This will only be funny to you if you've read, or know of, 50 Shades of Grey.
By Scott Feschuk for Macleans magazine:
The Fifty Shades of Grey book series, about a young woman who signs a contract to enter into a submissive sexual relationship with a manipulative billionaire, has been described by critics as good news for publishing and bad news for words. It’s spawned its own line of lingerie, bedding and S&M-themed accessories. The thing is such a gold mine that scoundrels are cranking out quick knock-offs—a reprehensible act, in that it may cut into the sales of my own.
Luckily, my work occupies a very specific niche. Welcome to an excerpt from my highly erotic—and profoundly Canadian—new novel, Fifty Shades of Eh.
•••
He pulls the leather strap tight against my left wrist. I wince.
“Sorry,” Christian says. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll loosen it a bit.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Honestly, it’ll just take a minute.”
“It’s fine, Christian.”
I gaze upon him with my intrepid eyes. My mouth, which is also intrepid, curls into a sly smile. “Did you remember the clamps?” I ask.
“Canadian Tire was closed. But I found a bunch of clothespins in the garage.”
I swoon. My breathing quickens. My heart beats a frantic tattoo as I surrender myself to the anticipation oflanguid erotic pleasures and several hours of splinter removal. Why, oh why have I fallen for someone so Canadian—so okay looking, so gainfully employed, so . . . nice?
“I need you to fill out some paperwork before we go any further.” His face impassive, Christian hands me a single shiny sheet. He draws close—so tantalizingly near that I can sense his energy, his essence, his Head & Shoulders—and whispers: “No more than three toppings, or they charge extra.”
He hums a few bars of Nickelback and I’m helpless, trussed up and pressed into his brother’s old futon from university. Christian sighs.
“I’m damaged, Ana. You just don’t get it. I was born to a successful pediatrician . . .”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so—”
“. . . in Winnipeg.”
“Oh. Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re not the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry.”
There is a pause.
“Sorry,” I say.
My intrepid eyes cast around Christian’s Rec Room of Pain and across his many instruments of torture: the ball gag, the whip, the black gadget that with the press of a single button turns on the cruelest device of all: the television. Sportsnet, TSN . . . Oh Christian, stop teasing and turn it to CBC for the Leafs game! The chronic incompetence . . . the annual ritual of false hope . . . such delicious pain!
My tongue tentatively prods his and they join together in a slow, erotic dance. A tongue dance.
Blissful moments pass. Are they minutes? Hours? A dollop of something cold lands along the intrepid curve of my hip—splash!—and I am alert again. My body is electric, pulse pounding, skin alive with sensation.Desire. This is what desire feels like. “Sorry, spilled my beer.” The sensual gyrations of our relationship, all bump and grind and dancing tongue, continue.
Christian frowns at me.
“Why are you frowning?”
“Sorry,” he says. Now he’s smiling. The Earth shifts on its axis, tectonic plates slide into a new position, volcanoes erupt, trains speed into tunnels and other suggestive images. My inner goddess yearns to be touched by this tragic figure with the jaw of a lumberjack and the clothes also of a lumberjack.
“Do you like my beaver?”
“Sure, but it looks a little small next to the stuffed caribou,” I say.
“Damn rodent put up a hell of a fight. I still say it was worth losing my leg.”
He picks up a riding crop and limps over. I can feel a stirring deep within me, somewhere beneath my snow pants. This feels so different than the last time, so vital, so carnal, so . . . wait, is that the “Coach’s Corner” theme?
Suddenly, Christian is on top of me. He forces something into my mouth. It’s firm, so very hard. I curl my tongue around it and instantly recognize its elegant contours.
Timbit. Chocolate glazed.
“I only had enough cash on me for day olds. Sorry.”
I surrender myself to the sweet agony, and chew.