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