Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody Fanny Merkin (the giving tree read aloud TXT) 📖

“Oh, S and M. Like that Rihanna song,” I say. “The one about whips and chains.”

“The what?”

“Nevermind,” I say. Earl is only six years older than me, but sometimes the gulf between our ages seems like something I can’t bridge. It’s like he’s a 104-year-old vampire in a twenty-seven-year-old’s body.

“So you’re into some kinky shit,” I say. “That’s your biggest secret?”

“You don’t know the depths of my perversion,” he says.

I’ve already seen him at what I figured was the depth of his shame, buying a Nickelback CD. Do I want to know how deep his perversions go? Does he want me to follow him down that rabbit hole, into the dark recesses of his kinky rich-guy mind? I’m just a simple virgin—oh no.

“Did we make sandwiches together last night?” I mutter.

“What?”

“It’s just my timid way of asking if we did . . . it.”

“Are you asking if we had sex last night, Anna?” he says, letting the question hang in the air for a moment. “No.”

“Phew. I was worried because I’m . . .” Uh–oh. I’ve said too much. I can’t let Earl Grey know I’m a virgin! “My . . . armpits are a little sore. TMI. Sorry.”

“I don’t think one can ever have too much . . . information,” he says suggestively, though I don’t know exactly what he’s suggesting. He cocks his head to one side and uses his gray eyes to pinch my inner guidette’s love handles.

“Anyway, room service will be here shortly with breakfast,” he says. “If you want to brush your teeth or take a shower, I’ll let you have the restroom first.”

“Thanks,” I say, getting out of bed. Woah. My head starts spinning and it takes a moment to steady myself. Earl watches me, with more bemusement than concern. I stagger to the bathroom and shut the door.

I turn on the water in the shower and wait until it warms up before stripping and stepping in. The water pours over me, washing away my hangover. I wish Earl were in here with me. I need Earl Grey. I need his kisses, I need his long fingers, and I need his slicked-back hair . . .

Why didn’t he take advantage of me last night? All I’m getting from him are mixed signals. He buys me tea; he tells me to stay away from him. He practically kidnaps me from a nightclub; he doesn’t ravish me in his hotel suite. I slept next to him all night long, and he didn’t touch me. As I rub the cheap and inferior hotel body wash all over my body, I think of Earl Grey touching me . . .

There’s a knock at the door. “Breakfast,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, my daydream shattered.

Breakfast is spread out on dozens of trays across the table. Since Earl Grey is, well, Earl Grey, he’s ordered two of every item on the room service menu. There’s enough food here to feed us for a week. We’re both in hotel bathrobes, our naked bodies tantalizingly within arm’s reach of one another underneath our robes.

“Why did you buy me the Snooki book?” I say, crunching down on a strawberry-jelly-and-Nutella-smothered slice of toast.

“Because I can,” he says, popping a hard-boiled egg into his mouth. “And because I felt bad for leaving you to walk back to Walmart by yourself.”

“I’m a big girl,” I say, sipping from a glass of hibiscus juice that I’ve just squeezed. “I can take care of myself.”

He chomps into a full head of Napa cabbage. “I’m sure you are. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying about you. The world is a bad place. You need to be careful.”

I twirl Spaghetti alla puttanesca on my fork. “Do I need to be careful around you?”

He looks at me solemnly, his gray eyes full of earnestness. “I already told you: I can be a cruel person,” he says, cracking a lobster tail, squirreling a piece of meat out of it, dipping it into fresh melted butter, and sucking it down.

“Then why keep after me?” I run my tongue up and down a stalk of cooked asparagus.

“No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try . . . I can’t keep myself away from you,” he says, peeling a long carrot and, not to be outdone by the suggestive asparagus show I just put on, fellates the carrot for three solid minutes.

Did you hear that, babe? my inner guidette says. Earl Grey, the hottest gorilla you’ve ever laid eyes on, can’t stay away from you. I look down into my egg drop soup, hoping to catch a reflection of what it is that Earl Grey is so taken with, but instead just see a mess of gross-looking bits of shredded egg. I push the bowl away.

“I’d like to drop my eggs in your soup,” he says, dipping a strawberry on the end of a long-stemmed fork into a fondue pot of melted chocolate.

I peer up at him, and he’s got that wickedly wicked look on his handsomely handsome face again. “Are you hitting on me, Mr. Grey?” I tease, lightly drizzling balsamic vinaigrette on my spinach salad.

He giggles. “I scream, you scream . . . we all scream for ice cream,” he says, licking a chocolate-and-vanilla-swirl ice cream cone.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, carving a turkey and removing the gizzard.

Earl unwraps a McRib, which isn’t even on the McDonald menu right now. He smothers the sandwich with barbecue sauce, and asks, “Have you ever worked in fast food?”

I shake my head.

“Too bad,” he says, washing down his McRib with a Shamrock Shake, another out-of-season menu item. “I like girls who can take orders.”

“Is this your way of asking if I’ll play this kinky BDSM game with you, Mr. Grey?”

He sighs, setting down his grilled corn on the cob. “Could you at least act like you’re shocked? If you’re not shocked by how naughty and perverted my deviant tastes are, it