She Likes The Fifty

fiftyWhen a new woman asks where I work, I usually say, “At home. My boss is a prick.” Once she realizes I am unmarried, and the prick is me, the next question concerns my occupation, then what I’ve written, and what the books are about. I can usually find common ground around The Fifty Shades of Grey, since I’ve written parodies thereof. I always ask what she thinks of the original. Her reaction gives me substantial insight.

The woman last night said she wasn’t crazy about the writing, but loved the sex parts.

“Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!” said Phil’s willy.

Above the waist, I wasn’t quite ready to display my leather case of clamps and such. I inferred her kinkiness because she liked the sex parts, which were (*yawn*) kinky. I wondered to what extent.

Be thankful, dear reader, that when you meet the fleshy version of me, I’m somewhat filtered. In print, I’m less filtered, and inside my head, it’s a fucking free-for-all.

Hence, my bone bowl of gelatinous, yet amateurish kinkery (a.k.a. gin-soaked brain) told my mouth to present the following options:

  • “Awesome! Can I stick it in your pooper?”
  • “Ever had someone pee on you?”
  • “I will pierce your nipples with rusty thumb tacks.”
  • “Bartender, hand me thy muddler. I’m gonna pound me some punani.”
  • “Hey, let’s grab a fat chick, and go play doctor in the bed of my Tundra.”

Those were all excellent night-enders—lady repellants, if you will. But, I had cabernet left, and a wild hair on my scrotum. The thoughts were returned to sender, and I demanded kinder, gentler versions, which could ease insertion instead of a wine bath.

  • “Which parts got you dewy, darling?”
  • “Rich guys with whips have all the fun. Would you settle for a man swimming in debt holding a baseball belt?”
  • “If you let me tie you up, I promise to keep your face out of the pictures.”
  • “If I were the ideal penis, what size, width, and color would I be?”
  • “This face was made for sitting.”

Bad brain!

I said none of the such. Yet, I bet if I deployed a few, there’d be a slight possibility that she’d find my honesty refreshing, then offer to make a foot vagina. (I saw this on Playboy TV last night. Not sure how I feel about it. Athlete’s Cock sounds horrible, does it not?)

Alas, harmless, boring banter is all there was. No ball gags, dildos, or trampolines. Sometimes my life is dull as missionary.

Fifty Shades of Silver – Bundled, Boxed, Bound

It’s coming, just like you. Get it now at Amazon.


The Fifty Shades Parody Movie is coming – hard and fast. Are you in?

ks-project-coverThis is US against UK, people! It’s time to step it up and show those odd-toothed folks from across the pond that our hard-earned US dollar belongs here, not in E. L. James’ stretch-pants pocket.

We’re going to make this movie, and we’re going to release it before Universal Pictures is even done filming the original. Big deal, they hired screenwriter, Kelly Marcel, to translate the books into a movie. I’m not impressed. Why? Because her last project was about Walt Fucking Disney. How do you make the leap from Goofy the pot-bellied dog to Christian the horse-cocked metal ball slinger? You don’t. That movie will suck. I guarantee it.

Marcel insists the movie will have an NC-17 rating. Whoop-de-kinky-doo. Ours will probably have an R rating because we don’t feel the need to show a penis on screen (they’re sort of unsightly, no?). Frankly, we all know teenagers sneak into R movies, and most already know plenty about sex. It is far better for a male teen to know how to operate a vibrating glove than how to remove a bloody harpoon. Think about it, parents: Would you rather catch Little Johnny giving Little Susan a through-the-jeans orgasm (it can happen), or grabbing a ripcord? I concur and support thee.

Now, one may be tempted to point out the fact that there’s plenty of bizarre boffery going on in my Fifty Shades of Silver series. Indeed. One might also assume all of that bangery will need to make the gooey leap onto the big screen in order to keep the story intact. Indeed, again. How could we possibly deliver an Oscar-worthy sperm-jerker, with the (spoiler alert) coup d’état of the “Butt Plug Challenge,” and maintain an R rating? Good question. Perhaps there will be some pixelation. I’m just a writer. Give me a break. Jeez. All right, what if we don’t show the actual plug in-buttero, but show it in slow motion tumbling through the air as the challenge is lost? I beg you, MPAA, to reconsider. If the butt plug is clean, it belongs in the scene.

By this point you must be dewy with anticipation, and craving to get involved with this project if, for no other reason than to prove funny American screw-a-pa-looza is better than snooty British kinky fuckery.

