Fifty Shades Effed (5 page)

Chapter Sixteen

We must walk consciously only part way toward our goal and then leap in the dark to our success. – Henry David Thoreau

As Chris leads the press conference and ribbon cutting in the lobby, I turn the kids loose on the Blue Room. I remove certain DVDs and put baseball on all the TVs, to soften the blow. The kids play on the swings, whack each other with dildos, squirt lube on the floor, and slide around. The Fox News van pulls up.

Chris is bragging on camera about the remodel and how family-friendly the resort has become. Meanwhile, the
Fox News
team reports from the Blue Room where Matt interviews the evil clown.

“My Lord. What’s going on here?” Matt asks.

“Wow, I have no idea. We were told to bring the kids down for some family fun. This is just awful. Did you see the crazy devices in this room?”

“It looks like a BDSM dungeon.”

“I know! Disgusting.”

I walk with Matt around the Blue Room while Jeff gathers the kids and takes them upstairs for refreshments.

“Look at this paddle,” I prompt, as I remove it from its wall mount. The camera zooms in.

“There’s a plaque on it. Hm, CG. I wonder who that is?” Matt asks.

“Oh, I think we both know, Matt,” I say as I wink at the camera. “Now, I have to get back to the kids and make sure they’re OK.”

Matt continues his broadcast as I go into the limo bus and change out of my clown costume. I hide it in a compartment under the seats and begin removing my makeup. A text comes in.

Bea Plastique: OMFG!!!

Mormon Silver: What?

Bea Plastique: I’m watching this live with Grandma.

Mormon Silver: They say TV adds ten pounds. Did I look chubby?

Bea Plastique: Chris just broke away from the ceremony. He’s on his way there.

Mormon Silver: Got it handled. TTYL

I put on my baseball cap and sunglasses, and walk casually past the media as they rush toward the Blue Room. Chris and his entourage are close behind them. He doesn’t recognize me either. When he gets to the door, I yell toward him.

“Yo, Chris.”

He pivots and sees me.

“Love what you’ve done to the place. Have a nice life, fuckhead,” I yell, give him the finger, and jog out of the garage.

I text Jeff, asking him to take care of getting the kids back north and to keep mum about my involvement. I take a taxi home. Bea and Grandma are waiting.

“Holy shit,” Grandma beams, “you are one twisted motherfucker.”

“Language!” Bea reacts.

“I can’t believe he didn’t change the code. How’s he spinning it?” I ask.

“He stuttered and stammered, saying he never knew about the room,” Bea informs me.

“But, when Matt asked him about the paddle he completely lost it and ran off camera,” Grandma continues.

The media had a field day with the scandal. Jeff played it perfectly, insisting he had no idea what was going on as he simply followed the banner. Chris will be tied up for some time doing damage control. This should give my wife and I time to prepare for our child, with fewer distractions.

Chapter Seventeen

Love is the expansion of two natures in such fashion that each include the other, each is enriched by the other. – Felix Adler

I’m home finishing more blog entries, hoping they drive revenue to help me catch up on the mortgage. Grandma leaves for Canada to visit family for a few days, so Bea and I have the house to ourselves.

Bea Plastique: I say we have the final event in our baby naming Olympics tonight. You game?

Mormon Silver: Sure. What do you have in mind?

Bea Plastique: Strip Poker. Do you know how to play Texas hold ’em?

Mormon Silver: Never heard of it. Does it involve steer wrestling?

Bea Plastique: You’re not bluffing me, mister.

Mormon Silver: Bring it, sister!

I’m not bluffing, as my card skills are nearly as bad as my skating skills. I don’t even know if a straight beats a flush. Still, I won’t back down from a challenge.

The key to strip poker (
I Googled it
) is to have many items to remove. Hence, I enter our walk-in closet and begin layering up. I find Bea’s purple thong and make it my first item. If nothing else, it should distract her. Then I add boxer briefs and jeans. I create makeshift pasties out of electrical tape in the form of crosses over my nipples. I put on a tank top, T-shirt, polo shirt, button-down, and a scarf. I add socks and Pumas, then a bandana, cap, and sunglasses.
No way she wins.

