Fifty Shades of Neigh - A parody

by Anna Roberts

  I go downstairs, where something is cooking. I don't know what and I don't know if I care to find out. It smells like beans.

  "You look pretty, sweetie," says my mother, who is polishing wine glasses.

  I squint at her and pour myself a glass of Chardonnay. I know what she's playing at. She thinks I don't know, but I do. Still, at least Uncle Bob is wearing pants tonight. I should be grateful for small mercies.

  "Are you wearing heels?" he asks.

  "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

  Uncle Chet sticks his head up over the back of the armchair where he is sitting. "You finally saw a doctor about that thing, huh?"

  "What thing?"

  "The dizzies," says Uncle Chet, as Uncle Tate comes back into the room. "The constant faceplanting. So what was it? I had fifty bucks on Ménière's disease."

  "No..."

  "Brain tumour," says Uncle Tate, triumphantly, holding out his hand for money. "Told you. Hand it over."

  "You guys are assholes sometimes," says my mother.

  Uncle Tate squeezes my mother's boob in full view of everyone and kisses her on the mouth. "I know. We're terrible and we're sorry." He wanders back to the living area and dumps himself on Uncle Chet's lap. "No, seriously - what did the doctor say it was, Hanna?"

  "I didn't see a doctor."

  My mother frowns. "It just cleared up on its own?"

  "Yep."

  "Huh. That's odd. I thought it was a minor character trait."

  I shrug and drain my glass. "Just goes away sometimes, I guess."

  "Maybe finally having a penis inside you reset your centre of gravity," suggests Uncle Tate.

  "I don't think it works like that," says Uncle Chet.

  "I dunno. I think your tennis game has improved significantly since we...reevaluated our physical relationship."

  "You think so?"

  "Oh yeah. Your balance is so much better."

  "I practised. That's all. It had nothing to do with your dick..."

  I slam the fridge door, spilling my fresh glass of wine. "Okay," I say. "Can we please lay down some ground rules for tonight? Please?"

  Somewhere behind the depths of his enormous beard, Uncle Bob is chewing his lip. "We're not really 'rules' people, Hanna..."

  "Mom..." I appeal.

  My mother looks up from the cheese grater. "No, I agree with Hanna. Let's try not to embarrass her into a coma, guys. This is the first time she's ever brought a young man home, after all."

  Brought a young man home. Where did she pick up this wonderbread vocabulary? She sounds like some kind of Stepford Wife. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Mom," I say. "Because I totally do."

  "Okay, Hanna. What am I doing?"

  "You're going to go out of your way to be nice to Crispian so that I think you approve of him and therefore find him less interesting."

  "Well I never," murmurs Uncle Tate. "She really is smarter than she looks."

  I turn on my three inch heels and point at him. "You," I command. "Do not say 'penis'. All night. Do you understand?"

  I hear the door and march towards it, glass in hand. "Our little girl is all grown up," Uncle Bob mutters, as I walk out.

  "Yeah, and rapidly morphing into Lucille Bluth," adds Uncle Tate.

  I take a deep breath and open the front door. Crispian is standing there with a dozen pink and white roses and another pony balloon. Applejack, I think. "I was going to bring a bottle," he says. "But wine glasses are so goddamn huge these days." He whistles and Naylor appears from round a corner, wheeling a trolley with a huge wooden case parked on top.

  "Mind if I bring this in?" he asks.

  Everyone stares at the crate. "Holy shit," says Uncle Tate. "Don't let any Nazis open that thing or you'll be rinsing melted face off the soft-furnishings for weeks."

  Crispian stares at him for a moment and then bursts out laughing. "Ha! Movie reference! Awesome!"

  "Um...yeah?" says Uncle Tate. "That's the joke? Wow. So young and yet so nerdy."

  Crispian throws up both hands. "Guil-ty," he singsongs. "You don't even know. I am such a nerd. I'm like King Nerd of Nerd Mountain. Seriously."

  "Good for you," murmurs Uncle Tate, holding out a hand. "I'm Hanna's uncle Tate, this is Uncle Chet, the big Daddy in the chaps and apron over there is Big Uncle Bob - and I do mean big...and I guess you've met Mother Teresa and she hasn't eaten your head off yet, so well done on that score, I guess."