Well, that’s easy…

Go to the KickStarter project immediately (not like right now, finish reading first, please), and select a sponsorship level. You’re a few simple clicks away from having your name immortalized in the credits or, if you’re exceptionally driven, playing an actual role in the movie. Here’s a sampling of the many levels of sponsorship to choose from:

  • $2 – You get ugatz. WTF? Fine, a thank you, maybe. A fucking venti drip costs more. Pry open that wallet, will ya?
  • $10 – Your name will appear in the credits, which nobody but you and your parents will attempt to read as they fly by at warp speed. Come on, step it up!
  • $25 – You get everything above and a digital copy of Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks, ideal for your Kindle in your left hand while doing naughty things with your right.
  • $350 – You get everything above, a signed DVD, and you get to play an extra in the movie. Holy shee-it? Ain’t that great? It up to you if you’d like to expose an areola or two. I say go for it.
  • $900 – You’ll be an associate producer and your name will be immortalized in IMDb. Damn! Look at the big aspirations on you.
  • $3500 – You’ll star in an important scene, and you’ll get to have dinner with the director and me. I’ll feed you grapes and rub warm oils into your feet, if you have a vagina and get me drunk enough.
  • $9500 – You get so much amazing stuff, I don’t even know where to start. Co-producer, casting rights, accommodations, and tickets to the after party, where there may be free drugs, naked people, and a warm chocolate fountain.

There ya go. How could one resist? If you do nothing, you’ll be forced to endure the hype over that British slop. If you step up to the sex swing, you’ll be a part of cinematic history (with sore ass cheeks).

Go now, and show those Brits we know how to find the g-spot: Support the Fifty Shades of Silver Movie!

Some people say I’m indifferent, but I don’t care.


Any author who says he doesn’t pay attention to reviews is lying. Same goes for celebrities who claim to never read what is written about them. Authors are forced to deal with reviews because readers do consider them when making a purchase. Poor reviews, regardless of what motivated them, hurt the author’s income directly. The effect isn’t quite so direct for actors. Tom Cruise is going to get paid, whether you like him as Jack Reacher or not.

I bring this up because I was curious why there was such a dichotomy with E. L. James’ Fifty Shades, especially book one. It seems most readers love it or hate it. I wondered if this phenomenon was going to bleed over to my parodies. It did and that bothers me. If I were selling 75,000 copies a day, like James, I would similarly not give much of a shit. Since, for me, reviews translate into sales, which translate into a dinner of hamburger and happy hour draft or chorizo penne and pinot, I need to give quite a shit. So, I tried to find the reason for the polarity of the reviews, and believe I have succeeded.

Many women who love her book, hate my parodies and vice versa. I believe the root cause is battered woman’s syndrome. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Hear me out.

The main figure in her book is Christian, who is domineering and abusive. He makes innocent Ana do things against her will. He strips her of her privacy, innocence, and virginity. He controls her, much as he has controlled many women before her. Naturally, there’s no talk of him causing physical harm. Still, make no mistake: A man like this in your life may bring you to orgasm, but don’t be surprised when he goes too far.

As I read her books, his character angered me because the last thing I want to see is a woman turned on by a beast like Christian. We all know five years hence she’ll be telling an officer and coworkers she got the bruises from falling. She’ll defend him because his love is intense. It’s an addiction. The high is worth the pain of the prick.

So, in my books I played off this character and called him out for what he is: a disgusting, self-entitled, deranged, misogynistic animal who doesn’t know how to treat others properly. Women who love James’ books and love her Christian character, defend him by abusing me in reviews. They can’t attack my character (Mormon), because he’s a gentleman. Instead they attack his creator, without regard for the fact that my books are humorous parodies.

If these 1-star reviewers don’t find my books to be funny, I can live with that. I can’t teach funny. But, they write these hateful reviews and attack me and my trade personally, instead of being honest with themselves and other readers about why my books make them uncomfortable. They’re suffering from battered woman’s syndrome, and don’t want the man-in-the-mind exposed for what he is.

I wish I could have psychological profiles done on the reviewers. I bet the 5-star reviewers would be women who see the real Christian and refuse to submit to abuse. That’s my kind of woman: strong and intolerant of anyone attempting to control them. To you, my dears, I give SIX STARS!

Fifty Shades Screenplay – Opening Scenes

Fifty Shades Trailer

MORMON SILVER is pulling up to Beatrice Plastique's office in his Jeep. As he 
parks and walks up to her office, he narrates.

 My name is Mormon Silver, and women leave their marks on me. I need to 
understand the effect they have, so I send a Tweet with Twitter to a local 
billionairess, Beatrice Plastique.

 @BPlastique, you enchant me 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 
a chance at the legend? Her assistant, Eric, set up this meeting for me. I would 
never be the same.

Mormon enters office and is greeted by Bea's assistant, ERIC, who checks out 
Mormon, head-to-toe.

 You must be Mr. Silver.

 Call me Mormon.



 Are those Nudie jeans?

 Yes, in fact they are.

 Spin for me, darling.

 All right.

Mormon smirks and spins. Eric is pleased.

 Wonderful. My name is Eric. I'm Ms. Plastique's personal assistant.

 Nice meeting you, Eric.

Eric hands Mormon a piece of paper.

 This is an Interview Non-Disclosure Agreement. Please review it, initial 
each line, and sign at the bottom. Can I fetch you a chai latte?

 That would be awesome. Thank you.

Eric leaves Mormon in the waiting area. Mormon reads the paper and smiles 
as he initials each clause.

