When two eccentric millionaires meet up, the sparks—and fleas—fly
The distinctive whump-whump of his magical sentient helicopter’s motor echoed the staccato rhythm of a good, emotionally distant fuck. The noise brought Christian Grey out of a reverie, and he looked out over the landscape unfolding beneath him like a grassy, green blindfold from an easily manipulated lover’s top drawer. His aircraft hovered like a state-of-the-art fly over the crumbling, squalid East Hampton estate of his next conquest. He gently squeezed his cock through the weave of his pinstriped flying pants as he anticipated the dark pleasures awaiting him amongst the rusting cat-food cans and broken statuary below. He’s tired of tight, pliant limbs. He’s tired of dewy-eyed, dachshund-like Anastasia’s acceptance of his every whim. He’s tired of fucking on elevators—lazy people fuck on elevators. He’s ready to fuck on stairs, or possibly in a dumbwaiter. “Are you sure you want to do this, Christian?” his helicopter beamed into his mind. “Yes. Yes I do, Safe Word,” he replied.
He’s ready for his next conquest. Namely, the breaking of one Ms. Edith Bouvier Beale, reclusive mistress of Grey Gardens. Christian practices a few unforgiving mewls and a final mean face in his helicopter’s rearview mirror as they alight. And at last, his first glance at his next vagina-triumph.
“Look at the color rising to her cheeks,” thought Christian. “She’s as bright as all the things that would show up if I Googled ‘things that are red’.” With this self-satisified thought wafting in the air like the scent of well-used non-phthalate sex toys being tossed about on the “pots and pans” setting of a dishwasher, Christian de-helicoptered, landing lightly on his Italian patent leather dom loafers. “Hello, Ms. Beale. We mewled on the telephone.” She opens her mouth, this slightly stale sylph, and speaks.
Yes. A fighter. Oh, how to master this passionate kimono-free woman? Is this a rejection of all things Eastern and subservient? His insides contort painfully with hot, melty brown fudge desire treats as he hands her his first gift—a silken blindfold. He can almost hear her Sphinxlike confusion as she dons it.
“You will wear it, Edie,” Christian keens into the gloaming. “I didn’t take the weekend off from transforming what is possible, communications technologies, and lurking near white leather furniture for nothing. Now let’s go inside, where we can complete the paperwork.” Anticipation hung over his head like a dusty chandelier on a frayed rope. Would he be smashed to bits, or bask in the warm glow of control? He whimpered like a young hairless rat doing somersaults on a George Foreman grill as he followed Edie into the dark manse. “I will break you like a defective toothpick on the wheel of time. Are you the kind of woman I can master? Who are you, Edie?”
Sunrise found Christian less than thrilled. His anger radiated from him like cigarettes thrown from an Escort full of teenagers—focused. Toxic. And likely to start small fires. He’d spent the night before on an old horsehair sofa in the servants’ quarters, only a three-week-dead raccoon for a pillow. It had done little for his disposition; less for his hair. The evening before had been spent in torture, watching Edie perform a scarlet dance, a flameless Zippo lighter always just out of reach, refusing to set him ablaze.
As Edy wandered out into the sunlight, Christian followed her, idly scratching at the new rash of flea bites beneath the band of his seventy-bajillion dollar watch. His skin usually sparkled in the sunlight—but today it was as dull as a virgin’s dirty talk, or mixing a margarita without roofies. Christian found Edy aimlessly wandering the remains of a squash court, perhaps reminiscing about her days as a debutante. “Edy. I’ve decided we’ll fly into town for strawberries dipped in free-trade poor-person blood and champagne that costs roughly the same amount as six months of student-loan payments. Doesn’t that sound like a fantasy come true?”
Maddening. Impossible. Not hungry? Not acceptable. Moist, delicious anguish flowed through his inflamed soul like a summer house’s sewer line on June 1. Christian found himself feeling all … foreskin/medical waste bin, booger/cheap hotel room wall, tampon/floor of gas station bathroom—and she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Discarded! Rejected! She certainly wasn’t riding the horse he’d given her. He would certainly have noticed that. His steely blue eyes would’ve noticed that. There it was, in the background, biting warily at the weeds around a sundial. Perhaps it knew about the horsehair sofa.
A garbage can made from a single, giant hollowed-out diamond, full of flaming Hermes bags. A young, hopeful metaphor, lured into a back alley and strangled with a strand of freshwater pearls. A BDSM contract written over an x’ed out Magna Carta. We can subject this ill-fated desire to only so many troubling, troubled analogies before we are left scraping the bottom of the Dom Perignon barrel, our futures as empty as our nutsacks.
Christian is rich and dumb, but he is not stupid. “You are so confusing, Edie. Your bedroom eyes are as full of ruin as your actual bedroom. You refuse to be tamed! You refuse to speak sense! You won’t stop wearing tan-colored pantyhose!” Running toward his helicopter, arm outstretched, he is raised into the sky on a high-threadcount silken rope—not the use he’d had in mind for it.
“Are you all right, Christian?” asked Safe Word, probing the folds of his mind like a dirty old man thumbing a Tiger Beat behind a Montessori school.
“No, Safe Word, I’m not,” Christian beamed back. He settled back into the heated seat. “I don’t know if I ever will be again. I feel as though a half-neglected cat has gone to the bathroom behind my heart. Set course for Anastasia’s tracking device.”
A single tear pinballed down Christian’s chiseled features as he rose into the whipped-cream clouds. Only his helicopter heard him as he whispered “Laters, baby.”
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