Fifty Shades Effed – Chapter Seven


Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Seven

It’s Bea’s big night with her friends. Eric and his partner have been helping plan my surprise. I get the call saying she has left the office, so I drive there. As I pull up, I notice a pickup truck with a large present on wheels in the bed. Eric and Neil are strapping it down.

“I thought I was jumping out of a cake?” I ask out my Jeep’s window.
“The cake was booked, Mormon. This will do just fine,” Eric assures me.
“If you say so.”

I reach under my passenger seat and extract the second Hustler bag, kept secret from my Lovergirl.

“What have you there?” Neil asks.

I whip out the Cockasaurus Rex as their eyes light up. I’m not sure if it’s envy, arousal, or fear.

“In the words of Otter Stratton, ‘She’ll take this seriously,'” I exclaim while dangling the largest strap-on known to man (or horse, for that matter).

“Oh, my,” the boys gasp in stereo.
“Sorry, fellas. Rex is unavailable this evening. He is to ride securely next to my leg, making all the ladies dewy with desire.”
“Come inside and try on your outfit, Officer Clydesdale,” Neil suggests.

Why haven’t I learned to trust my instincts? Naturally, the police uniform is specifically designed for parades at which I would not dare leave the curb. The pants are faux leather with both ass cheeks cut out. There’s matching navy, T-back underwear. The belt contains handcuffs and a whip, not a gun. The shirt pockets have flaps with nipple clamps. A somewhat normal cap and mirrored Ray-Bans are all I have left to hide under.

When I emerge from the bathroom to model the costume, Eric and Neil nearly convulse in laughter.

“Turn around, Mormon.”
“Oh, come on,” Neil encourages.
“I have hair on my ass, Neil. This won’t do.”
“We could shave you,” suggests Eric.
“Stop, Lover. It’s sexy, Mormon,” Neil insists. “Men are supposed to have hair. I see the salami fit perfectly.”
“Yum, yum,” Eric teases. “Pass the Poupon.”
“All right, knock it off before I change my mind. What’s the plan?”

Eric informs me that a limo bus is taking the women barhopping downtown, and it will be best to do my thing at the restaurant they’re meeting in for Happy Hour. He insists it won’t be crowded. Neil has a Bose wireless speaker linked to an iPod to provide music for my routine.

“Climb into the box and we’ll be on our way.”
“What? Why can’t I ride with you?”
“You’ll be seen. Get in. It’s only ten miles or so.”
“Fine. Fetch thee my tequila for the ride. It’s in the bag.”

I sit Indian-style in the box. I barely fit. Luckily the ride isn’t too bumpy. When we come to a stop, I lift the top to look around. I see the limo bus. Eric pushes the lid back down.

“Hey! No peeking. You’ll be seen.”
“Fuck. Fine. Hurry up.”

Eric lifts the top a sliver again.

“How much of that did you drink?”
“Three fingers, if you must know.” I take another pull. “Make that four.”
“Stay down until you hear the music begin. Shh.”
“Got it.”

Eric and Neil drop the door on the truck bed and lift out the large gift box. They roll me across the parking lot while I take one more swig. Their whispering and giggling is making me nervous. Once inside, I hear various muffled voices.

“Ladies, can I have your attention,” Eric begins. “Miss, will you please have a seat right here. Thank you. And now …”

Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On” begins blaring–my cue to begin. I stand and throw the lid off the box. I hear gasps. Oh, fuck! It’s a bingo hall filled with senior citizens and seated in the chair in front of me, instead of my Lovergirl, is Grandma Aspinwald.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.