 Number one, interviewer will not look at interviewee's eyes, breasts, or feet 
unless directed by interviewee. Two, Interviewer will allow interviewee to touch 
him as she pleases without disclosing it in his blog. Yes! Three, Interviewer will 
answer questions honestly concerning his sexual stamina and history. Wait a minute, 
who's interviewing whom? Four, Interviewee reserves the right to bathe interviewer 
and demand he wear the cologne and robe of her choice. Well, I am a dirty boy. 
Five, Interviewee enjoys gentle hair pulling, neck nibbling, light spanking, 
nipple clamps, indirect clitoral pressure, and hockey playoffs.

 He shoots; he scores! Go Flyers!

 Excuse me?

 Oh, nothing.

Mormon signs the bottom and brings it to Eric.

 Here you go.

Eric doesn't take the paper. Instead, picks up the phone.

 Mr. Silver is here for you.
 OK, I'll send him in.

Eric hangs up and gestures toward her door.

 Ms. Plastique will see you now. Please go right in. You can take that with you.

 All right.

Mormon enters to find BEATRICE PLASTIQUE, sitting behind a glass desk staring 
at her Mac. Her hair is golden, her skin is glowing, and her square-rimmed 
reading glasses hang on the tip of her nose. She doesn't look up. Mormon 
approaches her desk and extends the agreement.

 Have a seat, Mr. Silver. I'll be right with you.

 Please call me Mormon.

Mormon extends a hand to shake. Bea ignores him.

 Sit down, Mormon...

Mormon sits.

 ...and take off your shoes.

 All right.

Mormon removes his shoes, revealing his silver argyle socks. Bea peeks
under her desk.

 Silver socks. Interesting.

 Thank you. May I call you Beatrice?

Bea finally removes her glasses and looks up at Mormon.

 No. You may call me Bea.

 All right. Bea, as you can see, this NDA has been signed by me.

 Would you like more tea?

 Thank you, no, and touché, my sweetpea. I do have a question about the 
ground rules before we begin.


 It's odd not being able to look you in the eyes. Where shall I look?

 How about at my lips?

 Holy shit.

Bea leans forward, obviously agitated.

 What did you say?

 Um, sorry.

 I have this thing about swear words.

 I apologize. I won't let it happen again.

 Why? I didn't say it's a bad thing, did I?


 Look, Silver, although I don't use swear words, I'm not your typical lady. 
When a lover uses coarse language it makes me damp down there.

 That's fucking hot!

 You're not a lover, Silver ... not yet.

 OK, I know you're a busy woman, so let's begin.

Mormon wriggles uncomfortably in his chair, pulls his reading glasses from 
his shirt collar, slides them to the base of his nose, and flips open a legal pad.

 Don't do that.

 Bea, I can't see the questions I've prepared without my glasses.

 Don't touch your nose.

 What? Why?

Mormon touches his nose again and squeezes the tip.

 Stop. I'm warning you, Silver.

 Does it gross you out? Sorry.

 No, it turns me on.

 My nose?

 No, the act of touching it.

 Do you want to touch my nose?

 What? No.

 I'm sorry. Have I missed something?

 You don't understand my world. It's nothing you've ever been exposed to. I have 
certain needs and fetishes, and I can't expect you to comprehend them.

 Nose fetishes?

 That's one. I'll try to explain it to you, but you're not writing about this.


Mormon removes his glasses and touches his nose again.

 Oh, my god! Please stop.

 Either tell me or I'll do it again.

 Fine. Your nose reminds me of my big beefy clitoris and when you touch it, 
it's like you're touching me.

 There's no fucking way your clit is as big as my Italian schnoz.

Bea slaps her hands on the top of her desk, stands, and glares at Mormon.

 You just used the F-word again.

 Bet your kinky fucking ass I did.

Bea flies over the table, knocking the chair and Mormon over. She's on top 
of him in full mount and balls his shirt in each fist.

 You're going to hockey bang me right here, right now, Silver, or I'm going to 
yell rape and have my assistant beat you to a bloody puddle.

 Hockey bang?


The Fifty Shades Trailer is here!

Here’s the book trailer for my Fifty Shades parodies. What do you think?

Is New Line Considering a Fifty Shades Parody?

I have no idea. Let’s hope so.

San Diego, CA, September 6, 2012: With the Fifty Shades craze hitting a fever pitch, movie studios are considering how to cash in. One obvious way would be to release a parody of the Fifty Shades. Author Phil Torcivia interviewed himself about what this could mean for producers, actors, and sexually neglected wives.

Phil, why do you think a parody is necessary?

“Universal Pictures is going to struggle with releasing the original movie because, let’s face it, the movie will have to be pornographic to do the book series justice, and we all know how much women like porn (about as much as chewing tobacco and Dutch ovens).”

So, how would the parody differ?

“It would be humorous erotica, similar to the brilliant series Californication. There wouldn’t need to be explicit sex scenes and horrific tampon removal. The parody would concentrate on how funny and difficult it typically is to fit tab A into slot B.”

What is your impression of James’ characters, Christian and Ana?

“They’re both unrealistic, but that’s fine as it is fiction. Christian is an abusive, possessive, narcissist. What woman could resist him? Anna is a hyper-orgasmic wimp with the vocabulary of a ten-year-old from The Valley.”

How would the characters in the parody differ?

