Fifty Shades Effed Page 3

“Honey, you didn’t have to bring anything. Let’s save this until we can have it together.”

  “Doctor says Gordie and I can have a glass of wine with dinner, no problem,” she insists while she pats her little belly.

  “OK, one glass with Pippino. After dinner, I have a special dessert planned. It’s going to require that you wear this,” I instruct as I show her the argyle blindfold.

  “Ooh, sexy! I can’t wait.”

  While dining, we chat about tomorrow’s ceremony and timing. We agreed to have something intimate with immediate family and close friends only.

  “Are you ready, Lovergirl?”

  “You bet.”

  “Give me ten minutes to get things ready upstairs. Be right back.”

  I fill the tub in my master bath and light vanilla candles around it. I float rose petals and add scented bath salts. I have Bea’s favorite shampoo, body wash, and two loofah gloves ready. I undress, put on a robe, and return downstairs to Bea.

  “OK, first you need to put this on,” I inform her as I place the blindfold over her eyes with the strap under her hair. “Come with me.” I lead her upstairs. Once in my bedroom, I continue, “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes.” I kiss her, neck to toes, while undressing her. “I don’t want you to have any stress about tomorrow. Everything will be perfect, my love.”

  Once naked, I lead her to the tub. The water is trickling, and the scent is exotic. I guide her in slowly. I have a tray of chocolate-covered cake pops for snacking.

  “Now, I’m going to wash your hair and give you a scalp massage.”

  “Seems I picked the right man after all.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  I wash and rinse her hair, while feeding her bites of cake pops—red velvet, lemon, vanilla, and fudge.

  “Ahh. I could take a nap now.”

  “Not yet, Lovergirl. Scoot up and make room for Uncle M.”

  I slide into the tub behind her, rub her neck and shoulders, and bathe her slowly with the loofah gloves. We top the session off with a water-sloshing lovemaking session. After soaking in our orgasmic bliss, I get out of the tub while asking her to stay. I retrieve two warm towels from my laundry room and use them to dry my love.

  I honor her desires, and walk my wife-to-be out to her car with thirty minutes to spare. Taped to her driver’s side door is a gray tie, a calling card from Chris. Too late, buddy. She’s all mine.

  Chapter Eleven

  No man is truly married until he understands every word his wife is NOT saying. – Anonymous

  Wedding Day—the happiest day of a person’s life, right next to that first taste of Nutella. Eric picks me up, and we make our way downtown to the Hotel Del Coronado. Bea and I will exchange vows on the beach in front of the historic hotel where Some Like it Hot was filmed with Marilyn Monroe.

  I’m wearing a black tux with the pants tied off at my knees. I have my signature silver argyle socks beneath them. Who knows what Bea will wear? She’s eccentric to say the least, and Eric won’t share, although I pry.

  “Will you at least tell me the color?”

  “Not telling you. Mormon, take my word for it. She’ll look fabulous.”

  “Hey, do we have time for a quick Mojito to calm the nerves?”

  “Now we’re talking.”

  Eric detours off the highway and we stop at Poseidon in Del Mar—the masters of the Mojito. In a few sips, my nerves are calm.

  Once we arrive at the Hotel Del, I check in at the front desk. They have our honeymoon suite ready. Bea is there having the final touches applied. Guests are gathering by the pool in the afternoon sun, sipping Prosecco. I see my mother chatting with Grandma. I approach them.

  “Hello, Ms. A, I see you’ve met my mother.” I greet my mother with a kiss on the cheek. She looks elegant in her powder blue dress. “How was your flight?”

  “It was quick, thanks to my Kindle. I finished two books.”

  “Well done.”

  “How’s your writing coming along?” Mother asks.

  “You know,” Grandma interrupts, “you should be proud of your son. He’s quite a talented blogger.”

  “Why, thank you, Ms. A. I wasn’t aware that you read my blog.”

  “I enjoy it immensely.” Grandma grabs my mother’s arm. “He’s also an amazing dancer.”

