Fifty Shades of Neigh - A parody

by Anna Roberts

  "He sounds like kind of a control freak."

  "No duh."

  "So what did you say?"

  "I said 'No. Fuck off - do I look like Maggie Gyllenhaal?' Fucking weirdo probably wants me to pee on the floor too. I don't mind a little playful tiesy upsies now and again but any man who thinks he's coming between me and the pizza menu when I'm high as fuck has got another thing coming. I mean, his dick's big, but not that big."

  She tugs me down behind the newspaper. "Get down. He can't see me here."

  "Why are you even here if you don't want..."

  She elbows me in the ribs. Her phone brrs and she takes it out. "Okay," she says, looking at the screen. "Let's go. Follow me, Hanna - and don't fucking fall over, please."

  Kate dumps the newspaper, grabs my hand and more or less drags me out of the hotel lobby. Her car is parked outside and once we're inside she drives it to a side street. Jesús comes out of a doorway labelled 'STAFF', pushing a trolley loaded up with boxes. "Trunk's open!" Kate yells out of the window.

  "Can I get some help back here you think?" Jesús sounds testy. Oh God - we're going to have to talk about last night.

  "Hanna, get out and give the man a hand."

  "Hanna?" says Jesús. "I don't think so, man. I wanna get this shit home in one piece."

  "What shit?" I ask. "Kate, what is he putting in the back of the car?"

  "Nothing," she says. "I don't ask about your extra-curricular activities and you don't ask about mine, okay?"

  Jesús slams the trunk shut and joins me in the back seat. "Hey Hanna. Did you find your panties?"

  "How'd you know about Hanna's panties?" asks Kate, as she drives away.

  "He tried to put his hands up my skirt," I say, glowering at Jesús.

  He holds up the offending appendages and at least has the decency to blush. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay?" he mumbles. "I was fucking blazed, dude. And she came right out and said she wasn't wearing any panties - you know what that does to me, Kate."

  "Oh my God," giggles Kate. "She'd just peed herself, you idiot." She catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and laughs like a maniac at Jesús' disgust. "You pervert," she cackles. "You mean to tell me you smelled beans and tried to chow down on her taco?"

  "Hey, I'm pretty sure that's racist..."

  "...yeah, and I'm pretty sure you're a rapist, dude. I can tell - just look at Hanna's face. Poor Hanna, did he try and eat your pussy in the parking lot?"

  I nod. Why must my life be so squalid and awful? I wish I was back in the hotel suite, talking about long words with a proper gentleman, one who wears a hat and tie and would never attempt to eat my...you know. And especially not in a parking lot.

  "I got what was coming to me," says Jesús. "She gave me a goddamn Roman shower, for fuck's sake."

  Kate shrieks.

  "It's not funny! I've washed my hair five times this morning and I swear to God I can still fucking smell it."

  "What's a Roman shower?" I ask.

  "One of those things you should never, ever Google image search," says Kate. "Like 'diabetic foot' or 'goatse'."

  We arrive home and Kate and Jesús unload the four cardboard boxes from the back of the car. The boxes clink as they lift them and when they get them inside I see that the boxes are stacked full of tiny bottles.

  "Baby bottles of booze," says Kate. "From the hotel minibars. Aren't they cute?"

  "Where did you get these?"

  "It's like this," explains Jesús. "When you're a Hispanic-American these days there are a lot of doors open to you. Mostly doors that say STAFF and UTILITY CLOSET. Seems a shame not to take advantage of the glowing opportunities offered by our warm, wonderful and totally not racist society."

  "I don't understand," I say.

  "And that's why we love you," grins Kate. "Even if you are an asshole."

  I follow her into the bedroom. "Kate," I murmur, staring at my shoes. "Um...you know what you said about...extracurricular activities?"

  "Yuh huh," she says, lighting up one of her gross herbal cigarettes. "What's up? Look, if anyone asks, do your dumbass Daisy Mae routine and say you don't understand. They'll totally believe you."

  "No, it's not that. I...um...I think I have a date."

  Kate piles up her hair, cigarette between her teeth. "No fucking way," she says. "Fedora-freak?"

  "His name is Crispian."