“I’d replace the hung billionaire hunk with a sufficiently-endowed mature man who struggles with bills, writer’s block, and the elusive bed warmer. I’d replace Miss Squirts-a-Lot with a brilliant, professional woman who is sexually aggressive and confident.”

Whom do you envision playing those characters?

“Sorry, I’m busy scooping kitty litter. How about George Clooney and Kate Hudson?”

Your three parody books seem to be selling well on Amazon. Are you pleased with the response?

“E. L. James sells more books in a day than I sell in a year. So, let’s say I’m OK with it. I won’t be visiting the Ferrari dealership anytime soon. I’ll just upgrade from well bourbon to Bulleit, perhaps. Guess I can afford new sheets too. I’m considering bamboo.”

Why do you think her books have done so well?

“It’s a combination of the inner freaky-deaky finally coming out of women, and foolish men who stop paying attention to their women’s needs (yes, licky-licky) once the trial period is over and they break the seal.”

Didn’t you note on your blog that your ex-wife and mother both enjoyed her books?

“How would you like a boot to the balls, wise guy?”

Sorry. One final question, Phil: If New Line approaches you, are you willing to adapt your three parody books into a screenplay?


Thank you for your time. Fans, be sure to check out Phil Torcivia’s hilarious Fifty Shades parodies at Amazon, and watch for the release of the movie sure to snubbed by The Oscars.

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Fifteen

On the day of my uprising, I pick up my clown costume, makeup, and a large banner. I take it all to Bea’s office so she can put my face on. Eric greets me as I enter.

“How are you, Mormon?”
“Insanity in progress, and today should prove it. Make sure you watch the news tonight. Did you get in contact with Matt from Fox?”
“You bet. Here’s his mobile. He said to text him when ready.”
“You are the man, Eric.”
“… but, I’ll play the woman, occasionally.”
“Something looks different on you. Have you lost weight?”
“I shaved.”
“Ah, sexy.”
“Thank you.”

Bea greets me and we go into her office. Ah, this is where the lovin’ started.

“OK, babyface, what are you up to?” she asks.
“I’d rather not say. This way, if my plot blows up, you won’t be implicated. But, if this goes as planned, Chris will get his comeuppance.”
“Ooh, you said ‘come.'”
“Behave. I need you to put this clown makeup on my face.”
“Hm, never had sex with a clown.”
“All right. Do this and my red nose and I will fuck you silly.”

Bea does a great job making my face match my maniacal thoughts. Naturally, she mounts me the second I finish putting on the costume.

“Leave that zipper down, Uncle M. You promised.”
“All aboard, Lovergirl,” I demand.

The clown outfit is ridiculous: over-sized, white shoes, silver argyle socks, a black and white jumpsuit rolled up to my knees, a silver wig, and a black top hat. I hope I don’t cause any accidents on the way downtown.

When I arrive at the Park & Ride, most of the kids are already there, playing catch in the parking lot. I’m wisely armed with candy, which I hand out while greeting the kids. My friend, Jeff, doesn’t recognize me.

“Hi, did Mormon hire … oh, Jesus.”
“What do you think?”
“You have completely lost your mind.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” I tease while I honk my toy horn.

The limo bus arrives and we climb aboard with fourteen kids all hyped up on sugar. We sing, dance, and tell fart jokes on the way to The Grey Towers. I send a text to Matt from Fox as we pull up. 

Mormon: Hey, Matt. Please meet us on the second parking level underground. Look for the black limo bus.
Matt: On our way.
Mormon: Will you be able to use a live feed from there?
Matt: Won’t be a problem.
Mormon: Excellent.

When we arrive, I ask the kids to wait in the bus while I open the fun house. I pull the banner from my bag and stick it to the wall. It reads, “Grey’s Funhouse,” and has a big arrow, which points to the doorway. I pull out my iPhone and cross my fingers as I click the link. I hear the buzzing and unlatching. Yes! I open the door to the Blue Room.

“Come on in, kids!”

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Fourteen

We manage to move most of Bea’s and Grandma’s belongings into storage, except some nicknacks and furniture they insist upon to make my place less of a bachelor pad. They also request I remove the plastic fruit and stop using my kitchen nook as a giant mailbox.

“What’s this contraption?” Grandma asks as she and Bea survey my space.
“A foosball table. Wanna play?”
“I think it would look better in the garage,” Bea suggests.
“Oh, definitely,” Grandma agrees. “This space needs an antique chaise lounge with a side table and decorative lamp.”
“Fine. Can I at least keep the poker table?”
“Well,” Bea considers, “perhaps we could make use of that.”

The three of us catch Fox 5 News while sipping our morning stimulant. The special guest they have on this morning is none other than his dickiness, Chris.

Host: How are your renovations coming along?
Chris: We’re nearly finished with the first phase. As you know, I was the chief architect on the guestroom redesign back in January, and now that I own the building, I plan to return the site to the splendor it once was. The Grey Towers will once again be the crown jewel of San Diego.
Host: That’s exciting.
Chris: Indeed. We’re making the resort more family friendly as well. If I may, I’d like to invite your viewers to an open house and ribbon cutting event we’re hosting on Friday. Bring the kids, as we’ll have a bounce house and other fun activities for them. There will be tours of the redesigned suites and pool deck, and complimentary beverages.