  "Nice to see you again, Crispian," lies my mother, coming out of the kitchen area.

  "Can we ask what's in the box?" asks Uncle Bob, through a cloud of steam.

  "Knowing him it probably is the fucking Ark of the Covenant," mutters my mother. I attempt to skewer her Birkenstock with my heel, but she sidesteps in time.

  "Well, you know," says Crispian. "I was going to bring champagne but a bottle doesn't go very far among six people. So I bought a case instead. It's a good year and only five hundred dollars a bottle."

  "How very thoughtful and not at all tacky of you," says my mother. "Should I fetch glasses or a crowbar?"

  Thankfully at that moment Uncle Bob calls us all to the table by banging a 'dinner gong' my mother made using more macrame and an old trash-can lid. Unlike her other art she has made no attempt to sell it - she says it has sentimental value, or at least that's her story. It goes 'clunk' when banged with a wooden spoon.

  "Dinner is served," says Uncle Bob.

  "You're very privileged," Uncle Tate tells Crispian. "It's Uncle Bob's Tofu Surprise."

  "What's the surprise?" asks Crispian.

  "Flavour."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The One With The Tampon

  As it transpires, Uncle Tate may have been over-optimistic. Dinner appears to be beige and tastes much the same. My mother keeps giving Crispian man-hater face over the wholewheat macaroni and I have never been more sure that I want to spend my life with this man. Right now I can even face any number of ponies - at least they're colourful and have nothing to do with macramé, trash-can lids or upcycling.

  “...everyone thinks its for kids,” Crispian is saying, enthusiastically. “But there are references that only an adult would get. Like there’s this one episode where they go bowling and there’s like three ponies who look like John Goodman, Jeff Bridges and Steve Buscemi...”

  “Wait,” says Uncle Chet, holding up a forkful of what once might have been mushrooms. “A pony that looks like John Goodman? How does that work?”

  “He doesn’t look much like a pony,” agrees my mother.

  “Steve Buscemi, on the other hand...” says Uncle Tate. “With the teeth...”

  Crispian laughs loudly. He’s really taken a shine to Uncle Tate. “Oh my God – totally. They should have a Gary Busey pony – that would be hi-larious.”

  My mother sighs and gets up from the table. She hates him. Good.

  “Back in a moment,” says Uncle Bob, and follows her out.

  “Anyway,” Crispian continues. “It’s a Big Lebowski reference – the three ponies that look like John Goodman, Jeff Bridges and Steve Buscemi. It’s not like eight year old girls are into the Coen Brothers, right?”

  “Right,” says Uncle Tate, with a sigh. “Yeah, I get that but...”

  “But could we please stop talking about My Little Pony?” says Uncle Chet.

  “Oh my God, thank you,” moans Uncle Tate, throwing down his napkin.

  Crispian shakes his head. “Wow,” he says, looking hurt. I grab his hand but he brushes me off. “No, it’s okay, Hanna. I appreciate that some people don’t understand Friendship Is Magic.”

  “It’s not that they don’t understand,” I begin, but Uncle Tate interrupts.

  “...it’s that we don’t care,” he says, and frowns across the table at Crispian. “This might sound rude and I don’t mean to be – I used to be a nurse back in Toronto – but do you often have problems reading social cues?”

  Crispian raises his eyebrows. “Social cues? Seriously? You’re
the ones being rude here.”

  Uncle Tate exhales slowly and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Maybe we are. Sorry. It’s just...I’m just really not interested in My Little Pony and it’s been like, half an hour...”

  “It’s fine,” says Crispian, acidly. “I understand how some men might feel threatened by it.” He eyes Uncle Chet’s biceps. “Jocks. Gym types. I know they think it comes off as gay – and maybe you’re not secure enough in your masculinity to enjoy cute little pink things...”

  Uncle Tate’s left eyebrow almost hits the ceiling. “Oh honey – I am secure enough in my masculinity for any number of cute little pink things, believe me.”

  “Hey - less of the little,” says Uncle Tate, giving him a dig in the ribs.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “I didn’t imply anything of the sort, Chet.”

  “You totally did.”

