Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody (10 page)

“In sword swallowing?”

“Yes,” he says. “In sword swallowing. Get dressed.”

Back in the living room, Earl teaches me the ancient art of sword swallowing. The trick, he says, is to suppress the muscles and processes involved in swallowing; one does not literally “swallow” the sword. Much to my chagrin, he teaches me using a samurai sword, and not his gravy-maker. I’m not very good at first, but after a couple of hours I can take the sharpened blade down my throat to the hilt. It’s late, and Earl has an important business meeting in the morning, so we go to sleep without having sex again. Pacing ourselves isn’t such a bad idea, especially since we still have more than half the book left.

Chapter Fourteen

I
WAKE TO THE SOUND of my cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. I fumble around for it with my eyes half closed, and by the time I have it in my hand it stops. Twelve missed calls and several text messages, all from Kathleen. I scan through them quickly.

*where r u*

*dammit anna answer ur phone*

*jin ruptured one of his testicles and i had to take him to the dr.

i hope ur happy*

*tell ur new boyfriend hi*

Sigh.
I want to text her back and let her know I’m okay, that Earl Grey isn’t my boyfriend (because he “doesn’t do the girlfriend thing”), and that I’m saying a prayer for Jin’s testicles. I can’t text her though, not now—all she’ll do is bring me down, and the last thing I need is reality intruding upon my graphic sexual fantasy.

It’s ten in the morning, and Earl Grey is long gone from the bed. He hasn’t completely abandoned me, because I’m still wearing Earl’s shirt from last night; it’s like I’ve skinned him and am wearing his flesh. Only it’s less creepy by like a million times. I swing my legs out of the bed and stand up. Sunlight is streaming into the apartment. I make my way to the kitchen, and find a note folded on top of an iPad. I open the note.

Anna—

Top of the morning to you!

When you’re ready for breakfast, just tell my butler and he’ll cook something for you. His name is Data. He is well trained in the culinary arts, so please take advantage of him.

The iPad is yours. We need a way to keep in touch while I’m at work, and I hate texting. It makes me feel like a thirteen-year-old girl. So, since you told me you’ve never had a computer or even an e-mail address, I thought you would enjoy the tablet (although I must confess I don’t understand how you made it through four years of college without the Internet). Just turn it on (press the button!) and touch the “Mail” app. I’ve set you up with your own Hotmail account.

I’ll be home from work later this evening; you’re welcome to stay at the apartment all day and watch movies, play board games, etc. I can fly you back to Portland this evening.

E. G.

P.S.: You are amazing in bed. I quite enjoyed sticking my thingie inside your thingie. ;)

Oh my.
My very own iPad. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s given me my very own Hotmail account! Not only did I lose my virginity within the past twenty-four hours, I also now have e-mail. I want to turn the iPad on and give it a test drive, but my hunger is more immediate.

“Looking for me, Miss Steal?” a man behind me says in a monotone voice. I whip around and am face-to-face with a pale man wearing a green-and-black spandex jumpsuit. I try to back away from this strange person, but am trapped between him and the kitchen counter. If I can reach the iPad in time, I can e-mail Earl Grey and have him call the police . . .

“Do not be alarmed,” the man says robotically. “My name is Data. I am Mr. Grey’s butler.”

Oh.
My heart stops beating frantically. Well, it keeps beating, just not as frantically as before. I’m calming down.

“Why are you wearing that outfit?” I say.

“This is my Starfleet uniform, Miss Steal,” he says.

“Starfleet? Is that like NASA?”

“Your comparison is not one of equivalency,” he says.

He must register my look of bewilderment, because he adds, “Surely you are familiar with
Star Trek
?”

I shake my head. “I’m not big into science fiction.”

He sighs, and relaxes his entire body. “Thank God,” he says, his voice now sounding closer to a normal person’s. “You can just call me Brent.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I still don’t understand . . .”

“I’m an actor, Miss Steal. Or I was,” he says wistfully. “I played an android named ‛Data’ on
Star Trek: The Next Generation
for many years. Afterward, directors weren’t exactly lining up around the block to cast someone whose best-known work is playing basically a robot. Mr. Grey found me working at a Saturn dealership in Beverly Hills, and asked me to come work for him—as his ‛android butler.’ He apparently wanted a real android, but I was as close as he could get.”

I shake my head. “That’s tragic. I can’t imagine working as a car salesman. Especially one who sells Saturns.”

“Oh, the money wasn’t bad, Miss Steal,” Brent says. “But I did get tired of saying, ‛Not only is this model fully functional, it’s also fully loaded.’ Even if I have to wear this olive-green bodysuit and dye my hair black, working for Mr. Grey pays much, much better. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Mr. Grey doesn’t pay me anything,” I say defensively.
Unless you count the iPad, and the Hotmail account, and him buying Walmart and Washington State University.
“I’m not a prostitute.”

“Oh,” Brent says. “I’m sorry. I just assumed . . .”

Oh no. This is what Earl meant when he said he doesn’t “do the girlfriend thing.” He doesn’t have girlfriends, because he pays women to dress up as elves and magicians and whatever else and get spanked and screwed in his Dorm Room of Doom.

“I have to go,” I say, sliding past Brent. I change into my own clothes and run from Earl Grey’s apartment in tears as his weird android butler watches me, unable to compute my emotions with his circuit board brain.

Chapter Fifteen

I
ORDER A GREEN TEA at the Starbucks across the street from Earl Grey’s apartment. I pull my phone out and call Kathleen.

She answers after one ring. “Anna!”

“It’s me,” I say glumly.

“Are you okay?” she asks. It doesn’t sound like she’s as angry with me as her text messages indicated.

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I say.

“Did that control freak kidnap you? Where did he take you?”

I sigh. “To his apartment.”

