Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 6

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Eight

I sneak away before the two-headed beast can find me. I search for the Blue Room. When I arrive, it looks like an ordinary janitor's closet. As I reach to knock, I hear a buzz of the door unlocking. I open it and feel to the right for a light switch. It is a closet. Odd. Suddenly, the wall with shelves swings open to my glistening Lovergirl.



"Hello, Uncle M."

"This is some Get Smart shit right here."

"Some what?"

"Never mind. Before your time. You look delicious, my love."

"And you look ... like a server who was dragged around the beaches of Normandy," she giggles.

I'm happy, as usual, to provide entertainment.

"Ugh, no kidding."

"Ready for your tour?"

"Lead the way."



The room is a BDSM fantasy suite. There are rubberized floors, like you'd see in a gym. The walls have mirrors, TVs, and cabinets. There's blue leather furniture throughout. Bea looks so sexy, shining in the subtle golden light. Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" thumps while walk.



"What's this?" I ask as I examine a swing set with odd straps and pulleys.

"Oh, that's for advanced lovers. We need to work up to that."

"Looks like a back ache to me."



There's a laminated wooden paddle hanging on the wall next to three whips. The paddle has some obvious wear and a brass plaque with the initials CG.



"Who's CG?"

"Nobody important. Check this out," she redirects as we approach what resembles a large kid's pool with a raised rubber mattress and Velcro straps in four corners. "Wanna take a dip?"

Distracted, but the thought's not extracted. I'll find out who CG is.

"Fuck yes."

"Mm, what do you want to do me, Uncle M?"

"Well, Lovergirl, I want to strap you down, massage you nose to toes, and then fuck you in the ass so hard you'll limp for days."

"Oh my god! YES! Do it!" she commands as she dives onto the mattress and spreads her arms and legs.



I work quickly as the NIN music and the thought of conquering her luscious ass motivates me. I strap her ankles and wrists, undress myself, and climb into the oily pool. Oil and body hair doesn't mix well. I must remember to trim.



She arches her buttocks up toward me as I bring her to her first peak with my probing fingers. She's wet and slippery, ready for me. Hm, this is an ideal position for interrogation.



I kneel between her legs, reach outside the pool for my apron, and grab the squirt gun I confiscated at the luncheon. It's time for Uncle M's version of water boarding.



"What are you doing? Get inside me."

"Not quite yet. First, I want to know who CG is?" I have an idea who it might be.

"I told you--nobody."

"Wrong answer," I respond as I squirt her in the clit.

"Hey," she squeaks.

"I'll repeat the question: Who [squirt] is [squirt] C [squirt] G?"

"Stop! Jesus. OK, fine."

"I'm waiting."

"Chris ... my ex."

That motherfucker!

"Why is his paddle here?"

"Don't you want me, Uncle M?"

I squirt her again. "Answer the question."

"He's an architect. He designed this room."

"Are you still seeing him?"

"No! I love you, Uncle M," she reassures me. Now she'll pay.

"You've been a bad Lovergirl. Now, I'm going to take my billy club to your naughty ass."

"Yes, please."



I toss the squirt gun, climb onto her, and insert myself slowly. She's so tight. The sensation gives me the urge to come in the first thrust. I reach around her right hip and stroke her clit while I slowly grind deeper and deeper. I kiss her neck, bite her ear, and lose myself in the moment, while Chris G. weighs on me.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Seven

It turns out the luncheon is for a group of third graders. What could be worse? The little brats have their choice of pizza, grilled cheese, or chicken chunks, which is simple enough to memorize as I jot down their orders. Ms. A and Kazuko are socializing, handing out gifts, like inverted sour patch ladies--sweet on the outside, sour on the inside.



I get a quick break and step into the walk-in to cool off. I text Bea to brag about my sacrifice.



Bea Plastique: Aw, you're such a sweetie. I want to see you in your cute server outfit. I bet you look hot. ;)

Mormon Silver: Yes, aprons become me. Now if I could only find one in argyle.

Bea Plastique: Tell you what, Uncle M, let me know when you're done, and I'll give you a tour of the infamous Blue Room.