  Right. Maybe when I’m blotto on tequila and have a third leg strapped to me.

  “Really?” my mother reacts.

  “You’re too kind.”

  The wedding coordinator directs us all out to the platform on the beach. It’s time. Other hotel guests come to the edge of the resort to watch.

  I take my position next to the Justice. A guitar soloist begins the “Bridal March” song. The guests rise and turn to see the bride. iPhone pictures are snapping away. I see the doors open and catch my first glimpse of Lovergirl. She’s escorted by Eric. Her hair is shorter and she’s wearing the famous Marilyn Monroe dress worn over the air vent in The Seven Year Itch.

  Wow!

  My eyes water with delight. She’s stunning. Eric hands her off to me, and we begin the quick ceremony. We exchange vows we’ve written for each other, slide rings over fingers, and share our first kiss as wife and husband. Our guests applaud as we turn and wave.

  Suddenly, there’s a commotion on the beach. Two military Jeeps approach and stop at the base of the platform. A helicopter appears and begins circling above us.

  “What’s this?” I ask Bea.

  “I’m not sure, but I have an idea who it might be.”

  As the helicopter approaches, blowing sand, I notice a name written on the side: Chunky Salsa, or something. Who names his fucking bird? Only the most pretentious of asses. The copter lands, and Chris emerges with a bodyguard. They approach us. The bodyguard hands an envelope to Bea as I glare at Chris.

  “Ma’am, this is a wedding gift from my boss.”

  She opens it and reads the notice within, as she turns pale.

  “What is it?”

  “An eviction notice. Chris bought the Hyatt. I have ten days to move.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. – Confucius

  “May I see that?” I request. Bea hands me the notice. I look at it briefly, then sneeze into it, and crumble it like a tissue. “I’m sorry, I’m allergic to fuckwads. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, the missus and I have a life to attend to—a life with lots of love, sex, and children, regardless of our financial situation.”

  Chris smirks at me, then he and his bodyguard leave. Grandma and Eric are first to console Bea.

  “Honey, I’m so sorry,” Grandma explains. “I tried everything to block him, but we’re too far behind and the bank insisted.”

  “At least we’ll have the proceeds from the sale, right?” Bea asks.

  “Actually, there are no proceeds. It was a short sale,” Grandma laments. “I’m being tossed out as well. We’ll both be homeless for a bit.”

  “Nobody’s going to be homeless. I have plenty of room at my place. I’d be honored to have two guests to try my recipes on.”

  “He does make a mean French toast,” Grandma remarks.

  “I’ll prepare a chore list for each of you, and we’ll discuss your allowances.”

  Bea smiles, finally.

  “Hey, let’s deal with this tomorrow,” I suggest. “It will work out.”

  “I know, husband. Eric and I have been working on a project that should solve this predicament,” Bea recovers.

  “Husband. I like the sound of that, wife,” I assure Bea. I hold her face between my hands, wipe the tears with my thumbs, and kiss her. “Let’s save what’s left of the day and have fun with our guests.”

  The sunset reception is wonderful, but Chris floats around the back of my mind. When I visit the bar to freshen my bourbon, Eric joins me.

  “So, Eric, tell me about this project you’re working on.”

  “Not yet, Mormon. We need a few m
ore commitments. You’ll be blown away, if we can pull this off.”

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I will.”

  “I don’t want my expectant wife to stress over this.”

  “Agreed. She’s a strong woman. She’ll be fine.”

  “Cool. What are you drinking?”

  “Lemon drop.”

  “Refreshing!”

  When we sit for dinner, I tease Bea about her dress.

  “That was a great fucking idea, right there. You have no idea the butterflies you gave me when you came through that door.”

  “Aw. I’m so glad you like it.”

  “We do need to find an air vent, though, so we can have the true Marilyn effect.”

  “Hm, can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not wearing underwear.”

  “None?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even a thong?”