“I’ll come pick you up, girl,” she says, sensing my dour mood.

“Would you?” I say. “I’m at the Starbucks in Seattle.”

“Cool. Hang tight—I’ll be there in forty-five minutes or so.”

I thank Kathleen and end the call. Now I’m stuck in this coffee shop with nothing to do . . . Should I turn the iPad on? I took it from the apartment, probably against my better judgment. But it’s an iPad. C’mon. Who would turn down a free iPad?

I start it up and look it over. It’s loaded with tons of apps, including Words With Friends, Angry Birds, and . . . Mail.
Do I dare open it? What could it hurt?
I tap the envelope icon and it expands to fill the screen.

From: Earl Grey
Subject: Your New iPad
Date: May 22 6:49 AM
To: Anna Steal

Dear Miss Steal—

I hope you slept well. It sure as hell sounded like it! How do you not wake yourself up with your own snoring?!!! Ha ha, j/k. But not really kidding.

Anyway, let me know if you need anything!

Earl Grey
CEO, The Earl Grey Corporation

It’s not the only e-mail in my inbox from Earl. There’s a new e-mail, dated five minutes ago.

From: Earl Grey
Subject: Baby?
Date: May 22 10:56 AM
To: Anna Steal

Dear Miss Steal—

Data contacted me and said that you were compelled to leave the apartment most unexpectedly. Is everything okay?

Earl Grey
CEO, The Earl Grey Corporation

P.S. I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail (it was either off, or you were talking on it?). I’m buying you a second cell phone, just to field my calls exclusively. Don’t argue with me, Anna.

Uh-oh.
What do I do? I start composing a response . . .

From: Anna Steal
Subject: RE: Baby?
Date: May 22 11:05 AM
To: Earl Grey

I did leave, yes. And I was on the phone. Not that it’s any of your business.

I am not one of your LARPers. Or should I say “whores”?

Anna

I tap “send” and then close the Mail app.
That’ll show the rich bastard.

I open the Words With Friends app.

There’s a small avatar of Earl Grey. I tap on it, and it brings up a new screen: “Earl Grey has invited you to play a game. Would you like to accept?”

Do I accept? I have time to kill. It’s an easy enough game, and one that I’ve played before on my mom’s iPad. You’re given seven letters, each with a different point value, and must place them on the board by connecting them with at least one letter of a word that the other player has spelled. For every letter you use, you get a new one in the next round. Perhaps I can vent some frustration at Earl Grey through the game.

I tap “yes.” I’ll play, if only to beat him and show him he’s not as smart and clever as he thinks he is. Earl has played the first word: “KINK.” Of course.

I look at the letters available to me. Hmmmm . . . I move four letters to the board, spelling “PRICK” off one of his Ks. His move.

Almost immediately, I receive a notice that he has played. His word? “PRICKS.”
Damn! Bastard!
He just added an “S” to the end of my word. It’s a legal move, but one only a prick who wants to piggyback off someone else’s hard work would do.

I spell “CHEAP” off of the “C.” Because he’s a cheap prick, if he’s going to just add “S” to the end of every word I spell.

He plays “HO.”
Oh, hell no.

I turn the iPad off.
The nerve of that man!
I head to the women’s restroom to fix my hair, which I can feel is out of control again. I should have tamed it before I left Earl Grey’s apartment, but I was in such a hurry to get out of his little whorehouse that I didn’t even put on my underwear—I couldn’t find them. He’ll probably cook them up for dinner or something. What a creep.

I lock the door behind me and stare at myself in the mirror. What does Earl Grey see in me? I’m so plain; I don’t wear any makeup. My skin is as pale as Steve Jobs’ corpse.

“Anna,” a voice says from the closed stall behind me. It’s a voice so hunky that it can only be . . .

“Mr. Grey!” I say, turning my head to find him swinging the door open. The toilet flushes and he zips his pants up. His tousled hair looks more magnificent than ever. And those eyes! They’re still gray.

“I’m sorry, Anna. ‛Ho’ was the only word I could spell,” he says. “You should have seen what I had to work with.”

I shake my head. “You’re unbelievable. You could have spelled ‛O–H.’”

“Maybe.” He grins. “But you look so cute when you’re mad. Come sit with me,” he says, opening the door and ushering me out of the women’s restroom.

“I’m waiting for someone,” I say.

“Until he or she gets here, please sit with me. We need to talk.”

Fine.
What choice do I have? If I don’t sit with him, he’ll just send a text and buy Starbucks, and have every chair removed except for the ones at his table.

We sit down together. If he can tell I’m drinking green tea instead of Earl Grey tea, he doesn’t let on.

Earl clears his throat wickedly. “So, Anna, you think that I think you’re a hooker.”

“Your butler seemed to think so,” I say. “Have you paid other girls for sex?”

He sighs. “That’s a very narrow-minded way to look at what I do. It’s not easy to find beautiful women who will LARP with me and let me have my way sexually with them. Do I have to pay them sometimes? Yes.”

“I knew it. I think we’re done here,” I say.

I start to rise out of my chair, but he grabs my wrist. “Please hear me out, Anna.”

I sit back down. “Fine. Talk.”

“I don’t expect you to understand. I’m a complicated man, Anna. I have fifty shames. Some of them you already know, such as my intense mancrush on Tom Cruise or the fact that I shop at Walmart. But I have other secret shameful desires that are more . . . sexual in nature.”

Oh my.

“Like I told you, I’m into kinky, weird games. You haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Perhaps it’s for the best that you leave me. If paying women for erotically charged role-playing sessions bothers you, you could never handle some of the things I’m into. For what it’s worth, Anna, the LARPers are all in the past now. I quit buying women the moment I met you. I’m a changed man.”

“You’d just rather buy extravagantly expensive things for me instead of throw actual money at me,” I say.