by Fanny Merkin
He withdraws and falls onto his back on the waterbed. We both take a moment to catch our breath. After a few minutes, he turns to face me. “Are you hurt?” he asks.
I close my eyes. Hurt? Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s such a complicated question. Physically, my nether regions feel like they’ve been through World War III. I definitely don’t want to look at the white bed sheets with the lights on. But once I get past the physical pain of losing my virginity, all I can think about is how the act of joining our two bodies brought me closer to another person than I’d ever thought possible. And not just any other person, but Earl Grey. It’s like our mutual orgasm was a sign from the heavens that we were destined for each other, like our bodies are in sync at both a biological and cosmic level.
“I actually feel kind of great,” I say.
Earl doesn’t say anything.
“Earl?” I say, opening my eyes and looking at him. I guess there won’t be any Round Two this afternoon, because Earl Grey is sound asleep. I place my head on his chest, and soon I’m drifting off as well . . .
Chapter Thirteen
WHEN I WAKE UP from my nap, I’m alone in bed—Earl Grey’s bed. He’s left a green lava lamp lit on the nightstand, and it looks totally sweet bathed in the Dorm Room of Doom’s black light. If you would have told me a week ago that I’d be here, I’d have called you crazy. Insane. Wacko. But it’s real. Well, at least as real as sparkly vampires.
In the distance, I hear mournful tambourine playing. I get out of bed to investigate. I pull on my panties and find Earl’s button-down shirt, which smells faintly like his coconut-lime body wash. I slip into his shirt and follow the sound of the music into the living room.
While I slept, the sun set and downtown Seattle lit up, marking the end of another gorgeous day in the Emerald City. The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the city at night is amazing, but not as amazing as the view of Earl Grey. He’s still naked, and he’s sitting on a barstool with a tambourine in his left hand. He shakes it rhythmically to a tune only he can hear in his head. His eyes are closed, and he’s completely lost in his playing. He has a sad, anguished expression on his face, like white guitar players have when they’re playing the blues. A single lamp beside him illuminates his body like he’s on display in a museum. I’d pay twenty dollars for the Earl Grey exhibit.
I walk quietly toward him, drawn in by his forlorn tambourine playing. He’s holding the instrument with the same long fingers that were all over me. I smile inwardly at the memory, even though it happened only a few hours ago. I can’t wait for those long fingers to be on me again.
He must hear me approaching, because he stops playing and opens his eyes. “Hello, Anna,” he says.
“You can keep playing,” I say. I hope he’s not mad at me for disturbing him.
“Playing the tambourine . . . or playing you?”
Oh my.
“You’re good,” I say. “At both, ah, 'instruments.’ What was that song?”
“A little something by Poison that I have vague memories of my mother singing to me when I was a child. The song is called 'Every Rose Has Its Thorn.’”
“Which one of us is the rose?”
“Ask me later,” he says. He looks me up and down, sipping my body in like a baby drinking apple juice from a sippy cup. “Risky Business. I like it.”
“Risky what?”
“The dress shirt and underwear look. Nevermind,” he says.
He seems sadder now than when he was playing, so I change the topic of conversation. “How long have you been playing tambourine?”
“Since junior high school,” he says. “The tambourine is only one of many percussion instruments I’m trained on.” I try to imagine the broad-shouldered, sexy beast before me as a child, but it’s impossible.
“Anna, your finger is in your nose again,” he says.
I yank it out. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You have no idea how badly it turns me on when you do that,” he says. “If you pick your nose in public, I might not be able to stop myself from taking you where you stand.”
“Yikes.”
“Which reminds me: Are you feeling okay? From earlier, I mean,” he says, his eyes wandering to my nether regions.
“Yes,” I say. “More than okay.”
“Good. I’m glad,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
I shrug. “I had a big breakfast. Remember?”
“How could I forget? Then what are you hungry for, if not food?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Mr. Grey.”
He hops off his barstool and we head back into the Dorm Room of Doom. Looks like Round Two will happen after all . . .
Back in his waterbed, Earl flips me over onto my stomach. “On your hands and knees,” he growls.
“Yes,” I say, raising myself.
I feel a firm hand slap my behind. “When we’re in the Room of Doom, address me properly, Anna. 'Yes, Sir.’”
“Yes, Sir,” I say. It feels so natural.
“Good girl,” he says, rubbing the spot on my bottom where he spanked me. I love his touch.
I hear him tearing into a foil condom packet. “I’m going to do it to you doggy style,” he says.
“Should I bark?” I ask.
“Why would you bark?”
“Well, I thought maybe that’s why it’s called 'doggy style’ . . .”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t bark like a dog,” he says. “I’m not into bestiality.”
“Well, someone’s not very kinky,” I mutter.
“Just hold still,” he says, thrusting powerfully into me from behind. He grabs ahold of my hair and pulls gently. “You like?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir,” I say as he slides in and out of me. It’s not as romantic as earlier, but there’s a raw, primal feeling to what we’re doing that makes me want to howl like a wolf. I’m afraid if I do, though, he’ll stop, and I can’t bear the thought of him stopping midcoitus.