Mormon Silver: The what?

Bea Plastique: I think you'll like how it's decorated. I know I LOVE it.



As I finish reading the last text the walk-in door opens to Kazuko.



"You slackass. Put away phone. Get movin'."

"I was ... um ... looking for the desserts."

"Ice cream, dumdum. In freezer, not walk-in."



I prepare a tray of tri-flavor ice cream, and proceed out to the table. The kids are already unruly; sugar is the last thing they need. As I approach, the kids become silent and start giggling and whispering. Who's paranoid? Me.



Just as I fill both hands with plates, one little fucker whips out a squirt gun and start nailing me, right in the crotch. Perfect. I grab the gun from him.



"Very funny. Where did you get this?"

"That old lady over theyo gave it to me. She says you're bad and I should squirt you in da wiener."

"Cute," I say as I glare at Grandma.

"Gimme back my gun."

"You can either have the squirt gun or the ice cream?"

"But ..."

"I throw in five bucks. Which one will it be?"

"Ice cweam, pwease."

"Good boy."



I holster the squirt gun in my apron, give the brat a fiver, and plot my revenge. After the kids leave, the perimeter of the table looks like a war zone. Kazuko hands an odd-looking sweeping contraption to me.



"You crean."



I mumble to myself as I run over the same french fry ten times, unsuccessfully. A text pings in.



Bea Plastique: Ready, Uncle M?

Mormon Silver: Oh, you have no idea how ready, Lovergirl. Where to?

Bea Plastique: Take the elevator down to P2 underground. Look for parking space 243. Knock three times on the blue door next to it.

Mormon Silver: This better be good.



I finish sweeping kid shrapnel and another message pings in. It has an attached picture of Bea from the neck down--naked and glistening in oil--holding the camera in front of a mirror. Slick! I'm out of here.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Six

I manage to clear a slew of emails and enjoy a late-morning workout before it's time for my interview. After cleaning up, I grab my iPad and a certain "gift" for Bea, in hopes I see her later this afternoon.



I valet at the Hyatt and go to the lobby. As I enter, a server walks past me in a huff, with smeared mascara. What's going on here?



Grandma didn't specify where I'd find her, so I walk through the corridor looking for a parked broomstick. The bellhop stops me.



"Mr. Silver?"

"Yes?"

"Boss is waiting for you in the lounge," he directs me.

"Thank you."



I check my watch--12:02, almost exactly on-time. That should impress her. I round the divider and find her highness standing next to another woman who could almost be her twin. They're both reviewing a printout and look up in eerie unison.



"You're late, blobber."

"Two minutes? Jesus. Nice to see you too."



The woman next to Grandma is the same height, same hairstyle, and the same rimless glasses on her nose, except ...



"This is my restaurant manager, Kazuko Origami."

... she's Asian. I extend a hand, which is ignored as usual.

"Why you late?"

Yes, it sounded more like 'rate' to me.

"Huh?"

"Why you late?"

"I had to wait for the valet."

"Bad excuse."

"I'm sorry, is this woman a replica of you, made in China perhaps?"



Kazuko kicks me in the shin.



"Ouch!"

"Not Chinese, fuckwad. Japanese!"

"Fine. I apologize. I was just trying to be funny."

"Not funny. Here," she hands me a polo and a server's apron, "you put this on."

"Actually, I'm here to interview Ms. Aspinwald."

"You put this on."

"Ms. A? What's this about?"

"We had to let a server go, which has left us short. We have an important luncheon beginning in the Marina Room, and I told Kazuko about your gracious offer to help."



I stand there incredulous, considering my options. The Manager glares at me while holding the uniform. I can't let her win. It's food service. I've done this. How difficult can it be? Sure, it has been thirty years, but it couldn't have changed that much.



"All right," I agree as I take the shirt and apron. As a minor act of defiance I put down my iPad and begin removing my T-shirt.



"What you doing? You go change in bathroom."

"I go change right here. I save time," I insist. She kicks me again. "Hey! And, no kicking or I am going the get all Ming Dynasty on your ass," I tease as I flex and growl like Hulk Hogan. Naturally, she kicks me again.

