I wrote this parody a few weeks ago when Fifty Shades of Grey was first released, but my family thought it wasn't PG enough for my writers' group. So I'll post it online! The descriptions of certain animals' physiognomies and those animals' sexual interactions are factual. The reference to a woman's ictal orgasms while engaging in everyday physical hygiene is true. I don't know where she lives, so I gave her a hometown. (No actual animals were harmed in this story. I have a feeling I may have gone too far regarding kitty cats in the first paragraph.)
Fifty States of Penile Manifestion
There we were in the elevator. Christian Grey and me, a twenty-one-year-old virgin, well, a virgin unless you counted the daily sexual intrigues I’d experienced with males, females, and animals since those heady days of middle school. (Rest in peace, my latest kitty, Coco Chanella, whose small intestine I accidentally perforated with the jagged stem of a bottle of Trader Joe’s Two Buck Chuck.)
Christian Grey wanted me. And I wanted him. Badly.
“I suppose you’re familiar with the paper nautilus?” he breathed into my ear. His breath smelled odd, sort of fishy. “It's a close relative of the squid and the octopus,” he continued. “And it has a special kind of penis. It’s called a hectocotylus, and it’s a detachable, swimming appendage. It disengages itself from the male of the species and wriggles away, carefree, surging through the water until it finds a female. It attaches itself to her and deposits its semen in her pallial cavity.”
He stopped to adjust his own swelling member, which, I hoped, would remain firmly anchored to his loins.
“Why are you telling me this?” I murmured as I felt a familiar throbbing in a cavity of my own.
He pushed me against the elevator wall, pinning my body with his. “Well, I thought it was interesting,” he confided in my red hot ear. “Another name for the creature is “argonaut,” and it has, like me, large eyes and small, distal webs. But neither I nor the male argonaut can boast the dorsal tentacles of the female. She uses them to make egg casings.”
By this time I was ready to burst out of my restrictive Prabal Gurung drape and tear off his Michael Kors double-breasted jacket. “Kiss me, kiss me now!” I entreated. “Unless, of course, you aren’t finished talking about sea penises.”
Christian Grey’s eyes locked on mine. “Enough of them for now.” He flicked open my top button, a masterful feat considering my dress had no buttons.
“Bedbug sex is highly underrated,” he confessed. “The male has a spiked, barbed penis, and he stabs his partner with it. If her wound becomes infected, she can die.”
“And what about beach barnacles?” I whimpered.
“I like to think of my own penis in terms of a beach barnacle’s,” he said. “Beach barnacles have the largest penis-to-body-size ratio in the animal kingdom.”
He penetrated me with his eyes, although I would’ve rather he'd done it with his penis.
“Let me tell you something about orgasms,” he whispered against my parted lips. “There’s a woman from Ocean City, New Jersey, who has an orgasm every time she brushes her teeth. Though truth be told, it’s really the result of complex reflex seizures. Nevertheless, I understand the ictal, or epileptic, orgasms are quite euphoric.”
I think I experienced one on the spot, though I hadn’t brushed my teeth since 7:00 a.m.
“One more thing,” he said, stroking my hair, which by now was as erect as roughly one hundred thousand number two pencils. This was, of course, because the average human head contains roughly one hundred thousand hairs, all capable of arousal. And then Christian Grey revealed a shocking secret. He said, “A faint whiff of semen lingers on a woman’s breath about an hour after sex.”
“Oral sex?” I ventured.
“Well, naturally, but coitus, too,” he snorted impatiently. Had I offended him? Oh, no! I had revealed an intellectual shortcoming. This was not a man to suffer fools gladly. I feared the worst: not that he would strike me, but that he wouldn’t think it worth his while to do so.
That was the reason why, a few moments later, I stumbled out of Elevator Number 3, crying, and alone. Well, not alone for long. I had, after all, an appointed tryst about an hour later with a couple of strangers I’d picked up on BiCupid.com.
Fifty States of Penile Manifestion
There we were in the elevator. Christian Grey and me, a twenty-one-year-old virgin, well, a virgin unless you counted the daily sexual intrigues I’d experienced with males, females, and animals since those heady days of middle school. (Rest in peace, my latest kitty, Coco Chanella, whose small intestine I accidentally perforated with the jagged stem of a bottle of Trader Joe’s Two Buck Chuck.)
Christian Grey wanted me. And I wanted him. Badly.
“I suppose you’re familiar with the paper nautilus?” he breathed into my ear. His breath smelled odd, sort of fishy. “It's a close relative of the squid and the octopus,” he continued. “And it has a special kind of penis. It’s called a hectocotylus, and it’s a detachable, swimming appendage. It disengages itself from the male of the species and wriggles away, carefree, surging through the water until it finds a female. It attaches itself to her and deposits its semen in her pallial cavity.”
He stopped to adjust his own swelling member, which, I hoped, would remain firmly anchored to his loins.
“Why are you telling me this?” I murmured as I felt a familiar throbbing in a cavity of my own.
He pushed me against the elevator wall, pinning my body with his. “Well, I thought it was interesting,” he confided in my red hot ear. “Another name for the creature is “argonaut,” and it has, like me, large eyes and small, distal webs. But neither I nor the male argonaut can boast the dorsal tentacles of the female. She uses them to make egg casings.”
By this time I was ready to burst out of my restrictive Prabal Gurung drape and tear off his Michael Kors double-breasted jacket. “Kiss me, kiss me now!” I entreated. “Unless, of course, you aren’t finished talking about sea penises.”
Christian Grey’s eyes locked on mine. “Enough of them for now.” He flicked open my top button, a masterful feat considering my dress had no buttons.
“Bedbug sex is highly underrated,” he confessed. “The male has a spiked, barbed penis, and he stabs his partner with it. If her wound becomes infected, she can die.”
“And what about beach barnacles?” I whimpered.
“I like to think of my own penis in terms of a beach barnacle’s,” he said. “Beach barnacles have the largest penis-to-body-size ratio in the animal kingdom.”
He penetrated me with his eyes, although I would’ve rather he'd done it with his penis.
“Let me tell you something about orgasms,” he whispered against my parted lips. “There’s a woman from Ocean City, New Jersey, who has an orgasm every time she brushes her teeth. Though truth be told, it’s really the result of complex reflex seizures. Nevertheless, I understand the ictal, or epileptic, orgasms are quite euphoric.”
I think I experienced one on the spot, though I hadn’t brushed my teeth since 7:00 a.m.
“One more thing,” he said, stroking my hair, which by now was as erect as roughly one hundred thousand number two pencils. This was, of course, because the average human head contains roughly one hundred thousand hairs, all capable of arousal. And then Christian Grey revealed a shocking secret. He said, “A faint whiff of semen lingers on a woman’s breath about an hour after sex.”
“Oral sex?” I ventured.
“Well, naturally, but coitus, too,” he snorted impatiently. Had I offended him? Oh, no! I had revealed an intellectual shortcoming. This was not a man to suffer fools gladly. I feared the worst: not that he would strike me, but that he wouldn’t think it worth his while to do so.
That was the reason why, a few moments later, I stumbled out of Elevator Number 3, crying, and alone. Well, not alone for long. I had, after all, an appointed tryst about an hour later with a couple of strangers I’d picked up on BiCupid.com.