A light bulb, while slightly dim in my advanced years, sparks to life in my mind.

“Ugh, he’s disgusting,” Bea reacts.
“Say, do either of you have any contacts at Fox?” I ask.
“I think Eric is good friends with one of their reporters, Matt,” Bea suggests.
“Perfect. See if Eric can put me in touch with him. I have an idea.”
“Let’s hear it,” Grandma insists.
“Let me hash it out a bit more, then I’ll run it by you both. Oh, I’ll also need a clown costume.”
“You’re scaring me,” Bea laughs.

Bea leaves for the office, and Grandma visits the farmer’s market while I write a few more blog entries and work on my plan of vengeance. I call my buddy, Jeff.

“Dude, do you still coach that Little League team?” I ask.
“What ages?”
“Eleven and twelve.”
“Perfect. I’m going to rent a bus and take the team to the open house of the former Hyatt. I’ll try to get my new pal, Trevor Hoffman, to speak.”
“Sounds fun. When is it?”
“Friday at six. Let’s all meet at the La Costa Park and Ride at five.”
“I’ll start contacting the parents.”
“They’re all welcome too. The more, the merrier.”

That arrogant prick is going down.

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Thirteen

It was a difficult night to sleep through with the crazy wedding day we had. Bea is up before me, as usual. She pokes me with a hockey stick to wake me.

“Get out of bed, husband. We’re going to the Ice Arena. I need to blow off some steam.”
“Did you just poke me with a stick?”
She jabs me again.
“Let’s go. Move it!”
“Jesus. Really? And, why do you have a hockey stick with you here in our honeymoon suite?”
“I don’t leave home without it.”

I drag my groggy butt out from under the soft sheets, and slide into board shorts, flip flops, and a T-shirt.

“You’re going to skate in that?”
“It’s all I have. I wasn’t planning on a morning on ice.”
“OK, then.”

We jump into the Jeep and head to the skating arena. I hate ice skating because I suck at it. In fact, I can’t think of anything I suck at that I enjoy. That’s why I hate golf too: I suck at it, I don’t want to invest the time to suck less, so I don’t golf. Well, this is marriage. A man has to learn to compromise or he’s going to ride a lonely sofa into the sunset.

At the arena, we strap on skates. Yes, I look ridiculous and I’m half asleep so I don’t fucking care.

“Why do we need hockey sticks?” I ask, fearing the worst.
“It’s time for Olympic event number four. Canada needs a boost, and I’m pretty confident we can even the medal count with this event.”
“All right, hoser, bring it! I predict Italy clinches the series this morning.”

We carry our sticks out to the ice. Bea reaches behind the boards, grabs two pucks, and flips them out onto the ice.

“Now what?” I ask while stretching my hamstrings, which ache in anticipation.
“We race around the arena. The first one to skate with the puck around each net three times wins.”
“Can’t we just have sex in the penalty box or something?”
“Yes! I forfeit.”
“Not so fast. If you beat me, we’ll do it in the penalty box.”
“You hear that, Pippino? Daddy’s getting lucky on ice again.”
“Ready? Set? Go!”

She takes off. I manage to fall on my face in two strides. I struggle back to my feet, as I see Bea’s lovely butt wiggle, while she kicks up ice shavings. I’m hosed. Before I make it around the first net, she has already cleared the second and is threatening to lap me. She catches me in no time and knocks my stick from my hands as she passes me. Players make it look so easy: You drop your stick, you bend over, you pick it up, you keep skating. I bend over and fall. I get up on one knee, grab the stick, get up, and fall backward, as she approaches to pass me again.

This time I hold my stick tightly. I make it halfway to the second net as she scoots by, throwing a hip into me, which sends the stick and me flying. She steals my puck and fires it into the net behind me as she whips around the final time. I helplessly sit on my clumsy ass as she finishes the third lap and slides to a halt, spraying me with an ice shower from her skates.

“Canada two, Italy two.”
“Feel better?” I ask, as I crawl to the boards, and pull myself up.
“I do actually.”
“OK. Now let’s get out of here and figure out what we’re going to do about this Chris situation.”
“Not so fast. Get in that penalty box, mister. I’m not done blowing off steam.”
Sometimes the silver isn’t so bad.
Molto bene!

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Twelve

“May I see that?” I request. Bea hands me the notice. I look at it briefly, then sneeze into it, and crumble it like a tissue. “I’m sorry, I’m allergic to fuckwads. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, the missus and I have a life to attend to–a life with lots of love, sex, and children, regardless of our financial situation.”