  "Whatever. What? You wanna borrow something non-Amish to wear?"

  I take out the money and show her, my hand shaking. "I think," I burble. "That I want to buy something non-Amish."

  Kate stares at the notes for a moment. "Okay," she says, after a short, breathless pause. "He just gave you a grand and told you to go shopping?"

  I nod.

  "You know," she says, decisively. "I always said that hat was really distinguished. And I'm sure his interest in fat, busty dwarf maidens is strictly artistic..."

  "...Kate, it's not like that. I'm not interested in his money."

  "You aren't? What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "He likes me! He says I'm..." I swallow.

  "He says you're what?"

  "Serendipitous," I whisper.

  She arches an eyebrow at me and shakes her head. "Okay," she says. "Maybe it really is a match made in freak heaven. You want me to help you pick out clothes? Is that it?"

  I nod in assent. "Yes please. And...er...do you know a salon? Is there one where you go? You know. For...waxing. Intimate waxing."

  Kate's eyebrow arches ever higher. "Isn't this your second date? You don't need to wax that until your third, you know. Not if he's any kind of gentleman."

  "Yes, but he saw everything in the hotel last night..."

  I think her eyes might be in danger of falling out of her head. It feels kind of good to shock her - who's the woman of the world now, Kate?

  "You're a dark horse, Hanna," says Kate. "Was he impressed?"

  "Um...he mentioned the sasquatch?"

  "Oh dear. Okay - lift your skirt. Lemme see what we're working with here...well. Holy shit. Welcome to the jungle."

  Chapter Seven

  Fear of Flying (Ponies)

  I have been plucked, buffed, waxed, scrubbed, scraped, exfoliated and bleached in highly unlikely places. Kate assures me that this is necessary to please a man.

  "It seems superficial," I protest. "He wants me for my mind."

  "Yeah," says Kate, admiring her new manicure. "Which is why he told you to get the lower Amazon deforested. Don't you feel better? You look great."

  "It was all extremely unpleasant," I mutter, darkly. "And I don't see why I had to get that bleached."

  "You didn't have to - I just wanted to see how much the peroxide stung. Has it settled down any or is it still burning?"

  I want to cry. "This is awful. I hate it."

  "Yeah, but you hate everything, Hanna," says Kate. "You hate when it rains, you hate when the sun shines, you hate when billionaires ask you out for coffee..."

  "...I did not ask him out for coffee. You asked him out for coffee, while pretending to be me."

  Kate rolls her eyes. "Yes, because the alternative was sitting around watching you cry yourself into a Alice-sized puddle because you thought he didn't like you. After he gave you his fucking card and said 'Call me'. Oh, and by the way, you managed to come home in tears from the date because he didn't slip you the tongue and buy you a helicopter then and there."

  "It's not like that!" I scowl. "I told you - I'm not interested in his money." I haven't told Kate about my degree yet - it's too humiliating.

  "Says you." She looks me up and down. "Although now I think about it, I believe you. You've just had hundreds of dollars of expensive beauty treatments and you're still fucking whining. Don't you feel the least bit pampered?"

  "No. And you know why."

  "Aw. Does your little pink ring donut still burn? Get in the car, Cinderella. We need to do something about your clothes."

  "Like what?"

  "We should probably burn them
, to be on the safe side. Take them to a patch of waste ground and have ourselves a bonfire. Then we should scatter the ashes to the four winds and water the ground with holy water and plow it with salt. It's the only way to be sure."

  "Now you're just being silly."

  "Eesh, Hanna - chill the fuck out. I would have thought an English Major of all people understood hyperbole."

  "Understood what?" She pronounces it hy-per-bol-ee. So much for her glittering career in journalism. Her inner blonde is coming out to play.

  "Hyperbole. You seriously telling me you've never heard of hyperbole?"

  "Yes," I say. "Absurd exaggeration for comic effect. Of course I've heard of it. It's pronounced hyper-bowl - there's no accent on the e."

  She frowns into the rear view mirror. "Um...okay. You sure about that?"

  "Yes, I'm sure about that."

  "You don't think the etymology counts for something? I mean, I'm not an expert but it sounds like it might be from an Ancient Greek root and you know how they loved their not so silent e's."

