Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody (13 page)

“It was supposed to be. My dirty talk doesn’t turn you on?”

I shake my head. “Sometimes. But comparing a woman’s vagina to a fish is unacceptable.”

“What if I said ‛goldfish’? Goldfish are colorful and uniquely beautiful. Like you, my dearest Anna.”

I shake my head again. “Just stop. No fish.”

“Okay, then what did you have in mind?”

“Drop the double entendres and let’s move on to another F-word.”

“Oh, Anna,” he says. “I thought you’d never ask. Food it is, then! Let’s go eat in the dining hall.”

It wasn’t the F-word I had in mind, of course (it was actually two F-words: friending and Facebook), but it works. I’m hungry. Plus I don’t even have a Facebook account.

The boat is now sailing on the open water. We sit down at a table in the boat’s dining room, which turns out to be an Olive Garden. “I hope you like Italian food, Anna. Olive Garden is my favorite,” Earl says as a waiter drops off two menus for us.

What do I say? I mean, yes, I love Italian food . . . but I don’t know anyone who would mistake Olive Garden for real Italian food. “I like the breadsticks,” I say cheerfully.

He laughs. “You can be honest, Anna.”

Okay, if he wants to hear it . . . “I think Olive Garden noodles taste like microwaved plastic spoons,” I say. “And don’t get me started on their clumpy sauce. They should change their name to ‛Shitaly.’”

Earl gazes at me. I’m sure he’s going to toss me off the boat like chum for a shark. Instead, he just smiles. “I couldn’t agree more. And that’s why I love it. It’s another of my fifty shames, Anna.”

Wow.
He’s bearing his soul to me. This is deep.

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Grey.”

“Just wait until we get to Hawaii,” he says. “You have no idea how strange I am.”

The waiter returns, and Earl orders two of everything on the menu. I’m beginning to think his relationship with food is a little screwed up. It’s a miracle that he’s in shape and has washboard abs. If I ate like he did, I would need liposuction once a week. He laughs when I tell him this.

“Oh, Anna,” he says. “If I waited a full week to have liposuction, there’s no way my abs would look like this. I have a doctor come in and suck out my fat every Monday and Thursday.”

“Do you think that’s healthy?”

“It can’t hurt,” he says.

I’m still unsure. “I’ve heard stories of people dying or being seriously injured due to cosmetic surgery.”

“Oh Anna, it’s not surgery; it’s a new procedure called ‛manual suction.’ A doctor comes over and literally sucks the fat off me twice a week using a Dirt Devil.”

It’s useless to argue with the great and mighty Earl Grey—if he can buy it, then it has to be good, right?

I am glad that he’s revealing more of himself to me. No matter how shameful his activities are (eating at Olive Garden, shopping at Walmart, paying for sex), they don’t discourage me from getting close to him. If anything, I feel a stronger connection to him with each new revelation. Is there a point where I will be overwhelmed and unable to handle his secrets? Is there something so shameful that it will cause me to leave him forever? How dark can things get?

After we finish eating, I retire to the upper deck to sunbathe. I’ve brought all 1,200 pages (or whatever) of Earl’s quiz to read through again. Earl lounges on one of the lower decks, buying and selling companies on his BlackBerry.

It takes me over three hours to read through the quiz for the second time. When I’m finished, I pick up my iPad and sit under an umbrella so I can have some shade while typing. I start the e-mail app.

From: Anna Steal
Subject: Let’s Talk About Us
Date: May 23 5:05 PM
To: Earl Grey

So I revisited the quiz. And I still think you’re insane if you want me to fill it out.

Let’s begin with the obtrusive questions about “hard limits.” Am I interested in “acts involving urine, feces, fireworks, golf clubs, or animals”? Um, no. Disgusting.

Also: The questions about what parts of my life I would let you control? Over the line. No way am I going to let you tell me what to eat, or when to eat it. Is this a romantic relationship or Weight Watchers?

Anna

Less than a minute later, there’s a reply from Earl Grey. Somebody clearly wasn’t busy enough.

From: Earl Grey
Subject: Okay
Date: May 23 5:06 PM
To: Anna Steal

Dear Miss Steal—

The hard limits are negotiable. I find that it’s always best to discuss these things in advance, however, so that you don’t wake up one morning with a Cleveland steamer on your chest and wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into.

The dietary restrictions are also up for negotiation. You don’t have to eat from a prescribed list of foods all the time if that’s not what you want. We can compromise. For instance, I can provide a list of foods to be eaten as snacks (baby carrots?).

Earl Grey
CEO, The Earl Grey Corporation

I e-mail back that baby carrots might be an acceptable compromise. After I hit “send,” I put the iPad into sleep mode and set it aside. I recline in the lawn chair and close my eyes, ready to nap under the shade. Before I can drift off, however, something tickles my face. I open my eyes and what I come face-to-face with is definitely not a baby carrot.