When Bea arrives home, I’m a sweaty mess.

“Is there a cold front coming in?”

“Get your cute little ass over to the poker table. Italy shall claim the crown tonight.”

“Fine. I’m going to change first. Start shuffling, Uncle M.”

When she comes back downstairs, all she’s wearing is a sundress and sandals.

“That’s it?”

“This is all I need,” she insists. “Can I get you a drink while I’m up? Bourbon, perhaps?”

“Yes ... hold on. No drugging me.”

“I’d never.”

“Right. Bring me the sealed bottle and a glass, Miss Thang.”

“As you wish.”

We begin our event. I lose hand after hand after hand. I’m two bourbons in and down to pasties and underwear. Bea laughs when she sees the black crosses over my nipples.

“What were you thinking? Did you forget you have chest hair?”

“Um ...”

“You lose this hand and I get to remove them.”

“Fine.”

I lose the hand. She removes them like Band-Aids and leaves me with two pink, tender-skinned crosses. Bea is in her bra and panties. I finally get a favorable draw, win the hand, and off comes her bra.

“Looks like a dead heat,” I remark.

“Not quite.”

Bea wins the next hand and assumes she’s the victor until I peel down my boxer briefs and model her thong.

“That has to be one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen,” Bea laughs as she tries to snap a picture with her iPhone. “I’m posting this on Facebook.”

“Give me that,” I insist, as I take the phone from her.

On the next hand I learn that a straight does not beat a flush; I have a flush.

“Yes! Italy wins!”

“Hold on, Uncle M,” Bea interrupts as she peels down her panties to reveal a silver chain coming from her luscious love tunnel.

“What the heck is that?”

“The chain to my Ben Wa balls.”

“Fuck.”

Bea wins the next hand, once again confident in Canada’s victory.

“Heck no. This fat lady ain’t singin’ yet,” I insist as I turn around, peel down the thong, and expose the silver hoop dangling from my crack. It’s Ben Wa balls versus anal beads for the title.

Chapter Eighteen

Kisses that are easily obtained are easily forgotten. – English Proverb

Poker is a funny game, especially when you have beads in the bum. Perhaps that distraction was causing my string of losses to Lovergirl, but after seeing what’s dangling from me, she’s straining to see her cards through tearing eyes.

I’m dealt Ace-King, and do as I should: go all in. The flop is Ace-King-Deuce. If this were on ESPN, I’d see that exciting number saying I have something like a 99% chance of winning this hand. Bea foolishly goes all in also. She has more chips than I do, so this is a critical hand.

“Oh, Lovergirl. You’re going down. Let’s see what you have.”

“No.”

“Those are the rules. Flip them.”

“No. Not until all five cards are out. I want to watch you sweat.”

Jesus. Does she have pocket Aces?

The next two cards turned are off-suit Eight and Four. I have a sure winner. I flip my cards over and rejoice that I can name our child, yank her chain, and lose my string of butt-pearls. She bites her lip and turns over her cards: a pair of Deuces.
Fuck me in the eyehole.

“Are you kidding me, woman?”

“Oh, Can-nuh-daaah,” she sings while doing her happy dance.

“How the hell do you win a hand with Deuces?”

“Let’s go, Uncle M,” she insists as she leads me upstairs. “It’s time for the removal of the final item. You don’t mind if I drape my nation’s flag over my shoulders while performing, do you?”

In my candlelit bedroom, Lovergirl sits up on the bed while I lie between her legs with my chin propped on my hands—an eager spectator. She slowly removes the Ben Wa balls with her left hand while circling her clit with the fingertips of her right.
I love watching my woman touch herself.
I’m bone-hard between the varied sensations including the yellow pill I took before our poker match.

Every time I try to assist in her pleasure, she raises a foot to my forehead and pushes me back.

“I want you to sit up facing me,” she suggests, “and touch yourself too, Uncle M.”

“All right.”

Mutual masturbation is a first for me. When I’m ready to erupt, she reaches toward me to (I assume) give me a hand. Instead, as my Mormon-juice rises, she yanks the beads from me as if she were starting a leaf blower.