"Not Chinese, brobber. Japanese. You hurry. Guests waiting."

What have I gotten myself into?

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Five

Bea enters the kitchen.



"I never said yes."

"An insignificant technicality," the beast insists.

"Wait a minute," I interrupt, "you're already engaged to someone else?"

"No. Not really."

"Yes, she is," insists Grandma, "I witnessed the proposal. Sorry, blubber, you're too late."

"BLOGGER."

"How are those eggs coming along? Don't let them get dry."

Ugh, the nerve of this woman.



I remove the pan from the fire and try to process what I'm hearing.



"Bea? Are you engaged to someone else or not?"

"No, of course not. He asked, but I wasn't interested."

"Who is he?"

"That's not important."

"Chris," Grandma volunteers, "and he's young, successful, and quite dashing."



Bea walks over and wraps her arms around me from behind.



"You know I love you. He's just an insignificant detail from my past."

"Show him the ring," Grandma suggests.

What a relentless woman.

"Wait, there's a ring? I thought you didn't accept."

"Ugh. It's in my dresser somewhere. He refused to take it back. This is the only ring with meaning," Bea says while showing the one I gave her. That's my girl.

"Well, I'll let you two work out the terms of your parting ways. I have work to do. You can come back and interview me at noon, blobber."



I sigh and count to five.



"What about your eggs, Ms. A?"

"I've changed my mind. Think I'll have a scone."



She gathers her newspaper and purse and leaves wearing a smirk.



I'm not sure what's going on. There are dozens of questions floating around my mind. I don't want to get into a big fight over it. If Bea wanted to be with Chris, she'd be with him. I can't let this old woman derail our affair. Fuck Chris and the white stallion he rode off on.



After breakfast, I head home to do some writing. Words are flowing nicely. I have little interest in interviewing Grandma, but I remember the wise advice in The Godfather: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I'll return for that interview and find the Achilles heel on that dragon.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Four

After a night of proper, horizontal celebration about our engagement, I decide to sneak out of bed and make a nice breakfast for my princess. Cooking is a passion and great way for me to decompress. I slide on my boxer-briefs, and stumble foggy-eyed into the kitchen. I open the fridge, grab eggs, and then begin searching beneath the stove for a pan. Suddenly, I hear a spoon clinking against the side of a glass. Where am I, at a wedding reception?



I turn to find Grandma seated at the breakfast nook wearing reading glasses while browsing the Union Tribune.



"Be a good boy and warm up my coffee," she orders as she slides the mug in my direction.

"Huh?"

"Oh, and put on a shirt, will you? I wouldn't want to find one of your silver chest hairs in my eggs."

"Grandma, what are you doing here?"

"You may call me by my proper name, Silver."

"Which is?"

"Gertrude Aspinwald ... Ms. A, if you like."

Silly name.

"Fine," I agree as I carry the pot of coffee over and top off her mug. She doesn't look up.



I retreat to the bedroom, grab my shirt off the floor, and return--no longer a health risk.



"So, Ms. A, how would you like your eggs?"



"Two whites with one yolk over easy. Fry up some bacon too. I prefer it crisp, but not burned."

"Don't you have room service here?"

She's testing me ...

"Of course. Don't you know how to separate eggs?"

... and I'm not giving in.

"Of course."

"Then you best get a-crackin'. You have a long day ahead of you."

"In fact, I do. I've fallen behind in my blogging. I was supposed to interview Bea, and in two blinks I'm halfway down the aisle."

"Not even one-tenth the way."



I ignore her sass and begin cooking silently. I can feel her eyes. The TV remote is sitting on the counter so I flip on the TV to catch some news. Naturally, in my groggy, yet agitated state I forget the video of yours truly strapped to the bed is still loaded. Grandma snickers. I hit the "Source" button and finally find the news.



"You know something, maybe you should interview me for your blob."

"Blog. B-L-O-G."

"Whatever."

"What, of interest, would you have for my readers?"

"Plenty. We could talk about my empire, how my father became rich by investing in Canadian oil fields, how I'm going to turn this property back into the thriving mecca it once was, ..."

