubes, fruit, and vegetables. There's a dim, sexy candlelight flickering. I feel a twitch. Looks tasty. I know I haven't had my six servings.

The woman is playing to the camera. She drizzles lube just above her shaven pussy and allows it to drip like syrup down her luscious lips. More twitching in my pants. Oh, boy. She smiles toward the camera as she spreads the lube with her fingers, arching her back in pleasure. The bed and room look familiar.

She begins sampling the fruit and veggie tray, as Little Mormon begs to come out and play. First, she lubes up a healthy-sized zucchini. She inserts it a few inches, pulls it out, rubs it on her love button, and reaches to the tray for another item: a yellow squash. Wow, she's a trooper!

Then, I realize the bed in her video is the one I'm currently lying on. This was filmed here? Hot! I look beneath the TV and see a tripod stand and camera. Thank God, the camera is off. I wonder who ... it couldn't be, could it? Shit. It is. The woman in the video is my luscious Lovergirl wearing a red wig. I should have recognized her by that amazing body.

It's hard to resist pleasuring myself while watching Lovergirl play with her food. I hear the front door buzz and welcome the voice of my vixen.

"Hello, Uncle M."
"Hello, Lovergirl."
"What are you up to?"
"Just checking out the Food Network. I never knew Rachael Ray was so talented, nor zucchini that versatile."

Bea enters the bedroom and notices my lump.

"Hard still?"
"Hard again. I'm dying to see what she does with eggplant. Meanwhile," I slide into my love glove, "somebody here was exceptionally fiendish today, and deserves a spanking."
"Ooh, yes, I was very bad," Bea admits as she removes her undies and dives across me, lying perpendicular across my waist. She lifts her skirt. "How many lashes shall I receive, Master?"
"Five should do. But, it will have to wait until my show is over."

She turns her head toward me and gives that lower-lip pout I can't resist.

"Fine," I agree. I hit pause on the remote, turn my love glove on slow vibration, and strike her lightly on the bum.
"Was that supposed to hurt? Are you trying to punish me or tickle me?"
"I don't think I could ever bring myself to hit a woman harder than that. Sorry, sweetness. Perhaps you would accept alternative punishment in the form of a deep vaginal massage."
"Yes, please."

Once again, my glove and my love--a match made in sensuality.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Fourteen

After our backseat booty bouncing, I finally get a bit of bend in my bone.  She flips around to face me. Now, to other pressing matters.

"How was your meeting with Grandma?"
"Funny you should ask. There was a special guest appearance."
"Who? Kazuko?"
"No, a big fan of yours who is becoming a festering boil on my rump."
"No!"
"Yes. Chris."
"Oh, Mormon. I'm so sorry. Did he threaten you?"
"Actually, he tried to bribe me."
"Ugh. That's how he operates. When he can't have his way he buys it."
"Yep. So, I'm five dollars richer and you're about to marry into major douchebaggery."
"That's not funny."
"He threw in a Ginsu."
"I'd like to throw a Ginsu at him. He has such nerve. What did he say?"
"He insists this thing between us is a tryst, and you'll return to him."
"No chance. You know this is real, my love," she insists as she touches my cheek and stares into my eyes with clarity and sincerity.

I raise my gloved hand and give her a thumbs-up. We break into laughter--two lovers, midday, in the back seat acting like horny teenagers.

"I have to get back inside. Another meeting. Why don't you meet me in the Blue Room around six tonight?"
"Hm, that might be fun." Oh shit, stiffness is returning.
"It most definitely will be," she assures as she leans forward, kisses my throbber, and crawls into the front.
"I almost forgot. You fucking drugged me, you maniac!"
"It was an accident."
"You will be harshly punished for this misdeed later, Lovergirl."
"I sure hope so."

Bea blows a kiss and walks back into her office. I holster my meat and climb into the driver's seat. Maybe I can get some writing done this afternoon. The distraction may persuade my blood to stop pooling in my groin.

As I pull away, my phone rings through Bluetooth; it's my buddy, Grant.
"What up, G?"
"You."
"Ha! You have no idea."
"What time should I pick you up tomorrow?"
"For?'
"The shindig. You're not driving."
"What shindig?"
"Bachelor Party part one at The Purple Church."
"Huh?"
"Oh, shit. Was that supposed to be a surprise?"
Who's behind this?
"Spill, dude."
"I got a Facebook event notice from Bea. Thought for sure you were on it."
"I probably am. I haven't had a chance to sign in. Been a little occupied."
What's she up to?
"So, what time? It starts at eight."
"Pick me up at seven-thirty, I guess."
"See you tomorrow."
"Cool."

A man my age shouldn't have a bachelor party; he should have a nice dinner outdoors with friends, Cuban cigars, and expensive tequila. Fine. I'll play the role.