Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody

you to hit yourself,” Earl says.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Earl opens his wallet again. He stashes the hundred and pulls out a thousand-dollar bill. “One thousand dollars if you will hit yourself for me.”
“You think you can buy me? Never,” Jin says, slapping the bill out of Earl’s hand. The onlookers “oooh” as the bill flutters to the floor.
Earl, unperturbed, reaches back into his wallet and pulls out a bill emblazoned with a portrait of Mitt Romney. “A million dollars,” he says, holding it between his face and Jin’s. “A million dollars for you to punch yourself . . . in the balls.”
Gulp.
Jin lowers his head. There’s no way he can turn this down. Fighting over a girl is one thing, but a million dollars is another. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t be stupid, Jin,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice returning for a split second.
“Fine,” Jin mutters.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you,” Earl says, grinning. Of course he’s lying, because everyone at Eclipse heard Jin. It’s so quiet you could hear a peen go soft.
“I said, ‛Fine.’ I’ll do it.” Jin snaps the million-dollar bill out of Earl’s raised hand and stuffs it into his jeans pocket.
“Make it worth my money,” Earl says, backing up to give Jin space.
Jin raises his right hand and pulls his fingers in tight. He closes his eyes and whispers a prayer under his breath.
I can’t watch him publicly debase himself in such a crude manner. I close my eyes. Kathleen hugs me tight. I can hear the men in the room draw their breath in and hold it. Then, there’s a soft thump like a baby bunny in a sack being hit with a mallet . . . and it’s over.
The DJ begins playing some music low in the background as the crowd dissipates. I open my eyes. Some students have gathered around a woman who fainted while watching Jin hit himself in the balls. Jin is lying in the fetal position in the middle of the dance floor, his hands cupped around his groin. He’s alone. If I weren’t so drunk, I would rush over to him and console him. But I would probably throw up on him, and that hardly seems appropriate.
Earl extends a hand to me. “Shall we?”
Kathleen scoops up the dropped thousand-dollar bill and whispers in my ear, “Don’t go, Anna,” but I shrug her off. Earl has fought for me, and I am his prize at the bottom of his Cracker Jacks tonight.
I feel myself hoisted into the air over Earl’s shoulder, and then my vision goes dark . . .

Chapter Seven
EVERYTHING IS QUIET. I slowly open my eyes and feel like I’m being born again, again. The room is large and spacious. I’m fully clothed and in the middle of a fantastically giant bed. The sheets are more comfortable than anything I have ever slept on—the thread count has to be at least two hundred. Maybe even three hundred.
I hear a knock at the door. “Hello?” I say weakly.
The door opens and it’s Earl Grey. Instead of his suit and signature smiley-face tie, he is wearing a shiny silver thong and a pair of bright pink Crocs. And nothing else. His hair is slicked back. Oh my, Mr. Grey . . .
“Good morning, Anna. How are you doing?”
“Better than last night,” I say, finding my voice.
He stands in the doorway and lets me ogle him in his silver willy warmer for a few seconds in silence. I can’t believe I made such a fool of myself last night at Eclipse.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“At the most expensive hotel in Portland. The Holiday Inn.”
“Oh.”
“I just took a dip in the pool,” he says. “Hence my lack of clothing. I hope you don’t mind.”
Don’t mind? I love it!
“I thought you were taking me back to my place,” I say.
“I was going to, but then your little brony decided to make a scene,” he says. “I couldn’t risk taking you back to your apartment, only to have Jin and Kathleen show up and start another fight.”
“Kathleen’s a total B, but she didn’t have anything to do with the fight,” I say defensively. “And Jin just gets territorial sometimes.”
“Jin is dangerous,” Earl says. “I tried my best to defuse him.”
“I’m sorry things got so out of hand. I’ve never seen him so . . . bloodthirsty.”
“Then all the more reason to stay away from him,” Earl says. “You think you know someone, and they go all psycho on you one day . . .”
“So what are your big, dark secrets, Mr. Grey?”
The smirk returns to his face. “I think you know, Anna.”
He sidestepped the question the first time we met and he uses expensive body wash, which could only mean . . . “You’re gay,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, I thought . . .”
“Try again, Anna. Say it. Say what’s in your heart. You know my dark secret . . .”
The weird shopping list with the duct tape and rope could only mean . . . “You’re a serial killer.”
“Try again,” he says, rolling his eyes.
Okay. One more time. You know this, Anna. He lives a life of luxury insulated by his wealth and privilege, and he has no regard for anyone else’s feelings except his own . . . “You’re a corporate executive!”
He throws his arms up comically. “While that’s true, that’s not a secret,” he says. “I’m a Dungeon Master, Anna.”
What? My inner guidette screeches to a halt on her hamster wheel. I have no clue what he’s talking about. “What exactly does a Dungeon Master do?”
“I’m into BDSM,” he says.
“Is that a workout thing, like Zumba?”
“No, Anna, it’s not anything like Zumba. BDSM is a live-action role-playing game: Bards, Dragons, Sorcery and Magick. I play with women in my dungeon and things can get . . . a little hot.”
“Is there no air conditioning in your dungeon?”
Earl sighs. “I mean ‛hot’ as in sexual. BDSM role playing is very naughty—that’s probably why a