  “I did not! You are so insecure. How many times do I have to tell you that you have a perfectly good sized penis?”

  “Hey!” I say. “Didn’t we talk about not saying that word?”

  “Oh my God, Hanna, shut up,” says Uncle Tate. “Penis penis penis penis fucking penis, okay? I guess he can stand to hear it.” He turns back to Crispian. “I mean, you’ve got one, right?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think you’d be interested in it,” says Crispian, pale and nervous all of a sudden. “It’s very small and not at all cute. Or pink.”

  My mother and Uncle Bob come back in. They’re giggling and smell like the inside of Kate’s bedroom. I think they must smoke the same brand of cigarettes. “Hey gang,” she says. “Having fun?”

  “Terrific,” says Uncle Tate. “Crispian’s just trying to put me off his penis.”

  I sink down in my chair, wanting to die.

  “Seriously, I’m not gay,” says Crispian, trembling slightly. “I’m not. I like ponies but I’m not gay.”

  “It’s cool,” says Uncle Chet. “Even if you were we wouldn’t wanna fuck you.”

  “Well Tess, looks like we came back just as the party was getting started,” says Uncle Bob, sarcastically.

  “We sure did,” says my mother. She bats the Applejack balloon out of her way and sits back down. “Play nice, boys – don’t scare him away. I think it’s sweet that he can overlook Hanna’s disadvantages.”

  “Disadvantages?” asks Crispian, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks. “How do you mean?”

  My mother peers at him with a nasty glint in her eyes "Her old man was a model, you know – like a hotter, dumber version of Derek Zoolander. Now, I freely admit I was dazzled by his beauty, forgot to make him wrap it before I tapped it and nine months later, Hanna was born. She takes after him – both in brains and beauty.”

  I blush. “Oh Mom. Thank you.”

  “See?” she says. “Just not that bright.”

  "Mom!"

  "Honey, you thought hyperbole was pronounced 'hyper-bowl'. You submitted an essay on Jane Eyre in which the word 'gimpy' was used. You thought Tess of the D'Urbervilles was some kind of strange late Victorian hybrid of Bridget Jones' Diary and Nine And A Half Weeks, and according to Jesús you thought that Camus was some kind of chickpea based dip."

  "It's pronounced cammus, actually..."

  She sighs. "And you're also too dumb to admit you were wrong - a fact that probably wasn't lost on your boyfriend here..."

  Crispian snorts. "Well, it's no wonder your daughter has self-esteem issues..."

  "...which you are more than happy to prey on," says my mother. "What's your game, Mr. Neigh? I admit Hanna's maybe been given an easy ride because of my academic reputation, but ever since you showed up on the scene all kinds of strange things have been happening..."

  I start to cry. "You don't understand what he means to me!"

  "I do, honey. What I want to know is what you mean to him. Why is my old college room-mate's wife calling me in tears because Becky is in the process of being deported? Why is my spawn-of-a-Darwin-Award daughter suddenly class valedictorian..."

  I jump up from my seat and run upstairs to my room. This is terrible - unimaginable. I want to run away so that there is him - only him, and nobody can come between us and he can tell me that I'm smart and pretty and everything he has ever wanted. I'll even dress up as a fucking unicorn if that's what he wants. If only he'll take me away from all this.

  I catch sight of myself in my jewellery box mirror; I look like a raccoon. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, I hurry to the bathroom to repair my make-up.

  "Hanna?"

  "In here!"

  Crispian comes in, flushed and furious. I throw myself into his arms, sobbing. He kisses me with a fevered passion I have never experienced before and hooks his thumbs into my panties. "Right here," he whispers, pressing me against the sink. "Let's do it right here - they can't keep us apart."

  My Inner Goddess takes a deep breath and pulls up a bucket. My skirt is up around my waist and Crispian has discovered an impediment (Seriously - impediment. Who else would use words like that, except for a smart person?) in the shape of a dangling, blue tampon string.

  Oh shit. I'd completely forgotten about my period. "Um..." I prevaricate. "Er...you might find I've got a little...er..."

  "How do you take it out?" he growls, his voice full of urgency and his eyes ablaze.