Chris smirks at me, then he and his bodyguard leave. Grandma and Eric are first to console Bea.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Grandma explains. “I tried everything to block him, but we’re too far behind and the bank insisted.”
“At least we’ll have the proceeds from the sale, right?” Bea asks.
“Actually, there are no proceeds. It was a short sale,” Grandma laments. “I’m being tossed out as well. We’ll both be homeless for a bit.”
“Nobody’s going to be homeless. I have plenty of room at my place. I’d be honored to have two guests to try my recipes on.”
“He does make a mean french toast,” Grandma kids.
“I’ll prepare a chore list of each of you, and we’ll discuss your allowance.”
Bea smiles, finally.
“Hey, let’s deal with this tomorrow,” I suggest. “It will work out.”
“I know, Husband. Eric and I have been working on a project that should solve this predicament,” Bea recovers.
“Husband. I like the sound of that, Wife,” I assure Bea. I hold her face between my hands, wipe the tears with my thumbs, and kiss her. “Let’s save what’s left of the day and have fun with our guests.”

The sunset reception is wonderful, but Chris floats around the back of my mind. When I visit the bar to freshen my bourbon, Eric joins me.

“So, Eric, tell me about this project you’re working on.”
“Not yet, Mormon. We need a few more commitments. You’ll be blown away, if we can pull this off.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I will.”
“I don’t want my expectant wife to stress over this.”
“Agreed. She’s a strong woman. She’ll be fine.”
“Cool. What are you drinking?”
“Lemon drop.”

When we sit for dinner, I tease Bea about her dress.

“That was a great fucking idea, right there. You have no idea the butterflies you gave me when you came through that door.”
“Aw. I’m so glad you like it.”
“We do need to find an air vent, though, so we can have the true Marilyn effect.”
“Hm, can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not wearing underwear.”
“Not even a thong?”
“Commando,” she insists as she slides my hand from her knee to her sexiness.
“Here comes the bride … again,” I tease.

We agree to postpone our honeymoon until after we deal with the move. There must be a way to extract Chris from our lives. Our wedding night in the suite is memorable and exhausting. Although the bed is cushy, Lovergirl insists we do it on a wooden chair because “we haven’t done that yet.” I’ll never say no to love, regardless of the playing surface. Still, my sore ass wishes I would be more discerning.

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Eleven

Wedding Day–the happiest day of a person’s life, right next to that first taste of Nutella. Eric picks me up, and we make our way downtown to the Hotel Del Coronado. Bea and I will exchange vows on the beach in front of the historic hotel where Some Like it Hot was filmed with Marilyn Monroe.

I’m wearing a black tux with the pants tied off at my knees. I have my signature silver argyle socks beneath them. Who knows what Bea will wear? She’s eccentric to say the least, and Eric won’t share, although I pry.

“Will you at least tell me the color?”
“Not telling you. Mormon, take my word for it. She’ll look fabulous.”
“Hey, do we have time for a quick mojito to calm the nerves?”
“Now we’re talking.”

Eric detours off the highway and we stop at Poseidon in Del Mar–the masters of the mojito. In a few sips, my nerves are calm.

Once we arrive at the Hotel Del, I check in at the front desk. They have our honeymoon suite ready. Bea is there having the final touches applied. Guests are gathering by the pool in the afternoon sun, sipping prosecco. I see my mother chatting with Grandma. I approach them.

“Hello, Ms. A, I see you’ve met my mother.” I greet my mother with a kiss on the cheek. She looks elegant in her powder blue dress. “How was your flight?”
“It was quick, thanks to my Kindle. I finished two books.”
“Well done.”
“How’s your writing coming along?” Mother asks.
“You know,” Grandma interrupts, “you should be proud of your son. He’s quite a talented blogger.”
“Why, thank you, Ms. A. I wasn’t aware that you read my blog.”
“I enjoy it immensely.” Grandma grabs my mother’s arm. “He’s also an amazing dancer.”
Right. Maybe when I’m blotto on tequila and have a third leg strapped to me.
“Really?” my mother reacts.
“You’re too kind.”

The wedding coordinator directs us all out to the platform on the beach. It’s time. Other hotel guests come to the edge of the resort to watch.

I take my position next to the justice. A guitar soloist begins the “Bridal March” song. The guests rise and turn to see the bride. iPhone pictures are snapping away. I see the doors open and catch my first glimpse of Lovergirl being escorted by Eric. Her hair is shorter and she’s wearing the famous Marilyn Monroe dress worn over the air vent in The Seven Year Itch. 


My eyes water with delight. She’s stunning. Eric hands her off to me, and we begin the quick ceremony. We exchange vows we’ve written for each other, slide rings over fingers, and share our first kiss as wife and husband. Our guests applaud as we turn and wave.

Suddenly, there’s a commotion on the beach. Two military Jeeps approach and stop at the base of the platform. A helicopter appears and begins circling above us.

“What’s this?” I ask Bea.
“I’m not sure, but I have an idea who it might be.”

As the helicopter approaches, blowing sand, I notice a name written on the side: Crispy Salsa, or something. Who names his fucking bird? Only the most pretentious of asses. The copter lands, and Chris emerges with a bodyguard. They approach us. The bodyguard hands an envelope to Bea as I glare at Chris.

“Ma’am, this is a wedding gift from my boss.”

She opens it and reads the notice within as she turns pale.

“What is it?”
“An eviction notice. Chris bought the Hyatt. I have ten days to move.”

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Ten

I want to spend the night before the wedding with Bea, but she resists due to that crazy custom about seeing the bride on the day of the ceremony. I text to convince her otherwise.