  "Look," I say, taking a deep breath. "I know it's embarrassing when you pronounce a word wrong..."

  But Kate is off in a world of her own. "Synecdoche," she murmurs. "I wonder if that's like the same."

  I love Kate, but she can be very self-absorbed at times.

  Meanwhile, I have to get ready for my big night. I don't think I should dress up - he might get the wrong idea. Or is it the right idea? I don't know. I'm so confused. I don't know how to put on make-up or how to dress. Why can't I be like other women, who seem to have been born knowing how to apply mascara or walk in heels? Why am I so different from the common herd?

  Kate lends me a dress but I demur and settle for my most flattering jeans and a lace trimmed blouse. "Fine," says Kate. "If you must. You still look like a Christian but at least now you look like a regular one, instead of one of those ones from weird separatist sects where the women are expected to keep pumping out babies for the Lord, despite the fact that they've had fifteen kids and three uterine prolapses."

  "I'm so nervous," I say. "Butterflies and everything. I think I really like him. What if he doesn't like me? Holy crap - what if he thinks I'm an asshole?"

  Kate laughs. "Hanna, you are an asshole. But at least now you're a hairless pearly pink asshole and your toenails don't look something from Jurassic Park."

  "Does that matter?"

  "I dunno. Probably. I can't believe we're doing this - seeing you off for a first date and all."

  My ride is here. A big black SUV with the Neigh logo on the side - a rearing winged pony - has pulled up outside the house. I take Kate's hand. She's been so kind to me. "I know it must be intimidating for you," I say, gently. "And you've always been the pretty one, but here we are..."

  "Whatever, shitlord," she says, shoving me out of the door. "Don't fuck him without a condom and if he tries anything really freaky then remember to use the pepper spray."

  A large man emerges from the SUV. He has a shaved head and an earpiece and in his arms he is carrying a dozen pink roses. For me?

  "Compliments of the boss," he says. "My name's Naylor - I'll be your driver tonight."

  His gaze shifts behind me. I turn and see Kate slouched seductively against the porch wall of our duplex. She is showing at least an inch of cleavage and wiggles her fingers in a wave at Naylor. I have a flashback to my senior prom, when my mother did something similar. Only it wasn't her cleavage she was showing.

  "My roommate," I explain. "I'm sorry about her - she's a hopeless alcoholic."

  He holds the door open and I step into the SUV. There's a note in the flowers. It says 'Strap yourself in, baby - and get ready for a wild ride!'.

  I have no idea what that means.

  We reach the hotel. There we take the elevator to the...to the roof? Oh holy crap.

  As I step out onto the roof the first thing that hits me is the noise, a roar so relentless that I have to cover my ears. The second thing is the wind - it nearly knocks me off my feet. The third thing is trying to grasp the fact that Crispian Neigh is grinning down at me from the cockpit of a helicopter.

  "Hey baby!" he screams, over the noise. "Wanna take a ride on my chopper?"

  My Inner Goddess stirs, exhausted from an afternoon of pointing and laughing at the beauty salon. That's a hell of a lot of effort for one small dick joke, she mutters, and then promptly goes back to sleep.

  *

  After a great deal of swearing, cajoling and outright threats (his) and three in-flight tequilas and a mild panic attack (mine) we land on the roof of his apartment complex. I can't stop shaking and I don't think it's desire this time. Actually I think I might be sick.

  "Don't look at me like that," he says, looking so hurt that I want to feel better right away. "I was trying to do something nice for you."

  "I don't really like flying," I whisper, speaking slowly. I feel like if I speak too fast other things might come out of my mouth - bad things. It's bad enough to throw up on a man in a parking lot but probably considerably worse to repeat the offence on a helipad.

  His apartment is huge - open plan, with a U-shaped couch and a wood and granite kitchen area. The view is spectacular. In a corner is a large drawing board and I remember that Kate said he was artistic.

  No she didn't. She said 'fat, busty dwarf maidens'. I was there.

  - Oh God. Not you. Can't you go back to sleep?

  I intend to. Just pointing out that drawing World of Warcraft porn doesn't exactly make him Picasso.

  - Please. Have you seen some of that fantasy art? Picasso only wishes he was that good.