I glance up at Earl’s grinning face. “We’ve got about an hour left,” he says. “I have an F-word in mind that can keep us occupied . . .”

After we run through a fire drill, Earl and I stroll to the front of the yacht to get a good view of our destination. I haven’t told him about the baby yet. He’s going to blame me for it; I need to wait for the right time to tell him he’s going to be a father.

“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “I’ve never left the United States.” In the distance, I can see the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean. In the middle of the great big blue sea, a series of islands covered in beautiful lush green vegetation rises majestically.

“I can’t believe you have a place in Hawaii,” I say.

“I have an
island
in Hawaii,” he says.

Swoon.

Chapter Twenty-one

E
ARL GREY RUNS THE BOAT onto the beach and we hop out. We’re not dressed for the beach: he’s in his suit and I’ve changed into a sundress. It hardly matters, because the beach is deserted.

“Where is everybody?” I say.

“This is a private beach,” he says. “Just you, me, and a hundred paparazzi in boats and helicopters trying to get a glimpse of Earl Grey sunbathing nude.”

“You tan in the buff?”

“Does that surprise you, Anna?”

“A little. But only because you’re so pale.”

He shrugs. “It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been here,” he says. “C’mon.”

Earl grabs my hand and leads me to a cabin on the edge of the beach, where the sand meets the tropical forest. We step inside the cabin and he turns the lights on.
Wow
. What a place. There are so many things, like couches and chairs and tables. Everything is very tastefully done up in white and earth tones. The walls are lined with black velvet paintings of the greatest figures of the past century, including Elvis Presley, Steve Jobs, Usher, Jeff Foxworthy, George W. Bush, and Oprah Winfrey. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Of course the cabin is beautiful,” he says. “I decorated it.”

“You can decorate me,” I say.
Damn my potty mouth!

Earl raises an eyebrow. “The things that come out of your mouth,” he says amusedly.

“The things that come in my mouth,” I reply.

“That’s it,” he says, loosening his tie. “I think you need to be disciplined for being so naughty.”

Uh-oh
. What does he have in mind?

“We’re a ways away from your Dorm Room of Doom, so I’m not scared,” I say.

He cocks an eye. “What did you call it?”

Gulp
. “Room of Doom. Why? What do you think I said?”

He shakes his head. “Nevermind,” he says, removing his smiley-face tie. He pulls me by my wrist into the cabin’s bedroom.

“Take off your clothes,” he orders me.

“Yes, Mr. Grey,” I say. I’m not sure what he has in mind, but I start stripping. I hope he’s not mad about the crack about his Room of Doom. When I’m down to my panties and bra, I realize he hasn’t removed anything except for his tie.

“Not joining me?” I say.

He shakes his head. “I’m not joining you. I’m disciplining you. Now finish undressing and lie down on the bed.”

I do as instructed. I’m lying on my back, naked, my legs bent at the knees and ready to receive Earl. Suddenly, his hands are pinning my wrists against the headboard. He’s fussing with his tie . . . Wait! He’s tied me up! I am spread eagle, naked before him, my arms raised above my head and tied to one of the bedposts.

He steps back and surveys his work. “Nice,” he says. “I like seeing you tied up. So helpless, so defenseless . . .”

His sadistic impulses are in full force this evening. It’s kind of hot to temporarily give up control to him. He’s driving me crazy with anticipation. “Please, Mr. Grey,” I pout. “Please use me.”

“No whining,” he says. “If you do, I will put a ball gag in your mouth.”

“Yes, put your balls in my mouth,” I say. “I want to eat your balls.”

He pauses. “I meant a ball gag, which is a rubber ball,” he says.

“Oh,” I say disappointedly.

“Hold tight,” he says, licking his lips. “I’m going to get something to drink.”

I watch him leave the room, his muscular butt visible through his pants. I can hear him opening the refrigerator in the kitchen. He returns, a filled wineglass in his hand.

“I hope you’re thirsty,” he says, nearing the bed.

He puts it to my mouth, and I sip the carbonated purple drink. It’s chilled, and tastes like a cross between grape Kool-Aid and Miller High Life.

He pulls it back. “You can’t even buy this anymore, you know,” he says.

“It’s delicious,” I say. “What is it?”

“Four Loko,” Earl says. “It has twelve percent alcohol and enough caffeine to wake Paula Deen from a diabetic coma. It’s so powerful that the federal government made them reformulate it to remove the caffeine and herbs. Thankfully, I have cases of the original formulation stashed here in my wine cellar.”

“So it’s illegal,” I say.

“According to the government,” he says. “But this will be our little secret, okay?”

“Okay. Now are we going to have sex?” My lady boner is throbbing in anticipation of his Bilbo Baggins.

“Not yet,” he says. “First, I’m going to have a little fun . . .”