I moan, and then moan again, and again, and again, until his rhythmic thrusting pushes me over the edge. This time, my orgasm turns my arms and legs to jelly, and I collapse on the bed.
“Turn around and sit up,” he orders me.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, giggling. He’s screwed me silly! I can barely move, but I somehow manage to sit up. I rest my back against the headboard.
“Now I’m going to make babies with your face, Anna,” he says, crawling toward me on his knees. Can that thing fit in my mouth? I wonder, staring at him. I have a horrible flashback to earlier in the day, when I choked on his toothbrush—twice. This is no toothbrush.
Earl straddles my body and points his man of steel at my mouth. Up this close, Grey’s anatomy looks like a nineteen-inch nail.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “You can do it. It’s just like sword swallowing.”
Gulp. “I’ve never swallowed a sword before,” I say, staring down the barrel of his love gun.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s weird. Well, I’ll give you a lesson then.”
“In sword swallowing?”
“Yes,” he says. “In sword swallowing. Get dressed.”
Back in the living room, Earl teaches me the ancient art of sword swallowing. The trick, he says, is to suppress the muscles and processes involved in swallowing; one does not literally “swallow” the sword. Much to my chagrin, he teaches me using a samurai sword, and not his gravy-maker. I’m not very good at first, but after a couple of hours I can take the sharpened blade down my throat to the hilt. It’s late, and Earl has an important business meeting in the morning, so we go to sleep without having sex again. Pacing ourselves isn’t such a bad idea, especially since we still have more than half the book left.
Chapter Fourteen
I WAKE TO THE SOUND of my cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. I fumble around for it with my eyes half closed, and by the time I have it in my hand it stops. Twelve missed calls and several text messages, all from Kathleen. I scan through them
quickly.
*where r u*
*dammit anna answer ur phone*
*jin ruptured one of his testicles and i had to take him to the dr.
i hope ur happy*
*tell ur new boyfriend hi*
Sigh. I want to text her back and let her know I’m okay, that Earl Grey isn’t my boyfriend (because he “doesn’t do the girlfriend thing”), and that I’m saying a prayer for Jin’s testicles. I can’t text her though, not now—all she’ll do is bring me down, and the last thing I need is reality intruding upon my graphic sexual fantasy.
It’s ten in the morning, and Earl Grey is long gone from the bed. He hasn’t completely abandoned me, because I’m still wearing Earl’s shirt from last night; it’s like I’ve skinned him and am wearing his flesh. Only it’s less creepy by like a million times. I swing my legs out of the bed and stand up. Sunlight is streaming into the apartment. I make my way to the kitchen, and find a note folded on top of an iPad. I open the note.
Anna—
Top of the morning to you!
When you’re ready for breakfast, just tell my butler and he’ll cook something for you. His name is Data. He is well trained in the culinary arts, so please take advantage of him.
The iPad is yours. We need a way to keep in touch while I’m at work, and I hate texting. It makes me feel like a thirteen-year-old girl. So, since you told me you’ve never had a computer or even an e-mail address, I thought you would enjoy the tablet (although I must confess I don’t understand how you made it through four years of college without the Internet). Just turn it on (press the button!) and touch the “Mail” app. I’ve set you up with your own Hotmail account.
I’ll be home from work later this evening; you’re welcome to stay at the apartment all day and watch movies, play board games, etc. I can fly you back to Portland this evening.
E. G.
P.S.: You are amazing in bed. I quite enjoyed sticking my thingie inside your thingie. ;)
Oh my. My very own iPad. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s given me my very own Hotmail account! Not only did I lose my virginity within the past twenty-four hours, I also now have e-mail. I want to turn the iPad on and give it a test drive, but my hunger is more immediate.
“Looking for me, Miss Steal?” a man behind me says in a monotone voice. I whip around and am face-to-face with a pale man wearing a green-and-black spandex jumpsuit. I try to back away from this strange person, but am trapped between him and the kitchen counter. If I can reach the iPad in time, I can e-mail Earl Grey and have him call the police . . .
“Do not be alarmed,” the man says robotically. “My name is Data. I am Mr. Grey’s butler.”
Oh. My heart stops beating frantically. Well, it keeps beating, just not as frantically as before. I’m calming down.
“Why are you wearing that outfit?” I say.
“This is my Starfleet uniform, Miss Steal,” he says.
“Starfleet? Is that like NASA?”
“Your comparison is not one of equivalency,” he says.
He must register my look of bewilderment, because he adds, “Surely you are familiar with Star Trek?”
I shake my head. “I’m not big into science fiction.”
He sighs, and relaxes his entire body. “Thank God,” he says, his voice now sounding closer to a normal person’s. “You can just call me Brent.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I still don’t understand . . .”
“I’m an actor, Miss Steal. Or I was,” he says wistfully. “I played an android named 'Data’ on Star Trek: The Next Generation for many years. Afterward, directors weren’t exactly lining up around the block to cast someone whose best-known work is playing basically a robot. Mr. Grey found me working at a Saturn dealership in Beverly Hills, and asked me to come work for him—as his 'android butler.’ He apparently wanted a real android, but I was as close as he could get.”