  My Inner Goddess stares for a moment and shakes her head. Then she re-covers her eyes with a pink sleep mask bearing the legend THE BITCH IS SLEEPING and settles down to loud and deliberate snores.

  "Do you draw?" I ask, pointing to the board.

  "I dabble," he says, removing his hat. "But I'm sure you know I didn't bring you here to look at my etchings. Would you like some wine?"

  I'm about to say 'On top of three in-flight tequilas and the remnants of a hangover?' but he's way ahead of me. The bottle, in its ice-bucket, is already on the counter.

  "Margaux 1988 okay?" he says, pouring two large glasses. "It's a little on the thin side and the nose isn't what it ought to be but it compares favourably to the early 1990s - a series of very poor years for Margauxs."

  I take the glass. This wine is older than I am. Holy crap. "Do you know much about wine?" I murmur. It smells quite nice.

  "Not much," he says, raising his glass in a toast. "But I know what I like." There is a wicked twinkle in his eye and I begin to feel less nauseous.

  "Thank you," I whisper, and I realise it's a strange thing to say but I have no idea what else to say. I'm not entirely sure why I'm even here.

  "Sit down, Miss Squeal," he coaxes. "Make yourself at home. I expect you're wondering why I brought you here?"

  I nod.

  He doesn't sit. He regards me thoughtfully as he sips his wine. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Squeal," he says. "Very wealthy. I've made my fortune getting people what they want - if there's a TV show, a movie, a videogame - anything they want, then I've got it. I’m the go-to guy for online media."

  "It sounds very complicated," I mutter.

  "It's really not. It's simple. People want what they want and sometimes they'll go to insane lengths to get it, like sitting up all night waiting for a bad torrent of the last season of Doctor Who." He smiles. "I'm the one who makes sure that doesn't happen."

  "That's...kind of you," I whisper, staring into my wine. I picture myself shrunk to the size of an insect, drowning in the drink, scrambling for impossible foothold on the smooth, slippery surface of the glass. I've had quite a lot to drink lately.

  "Kindness has nothing to do with it, Miss Squeal," he says, waving a hand around the sumptuous apartment. "As you can see, I'm well rewarded."

  "I can see that," I murmur. When I catch his eye I flush and wonder what on earth he
could ever want with me. Do I see things in him that his other girlfriends didn’t? Yes, I probably do.

  "There are, however," he husks. "Certain things that not even money can buy."

  "But you'll try anyway, right?"

  He curls his lip in a sardonic smile. "Perhaps. I feel like I need to be honest with you, Hanna." He holds out his hand. "Come - I want to show you my playroom."

  "You have space for a pool table too? Wow, this place is really huge."

  He grabs hold of my ponytail as he steers me towards the door. "So naive," he chuckles, and places a kiss on the nape of my neck, a kiss that thrills me to the tips of my toes. I don't even smell ham this time.

  "I have never shown another woman the inside of this room," he says, as we reach the door of the playroom. It's just a door - wood with a brushed steel handle. No heavy foreshadowing here.

  Maybe that's why I relax and maybe that's why I'm shocked when he opens the door.

  Holy crap.

  Pink. So much pink. The floor is pink. The walls are pink and covered with pink shelving units. The only thing that isn't pink are the ponies, colourful plastic ponies who smile down at me from every available inch of wall space. I remember the toystore and suddenly I understand.

  "Oh my God..." I gasp. "Oh my God. You're a..."

  I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Yes, Hanna. I'm a brony."

  I turn to face him. "I don't understand..." I stutter.

  He stares at me, raw emotion sheening his chocolate brown eyes. "Perhaps I should never have shown you..."

  "No! No, you should." Oh my God, he's emotionally damaged. Why do I feel funny in the no-no place again? "If we're going to be honest with one another..."

  He grabs my shoulders. "Oh Hanna," he murmurs. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes," I groan. "Yes, yes - I'm sure. I don't care. I only want you."

  Oh my. He's close, so close. My lips are on fire and my heart in my mouth. His hand spreads covetously over my behind and then...oh my dear God...a slap.

  "Giddy up, girl," he whispers, in a voice that just about melts the nylon lace off my panties.