Free Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody by Fanny Merkin

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