I shake my head. “That’s tragic. I can’t imagine working as a car salesman. Especially one who sells Saturns.”
“Oh, the money wasn’t bad, Miss Steal,” Brent says. “But I did get tired of saying, 'Not only is this model fully functional, it’s also fully loaded.’ Even if I have to wear this olive-green bodysuit and dye my hair black, working for Mr. Grey pays much, much better. As I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Mr. Grey doesn’t pay me anything,” I say defensively. Unless you count the iPad, and the Hotmail account, and him buying Walmart and Washington State University. “I’m not a prostitute.”
“Oh,” Brent says. “I’m sorry. I just assumed . . .”
Oh no. This is what Earl meant when he said he doesn’t “do the girlfriend thing.” He doesn’t have girlfriends, because he pays women to dress up as elves and magicians and whatever else and get spanked and screwed in his Dorm Room of Doom.
“I have to go,” I say, sliding past Brent. I change into my own clothes and run from Earl Grey’s apartment in tears as his weird android butler watches me, unable to compute my emotions with his circuit board brain.
Chapter Fifteen
I ORDER A GREEN TEA at the Starbucks across the street from Earl Grey’s apartment. I pull my phone out and call Kathleen.
She answers after one ring. “Anna!”
“It’s me,” I say glumly.
“Are you okay?” she asks. It doesn’t sound like she’s as angry with me as her text messages indicated.
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I say.
“Did that control freak kidnap you? Where did he take you?”
I sigh. “To his apartment.”
“I’ll come pick you up, girl,” she says, sensing my dour mood.
“Would you?” I say. “I’m at the Starbucks in Seattle.”
“Cool. Hang tight—I’ll be there in forty-five minutes or so.”
I thank Kathleen and end the call. Now I’m stuck in this coffee shop with nothing to do . . . Should I turn the iPad on? I took it from the apartment, probably against my better judgment. But it’s an iPad. C’mon. Who would turn down a free iPad?
I start it up and look it over. It’s loaded with tons of apps, including Words With Friends, Angry Birds, and . . . Mail. Do I dare open it? What could it hurt? I tap the envelope icon and it expands to fill the screen.
From: Earl Grey
Subject: Your New iPad
Date: May 22 6:49 AM
To: Anna Steal
Dear Miss Steal—
I hope you slept well. It sure as hell sounded like it! How do you not wake yourself up with your own snoring?!!! Ha ha, j/k. But not really kidding.
Anyway, let me know if you need anything!
Earl Grey
CEO, The Earl Grey Corporation
It’s not the only e-mail in my inbox from Earl. There’s a new e-mail, dated five minutes ago.
From: Earl Grey
Subject: Baby?
Date: May 22 10:56 AM
To: Anna Steal
Dear Miss Steal—
Data contacted me and said that you were compelled to leave the apartment most unexpectedly. Is everything okay?
Earl Grey
CEO, The Earl Grey Corporation
P.S. I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail (it was either off, or you were talking on it?). I’m buying you a second cell phone, just to field my calls exclusively. Don’t argue with me, Anna.
Uh-oh. What do I do? I start composing a response . . .
From: Anna Steal
Subject: RE: Baby?
Date: May 22 11:05 AM
To: Earl Grey
I did leave, yes. And I was on the phone. Not that it’s any of your business.
I am not one of your LARPers. Or should I say “whores”?
Anna
I tap “send” and then close the Mail app. That’ll show the rich bastard.
I open the Words With Frie
nds app.
There’s a small avatar of Earl Grey. I tap on it, and it brings up a new screen: “Earl Grey has invited you to play a game. Would you like to accept?”
Do I accept? I have time to kill. It’s an easy enough game, and one that I’ve played before on my mom’s iPad. You’re given seven letters, each with a different point value, and must place them on the board by connecting them with at least one letter of a word that the other player has spelled. For every letter you use, you get a new one in the next round. Perhaps I can vent some frustration at Earl Grey through the game.
I tap “yes.” I’ll play, if only to beat him and show him he’s not as smart and clever as he thinks he is. Earl has played the first word: “KINK.” Of course.
I look at the letters available to me. Hmmmm . . . I move four letters to the board, spelling “PRICK” off one of his Ks. His move.
Almost immediately, I receive a notice that he has played. His word? “PRICKS.” Damn! Bastard! He just added an “S” to the end of my word. It’s a legal move, but one only a prick who wants to piggyback off someone else’s hard work would do.
I spell “CHEAP” off of the “C.” Because he’s a cheap prick, if he’s going to just add “S” to the end of every word I spell.
He plays “HO.” Oh, hell no.
I turn the iPad off. The nerve of that man! I head to the women’s restroom to fix my hair, which I can feel is out of control again. I should have tamed it before I left Earl Grey’s apartment, but I was in such a hurry to get out of his little whorehouse that I didn’t even put on my underwear—I couldn’t find them. He’ll probably cook them up for dinner or something. What a creep.