Mormon Silver: I’m going to cook the love of my life dinner and cater to her needs, no matter what day or time it is.
Bea Plastique: You’re not seeing me after midnight until I walk the beach into your arms forever.
Mormon Silver: Wow!
Bea Plastique: Not a minute past midnight, Mister.
Mormon Silver: Seriously?
Bea Plastique: It’s bad luck.
Mormon Silver: It is not. Come on. I have a wonderful night planned.
Bea Plastique: You have me until 11:59.
Mormon Silver: OK, we’ll see. Come over at 7 for dinner. How does Chicken Saltimbocca sound?
Bea Plastique: Delish.

When she arrives I have the table set, candles lit, dinner simmering, honey-butter rolls browning, and Sinatra singing. I also have one more handy ditty I picked up at Hustler: a blindfold. Bea greets me with a kiss and a bottle of my favorite wine: Silver Oak.

“Honey, you didn’t have to bring anything. Let’s save this until we can have it together.”
“Doctor says Gordie and I can have a glass of wine with dinner, no problem,” she insists while she pats her little belly.
“OK, one glass with Pippino. After dinner, I have a special dessert planned. It’s going to require that you wear this,” I instruct as I show her the argyle blindfold.
“Ooh, sexy! I can’t wait.”

While dining, we chat about tomorrow’s ceremony and timing. We agreed to have something intimate with immediate family and close friends only.

“Are you ready, Lovergirl?”
“You bet.”
“Give me ten minutes to get things ready upstairs. Be right back.”

In my master bath I fill the tub and light vanilla candles around it. I float rose petals and add scented bath salts. I have Bea’s favorite shampoo, body wash, and two loofah gloves ready. I undress, put on a robe, and return downstairs to Bea.

“OK, first you need to put this on,” I inform as I place the blindfold over her eyes with the strap under her hair. “Come with me.” I lead her upstairs. Once in my bedroom, I continue, “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes.” I kiss her, neck to toes, while undressing her. “I don’t want you to have any stress about tomorrow. Everything will be perfect, my love.”

Once naked, I lead her to my master bath. The water is trickling, and the scent is exotic. I guide her into the tub slowly. I have a tray of chocolate covered cake pops for snacking.

“Now, I’m going to wash your hair and give you a scalp massage.”
“Seems I picked the right man after all.”
“Yes, you have.”

I wash and rinse her hair, while feeding her bites of cake pops–red velvet, lemon, vanilla, and fudge.

“Ahh. I could take a nap now.”
“Not yet, Lovergirl. Scootch up and make room for Uncle M.”

I slide into the tub behind her, rub her neck and shoulders, and bathe her slowly with the loofah gloves. We top the session off with a water-sloshing lovemaking session. After soaking in our orgasmic bliss, I get out of the tub while asking her to stay. I retrieve two warm towels from my laundry room and use them to dry my love.

I honor her desires, and walk my wife-to-be out to her car with thirty minutes to spare. Taped to her driver’s side door is a gray tie, a calling card from Chris. Too late, buddy. She’s all mine.

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Nine

I enjoy a much-needed nap, while the limo driver sits in Starbucks reading the newspaper. I’m startled awake by knocking on the limo door. Probably a homeless dude looking for spare change. I peek and see that it is Bea, so I push the lever and open the doors. Bea enters with two of her friends.

“What’s this? Is the party over already?”
“No, it’s just beginning,” Bea insists. “These are my friends. I believe you already met Emily.”
“Yes, the bartender.”
“Indeed. She also happens to be from my home town in Canada.”
“And, this is Luca.”
“Aw, what a nice name,” I compliment as I shake her hand. All three women are tipsy. Something strange is about to happen. I sense it.
“Luca is from Naples.”
“Ah, bella!” I respond as I turn her hand over and kiss her knuckles. “Wait a minute. Canadian, Italian: Does this have something to do with our Olympics?”
“Yes, it does. These fine ladies are occasional lovers …”
“Yes! Oops. I mean, oh, how interesting.”
“… and they have agreed to participate in our next event. Uncle M, you will be coaching Luca and I will coach Emily.”
“All right. Is this the javelin toss?”
“Close. I’m going to need that strap on,” Bea informs as she begins undoing my pants again. “Here’s how this works: Each participant will take turns strapping on Rex here. The other will be on the receiving end. The one who takes in the most length wins.”
“Ha! Impossible!”

Bea removes Cockasaurus Rex from my waist and holds it out. It’s huge. No human could ever…

Luca takes Rex from Bea and sneers, “You’re going to need a bigger dildo.”
“That’s my girl.”

We turn on Timberlake, dim the lights, and ring the bell. First up is Emily. Luca straps the beast on while Emily lifts her skirt and removes her thong. She conveniently has a tube of Astroglide in her purse, which she applies liberally. Lovergirl sits next to me as we watch the first attempt. The women kneel. Luca holds steady while Emily backs into her.

“There’s just no way,” I insist.
“Come on, Emily. You can do it.”