  "Just pull the string, but you're not..." I'm about to say that the last time we tried this it didn't end so well, but he doesn't seem to care.

  "Nothing is ever going to come between us, Hanna," he pants, and with one smooth motion yanks the tampon clean out of my you-know-what. Oh my. He's so masterful, or at least he is until he sees what's in his hand. He goes to toss it into the toilet [Author's note - Do not do this. Please use the bins provided.] but he's unfamiliar with the inside of a ladies' en-suite, in that the toilet lid is closed. The tampon lands on the lid and lies there, grinning gorily up at him like a mouse with a Glasgow smile.

  My lover goes down like a felled oak and lands face up beside the bidet in a widening pool of blood. He doesn't move, so I begin to scream.

  *

  I stare at the floor, the antiseptic smell of the hospital hallway stinging my nose and knotting my stomach. “I can’t believe it,” I murmur, for the fourth time in as many minutes. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “I know,” says Uncle Tate.

  “Seriously,” says my mother, exhaling slowly.

  We sit side by side on the plastic chairs, waiting, waiting interminably. What am I going to do?

  “I don’t understand how that happens,” says Uncle Tate. “How do you confuse Albert Camus with hummus?”

  My mother shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it’s because they’re both sort of North African. Wasn’t he Algerian or something?”

  “Don’t think so, but I think he played soccer for an Algerian team?”

  “Ah yeah. I think you might be right there.”

  They stop talking for a moment. I grind my teeth loudly but they take no notice of me.

  “Yeah, but even so,” says Uncle Tate. “Even with the North African connection, one is a seminal post-war existentialist writer and philosopher and the other is...”

  “...a delicious snack made from garlic and chickpeas. Yeah – I know. Who knows what goes on in Hanna’s head, huh?”

  She scratches the crown of my head and I grind my teeth louder. Crispian could be dead for all they know, and they’re talking about Algeria.

  “You okay, honey?” asks my mother. “You want some more tea?”

  I shake my head furiously. I suppose it’s too much to ask for some actual support around here? Tea. What’s that going to solve? Besides, they don’t even have Twinings.

  Just then an Indian doctor comes down the corridor towards us.

  “Is he okay?” I ask, leaping to my feet. “Can I see him?”

  “In a moment,” says the doctor, holding up a clipb
oard. “I’ve got notes from the front desk but they’re a bit...confused.”

  “Sorry – she was a little agitated when we checked him in,” says my mother.

  “Understatement,” mutters Uncle Tate.

  The doctor smiles stiffly. “Right,” he says. “If I could just clarify what happened to Crispian then that would be helpful. What were you doing when he fell?”

  I stare at him. I don’t know how to explain it.

  "Miss," he says, patiently. "I'm a doctor, a member of the medical profession. We have heard more stories of 'things found in bottoms' than any other group of people on Earth - I really doubt you could shock me."

  “Depends,” says my mother. “Are you shocked by a sexually active twenty-one year old who still calls her vagina her ‘you-know-what?’”

  I can feel my face turn hot as I flush harder than a New Delhi toilet in backpacking season. “I can’t...” I stammer, as I contemplate the things I must say. “I can’t...”

  "For God's sake, Hanna,” says Uncle Tate. “Just explain so he can take a full case history. If Crispian did hit his head on the bidet then he needs all the help he can get."

  "What do you mean, 'all the help he can get'?" I ask, panic rising.

  "Tate, don't spook her," says my mother. "You know how she gets."

  "I'm not spooking her," says Uncle Tate. "Not much, anyway. Even minor head injuries can be fatal.”

  "Fatal?" I blither, my soul descending into Hell there and then. I have flown too close to the sun of happiness and now I am doomed to fall like Icarus, drowning in the cold, dark depths. Oh Crispian, how will I ever live without you?

  "There's probably nothing to worry about," says the doctor. "The x-ray showed no fractures. It would just be tremendously helpful if you knew if he hit his head on the bidet or not and how he behaved before he passed out."

  "He's...he's alive?" I gasp.

  "Yes, yes - of course he's alive."

  I jump up and hug the doctor, my heart dancing with fifty kinds of rapture, my Inner Goddess shaking her head and checking her watch. "Oh thank you, thank you! You saved his life!"