Here’s the book trailer for my Fifty Shades parodies. What do you think?
My name is Mormon Silver, and women leave their marks on me. They distract me and drive me crazy; that causes chin frosting as well as my tendency to improperly separate colors from whites. I need to understand the effect they have, so I tweet a local billionairess, Beatrice Plastique.
@BPlastique, I’m enchanted by you and I’d love to interview you for my blog. #whynot
I never expected a reply. Then …
@MormonSilver, I’m tied up at the moment, but I’ll fit you in soon. #whysure
I bite my bottom lip and feel a twitch in my board shorts. She’s only thirty-three whereas I’m in the late autumn of my life at fifty. Would I have an actual shot at the legend?
Her assistant called me and set up a late morning appointment. He asked me to arrive early since I would need to review and sign an NDA before meeting with the blond goddess. I hardly slept as I dreamed of sunset strolls on a Tahitian beach with Ms. Plastique on my arm. It could happen. Stay positive, Mormon.
The morning of that fateful day I scrubbed and trimmed a little extra, just in case. I ran through three spritzes of my secret weapon, Acqua di Gio, and then carefully selected black boxer briefs (one never knows), indigo jeans, a Hugo Boss black T-shirt, and my signature silver argyle socks. I trimmed my nails and applied Crest Whitestrips. Would she be kissing me?
When I arrive at her office in Rancho Santa Fe, her assistant greets me. He’s chiseled with a full head of high hair and olive skin. He scans me head to shoe and sniffs. What a pretentious pufta.
“I love your jeans. Are they Nudie?”
“Oh, thank you. Yes, in fact they are.”
“Spin for me, darling.”
“Um … OK.”
“Wonderful. My name is Eric. I’m one of Ms. Plastique’s personal assistants.”
Fine, I misjudged him.
“Nice meeting you, Eric.”
Eric hands me a sheet of paper entitled “Interview Non-Disclosure Agreement,” and guides me to the waiting area.
“Please review this, initial each line, and sign at the bottom. Can I fetch you a chai tea latte?”
Wow, somebody did his homework; that’s my third-favorite beverage right behind bourbon and a woman’s love nectar.
“That would be awesome. Thank you.”
The NDA is brief but it contains curious clauses.
- Interviewer will not look at interviewee’s eyes, breasts, or feet unless directed by interviewee.
- Interviewer will allow interviewee to touch him as she pleases without disclosing it in his blog. Yes!
- Interviewer will answer honestly questions concerning his sexual stamina and history. Wait a minute, who’s interviewing whom?
- Interviewee reserves the right to bathe interviewer and demand he wear the cologne and robe of her choice. Well, I am a dirty boy.
- Interviewee enjoys gentle hair pulling, neck nibbling, light spanking, nipple clamps, indirect clitoral pressure, and hockey playoffs. He shoots; he scores! Go Flyers!
I sign and nod to Eric. He picks up the phone, presumably checking with my princess, hangs up, and then smiles at me while pointing at her office door.
“Ms. Plastique will see you now. Please go right in.”
I hand Eric the signed NDA.
“Actually, I need you to give that to Ms. Plastique.”
I tap once on the door and walk in, trying to avoid staring at the places she specified. I catch the scent of Chanel and then see her sitting behind a glass desk staring at her Mac. God, her hair is golden, her skin is glowing, and her square-rimmed glasses are so sexy. I must have her.
“Have a seat, Mr. Silver. I’ll be right with you.”
“Please call me Mormon,” I insist as I extend the NDA and a hand to shake. She ignores my gesture and smirks.
“Sit down, Mormon …”
“… and take off your shoes.”
She peeks under her desk.
“Silver socks. Interesting.”
(to be continued)