  “Commando,” she insists as she slides my hand from her knee to her sexiness.

  “Here comes the bride ... again,” I tease.

  We agree to postpone our honeymoon until after we deal with the move. There must be a way to extract Chris from our lives. Our wedding night in the suite is memorable and exhausting. Although the bed is cushy, Lovergirl insists we do it on a wooden chair because “we haven’t done that yet.” I’ll never say no to love, regardless of the playing surface. Still, my sore ass wishes I would be more discerning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow. Don’t walk behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend forever. – George Fox

  It was a difficult night to sleep through with the crazy wedding day we had. Bea is up before me, as usual. She pokes me with a hockey stick to wake me.

  “Hey!”

  “Get out of bed, husband. We’re going to the Ice Arena. I need to blow off some steam.”

  “Did you just poke me with a stick?”

  She jabs me again.

  “Let’s go. Move it!”

  “Jesus. Really? And, why do you have a hockey stick with you here, in our honeymoon suite?”

  “I don’t leave home without it.”

  “Ugh.”

  I drag my groggy butt out from under the soft sheets, and slide into board shorts, flip flops, and a T-shirt.

  “Ready.”

  “You’re going to skate in that?”

  “It’s all I have. I wasn’t planning on a morning on ice.”

  “OK, then.”

  We jump into the Jeep and head to the skating arena. I hate ice skating because I suck at it. In fact, I can’t think of anything I suck at that I enjoy. That’s why I hate golf too: I suck at it, I don’t want to invest the time to suck less, so I don’t golf. Well, this is marriage. A man has to learn to compromise, or he’s going to ride a lonely sofa into the sunset.

  At the arena, we strap on skates. Yes, I look ridiculous and I’m half asleep so I don’t fucking care.

  “Why do we need hockey sticks?” I ask, fearing the worst.

  “It’s time for Olympic event number four. Canada needs a boost, and I’m pretty confident we can even the medal count with this event.”

  “All right, hoser, bring it! I predict Italy clinches the series this morning.”

  We carry our sticks out to the ice. Bea reaches behind the boards, grabs two pucks, and flips them out onto the ice.

  “Now what?” I ask while stretching my hamstrings, which ache in anticipation.

  “We race around the arena. The first one to skate with the puck around each net three times wins.”

  “Can’t we just have sex in the penalty box or something?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yes! I forfeit.”

  “Not so fast. If you beat me, we’ll do it in the penalty box.”

  “You hear that, Pippino? Daddy’s getting lucky on ice again.”

  “Ready? Set? Go!”

  She takes off. I manage to fall on my face in two strides. I struggle back to my feet, as I see Bea’s lovely butt wiggle, while she kicks up ice shavings. I’m hosed. Before I make it around the first net, she has already cleared the second and is threatening to lap me. She catches me in no time and knocks my stick from my hands as she passes me. Players make it look so easy: You drop your stick, you bend over, you pick it up, you keep skating. I bend over and fall. I get up on one knee, grab the stick, get up, and fall backward, as she approaches to pass me again.

  This time I hold my stick tightly. I make it halfway to the second net as she scoots by, throwing a hip into me, which sends the stick and me flying. She steals my puck and fires it into the net behind me as she whips around the final time. I helplessly sit on my clumsy ass as she finishes the third lap and slides to a halt, spraying me with an ice shower from her skates.

  “Canada two, Italy two.”

  “Feel better?” I ask, as I crawl to the boards, and pull myself up.

  “I do actually.”

  “OK. Now let’s get out of here and figure out what we’re going to do about this Chris situation.”

  “Not so fast. Get in that penalty box, mister. I’m not done blowing off steam.”

  Sometimes the silver isn’t so bad.

  Molto bene!

  Chapter Fourteen

  People with goals succeed because they know where they are going. – Earl Nightingale

  We manage to move most of Bea’s and Grandma’s belongings into storage, except some knickknacks and furniture they insist upon to make my place less of a bachelor pad. They also request I remove the plastic fruit and stop using my kitchen nook as a giant mailbox.