Luca slides the tip up and down Emily’s hungry slit. If she can take the head alone, I’ll be impressed. Emily arches, lowers her shoulders, and pushes back into Luca. The entire head enters. Emily’s face shows pleasure, not pain, as does Luca’s. Luca pulls out a bit and pushes in farther. Emily cringes and gets another inch in, and another, and another. What a trooper, eh?

“That’s it, Emily. Oh, Can-a-daaaah …,” Bea sings.

Emily is able to stuff in another inch before she’s “full.” Luca smirks while Emily dismounts and unstraps. Bea takes Rex and surveys the damage.

“Fucking impressive,” I admit.

Bea marks the progress with her lip gloss. The thing is as big as my fist and she got a good six-plus inches in. Italy is doomed.

Emily straps on the beast and glazes some fresh lube on as Luca removes her jeans and undies. She has a quiet, confident look. Luca kneels in front of Emily, doggie-style as well. Emily presses the head again Luca’s glistening pussy. Her lips part and she takes the head.

“Yes! Do it,” I encourage.

Luca grimaces as she takes inch after inch, but she’s an inch shy of the mark, and Rex is bending.

“Hold Rex still, Emily. Come on, Luca.”
“No, I can’t. It’s … just … too … big.”
“Are you giving up?” Bea asks, but I interrupt.
“Don’t you dare! You can do this, Luca,” I encourage as Luca gives me an exasperated glance. “Use the force, Luca.”

Luca lowers her chest to the floor, breathes quickly like a woman in labor, and pushes back, taking that final inch plus another for good measure.

Italy 2, Canada 1.

Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Eight

Normally, I’d be all heels and elbows as I run from the embarrassing situation. However, the tequila has persuaded me to hoard my shits. Fuck it. I’ll dance for the old woman.

Grandma does a double-take, then she recognizes me. The other ladies in the bingo hall begin cheering. I glare at Eric, hop out of the box, and begin gyrating in front of Grandma.

“How did you know it was my birthday, Blobber?” Grandma asks.
“I’m a powerful man with many connections. You shall henceforth address me as Officer Blobber, or I’ll be forced to restrain the suspect.”
“Eat me,” Grandma defies as she gives me the finger and smirks.
“Fine, you asked for it.”

I remove the handcuffs from my belt and grab her wrist. She’s enjoying this. Ugh. Maybe it’s genetic.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say won’t matter, as I’m going to grind my man banana into the birthday girl anyway,” I tease. Grandma giggles as the others in attendance roar. Eric is encouraging me as I notice his partner open the door to the hall. The parade of bachelorette party people stream in, led by my Lovergirl.

Once Grandma is cuffed, I hop in front of her, flip around, squat my hairy butt down onto her lap, and grind.

“Oh, my,” Grandma responds. “I hope you registered at Petco so I can buy you shears for your wedding gift.”
“Silence, woman, or I shall gag you!”
“You wouldn’t dare. And, what the hell is that thing in your pants? You must be dreaming.”

I stand in front or her, then turn and rip my shirt open, sending the buttons flying. I forgot I had my nipples clamped. Good thing I’m numb because I may have just dislocated a gland or two. The women cheer as I do my best impression of a pelvic thrust. By this point, Grandma is in tears laughing. Lovergirl inserts herself between us and begins undoing my belt.

“Oh, Jesus. I wouldn’t do that.”
“We have to set the beast free, Uncle M,” she insists.

She unbuttons, unzips, and yanks down my pants. Out flops the Cockasaurus Rex, which dangles and bops her on the noggin. The women (and gay men) all gasp at the sight of my girthy appendage. I chase the girls in Bea’s party around like a kid with a garden hose. Luckily the song runs out before I get too crazy. I’m dizzy and drunk from all the tequila. Still, I’m confident I’ve won Grandma over in the process.

“Put that thing away and uncuff me, you maniac,” Grandma insists.
“Fuck, I don’t have any keys. Sorry, you’re stuck. Can you hold a bingo blotter in your mouth?”
“I have the keys, Mormon,” Eric offers.

I take a bow and dress myself. I attempt to give Grandma a hug.

“Happy birthday, my dear.”
“Thank you and, no, we don’t hug. You may fist-tap me.”

I oblige. As I turn to leave Grandma smacks my ass and hugs Bea.

“Was this your doing?” Grandma asks Bea.
“No, it was a surprise to me as well. Eric is responsible.”
“Well, let’s hope I win a few million dollars tonight. You go have fun at your party.”
“I love you, Grandma.”
“Love you too. Keep an eye on this one. He’s seems to be a toy short of a Happy Meal.”
“Ha! Will do.”

Bea leads me out to the limo.

“You’re coming with us.”
“Oh, hell no. Not like this,” I refuse.
“I need a fucking nap.”
“Just come with us to the bar and you can wait in the limo. I’ll sneak out and we’ll have a little fun.”
“Now that sounds tempting.”
“I have an idea for the next Olympic event.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”

We pile into the limo. Once downtown, they go into the club as I lie across the seats, hoping to sleep off the tequila buzz. Bea is last to leave. She bends down and kisses me.

“I’ll be back in one hour, Uncle M. Make sure that strap-on is ready.”

Oh, my.