“Eek,” is all I can manage. I feel violated—in a good way. “Great, now what do we do with the beads?”

“I think they’re dishwasher safe,” she offers.

“Yuck! Why don’t we keep them in a bedside jar of barbicide?”

“Ha!”

The next morning, Grandma arrives home as we finish breakfast.

“Welcome home, Grandmother,” I greet her. “French toast?”

“Yum. Yes, please.”

“Hello, darling,” Grandma greets Bea.

“How was your trip?”

“Very productive. It’s a done deal.”

“What’s a done deal?” I interrupt.

“The three of us and Eric are going to Comic-Con tomorrow.”

“Cool, I always wanted to check that out.”

“Good,” Bea beams.

“We’re meeting the group at nine,” says Grandma.

“What group?”

“You’ll see.”

Chapter Nineteen

Once in awhile, right in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale. – Anonymous

We drive down to Comic-Con. I’m amazed by the variety of outfits and personalities. Crowds gather in bunches around celebrity sightings. Grandma hands out VIP badges as the limo drops us off at the main entrance.

“I like how you travel, woman.”

“The meeting is in Room 19 on the Mezzanine Level,” Grandma informs us.

“What meeting?” I ask.

“Ooh, Mormon, you’re going to love this,” Eric assures me.

A concierge guides us through the crowd and up the escalator to the Mezzanine. We stop at the concession counter to grab coffee. I take Bea aside.

“What’s going on, sweetie?”

“Eric and I have been working this deal for months. Grandma made some contacts, and it all came together beautifully.”

“So, she wasn’t in Canada last week?”

“She was in Hollywood.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“They’re ready for you, folks,” the concierge informs us. “Right this way.”

My palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry. What could this be? I turn the corner into the room and see a small group of executive-looking people behind a conference room table containing various documents and pens. The flat-screen TV in front of the table has a web browser. It’s on the home page of my blog.

I stare at Bea, still confused.

“Mormon, these folks are from Macmillan,” Grandma introduces.

I press palms with various executives from the publishing giant, then Grandma leads me over to another gentleman.

“I believe you know this fellow,” Grandma suggests as he smiles and shakes my hand.

“Mark Fucking Wahlberg?” I gasp.

“Mark Robert Michael Wahlberg, actually,” he corrects me.

“Jesus. Sorry, dude. I’m a huge fan,” I offer, while holding his handshake uncomfortably long.

“As am I, Mormon. I’ve been reading your blog for weeks. You have quite a story.”

“I apologize. Can someone tell me what’s going on here?”

Bea grabs both my hands and stares me in the eyes.

“Darling, Macmillan is offering a three-book deal and Mr. Wahlberg would like to option the film rights ... for five million dollars.”

I nearly faint.

“All that’s left is the signing of the agreements. Our attorney has reviewed them. Congratulations, my love.”

Bea kisses me. I’m blown away, elated, and humbled. I’ve been blogging about my bizarre relationship with Lovergirl since that first meeting in her office. I never intended to publish it.

“Books and a movie? About us?”

“Let’s say,
inspired by
us.”

“You can change some of the facts, you know, to protect the innocent,” Mark suggests.

“Start by changing the names,” Bea insists.

I sign the documents, stare at the advance checks, and pinch myself. Once home, I sit in front of my computer...

My name is
Mormon Silver
Phil Torcivia, and women leave their marks on me.

THE END.

Chapter Twenty (Epilogue)

A man is given the choice between loving women and understanding them. – Ninon de L’Enclos

I’m at Poinsettia Park, playing catch with my lovely daughter, Gerty. She’s an all-star junior in high school, and one of the best pitchers in the nation. Her sister, Dee, is in the on-deck circle, hovering over a tripod while focusing a high-speed camera.

*WHAPPP*

“Ouch! Take it easy on the old man, will ya?”

“Oh, Dad.”

“Seriously. I’m not wearing a cup. Straight stuff only.”

*ZZZIP*

Dee’s camera clicks off numerous shots with every pitch. I take a quick water break.

“I thought twins were supposed to be alike. You should be catching your sister.”

“Sports are silly, except for their artistic qualities,” she responds while showing me an action photo on the camera.