  “What’s this contraption?” Grandma asks as she and Bea survey my space.

  “A foosball table. Wanna play?”

  “I think it would look better in the garage,” Bea suggests.

  “Oh, definitely,” Grandma agrees. “This space needs an antique chaise lounge with a side table and decorative lamp.”

  “Fine. Can I at least keep the poker table?”

  “Well,” Bea considers, “perhaps we could make use of that.”

  The three of us catch Fox 5 News while sipping our morning stimulant. The special guest they have on this morning is none other than his dickiness, Chris.

  Host: How are your renovations coming along?

  Chris: We’re nearly finished with the first phase. As you know, I was the chief architect on the guestroom redesign back in January, and now that I own the building, I plan to return the site to the splendor it once was. The Grey Towers will once again be the crown jewel of San Diego.

  Host: That’s exciting.

  Chris: Indeed. We’re making the resort more family friendly as well. If I may, I’d like to invite your viewers to an open house and ribbon cutting event we’re hosting on Friday. Bring the kids, as we’ll have a bounce house and other fun activities for them. There will be tours of the redesigned suites and pool deck, and complementary beverages.

  A light bulb, while slightly dim in my advanced years, sparks to life in my mind.

  “Ugh, he’s disgusting,” Bea reacts.

  “Say, do either of you have any contacts at Fox?” I ask.

  “I think Eric is good friends with one of their reporters, Matt,” Bea suggests.

  “Perfect. See if Eric can put me in touch with him. I have an idea.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Grandma insists.

  “Let me hash it out a bit more, then I’ll run it by you both. Oh, I also need a clown costume.”

  “You’re scaring me,” Bea laughs.

  “Good!”

  Bea leaves for the office, and Grandma visits the farmer’s market while I write a few more blog entries and work on my plan of vengeance. I call my buddy, Jeff.

  “Dude, do you still coach that Little League team?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “What ages?”

  “Eleven and twelve.”

  �
�Perfect. I’m going to rent a bus and take the team to the open house of the former Hyatt. I’ll try to get my new pal, Trevor Hoffman, to speak.”

  “Sounds fun. When is it?”

  “Friday at six. Let’s all meet at the La Costa Park & Ride at five.”

  “I’ll start contacting parents.”

  “Excellent.”

  That arrogant prick is going down.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars. – Les Brown

  On the day of my uprising, I pick up my clown costume, makeup, and a large banner. I take it all to Bea’s office so she can put my face on. Eric greets me as I enter.

  “How are you, Mormon?”

  “Insanity in progress, and today should prove it. Make sure you watch the news tonight. Did you get in contact with Matt from Fox?”

  “You bet. Here’s his mobile. He said to text him when ready.”

  “You are the man, Eric.”

  “... but, I’ll play the woman, occasionally.”

  “TMI.”

  “Something looks different on you. Have you lost weight?”

  “I shaved.”

  “Ah, sexy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bea greets me and we go into her office. Ah, this is where the lovin’ started.

  “OK, baby face, what are you up to?” she asks.

  “I’d rather not say. This way, if my plot blows up, you won’t be implicated. But, if this goes as planned, Chris will get his comeuppance.”

  “Ooh, you said ‘come.’”

  “Behave. I need you to put this clown makeup on my face.”

  “Hm, never had sex with a clown.”

  “All right. Do this and my red nose and I will fuck you silly.”

  “Yes!”

  Bea does a great job making my face match my maniacal thoughts. Naturally, she mounts me the second I finish putting on the costume.

  “Leave that zipper down, Uncle M. You promised.”

  “All aboard, Lovergirl,” I demand.

  The clown outfit is ridiculous: over-sized, white shoes, silver argyle socks, a black and white jumpsuit rolled up to my knees, a silver wig, and a black top hat. I hope I don’t cause any accidents on the way downtown.