"Hmm."

"... or, I could tell you all about my granddaughter Bea's other fiance."

"WHAT?"

I'm wide awake now.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Three

Worried that I might belt the woman, and confident she'd kick my ass, I excuse myself, and join Bea in the master suite.



"So, how are you two getting along?"

"About as well as Kardashians and skinny jeans. Can I throw spoons at her or at least give her a noogie? Please?"

"Now, darling, it's important you win her over."

"Not possible."

"Find a way."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Grandma is my only hope of emerging from these financial difficulties. She holds the key to the safe, so to speak, and she's here auditing my businesses to get our affairs back in order."

"Can I at least drug her?"

"No! You go out there and make nice. I'll be out in a few minutes."



I put on my fake smile and return to the family room. Grandma is futzing with the TV remote.



"Why won't this work? Things were much easier in my day; you pulled the button and turned the knob. Two through thirteen, UHF, and VHF."

"Here, let me try," I insist as she pulls the remote away from my reach.

"I'm not helpless. If you want to make yourself useful, refill my beverage, blobber."

"Blogger. Another arsenic rocks?"

"What did you say?"

"Another up or on the rocks?"

"Neat, you nitwit."



As I poured the biddy her drink I noticed the TV picture come into focus.



"There. Finally. Oh, dear Lord!"

"Now what? Isn't Green Acres on?"

"Buh ... wha ... is that ...?"



I step back from the wet bar to get a gander. I see a sixty-inch high definition picture of myself bound to the bed, wearing Canadiens panties. Fuck! It's the video from that crazy night. I run to the front of the TV and begin pushing buttons. Finally the power is off. Bea emerges from the bedroom just in time to see me fifty shades of red.



"You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"I know, right? Ordinarily, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing blue and red."

"What's going on?" Bea asks.

"That man is a big pervert who wears women's undergarments."

"I'm not that big. I've been cutting back on carbs, actually,"  I insist while patting my belly.



Grandma storms out the door in a huff, which is fine by me. Bea giggles.



"Why is that on your TV, you naughty Lovergirl?"

"I think Eric was watching it ... while masturbating."

"Christ."

"Kidding. I was watching it. I know you're not crazy about the ending but the part leading up to it was smokin' hot, if you ask me."

"Lovely."

"Listen, you need to promise me you'll use your charm on Grandma. We need her support."

"Ugh."

"If you do this for me, Uncle M, I'll do this (grabbing my package) for you."

"We have unfinished business from the elevator, don't we? My turn." I lift and set her on the loveseat. I remove her sweatpants. She's pantiless. How convenient and delicious! "Oh, look: Grandma left her brandy. Can't let that go to waste."



I take the crystal tumbler and drizzle brandy into her bellybutton. I lick gently as the brandy river winds its way toward her spot. The coolness of the alcohol teases, as her clit dances around my tongue. I'm drunk on the sweet combination with Lovergirl's juices. As Bea arches into climax the front door swings open.



"I left in such a hurry I forgot my ... oh, for the love of ... you're disgusting--the both of you."



I slump down and rest my cheek against Bea's abdomen as Grandma grabs her purse, leaves, and slams the door. Bea runs her fingers through my hair as we giggle.



This won't be easy.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Two

I turn away, zip up, and extend a hand to greet Grandma.



"Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I can see that," she responds with a look of disgust, ignoring my extended hand.

"Oh, yes, sorry about that. I have a condition."

"Come upstairs for a nightcap, Grandma," Bea insists.

"You have Christian Brothers?"

"I do."

"Fine," Grandma agrees as she enters the elevator and stands in the opposite corner, studying me. "I thought you were done with older men. Where did you find this one?"

"Oh, he's darling. Wait till you get to know him."

"I'm not that much older."

"... if you're counting in dog years."

"So, how about those Padres?" Bea asks, trying to change the subject.



Finally, the elevator dings and the doors open to the 43rd floor.



"After you, my dear," I charm.

"I know better than to walk in front of an armed man. Scoot!"

This old sack is going to be hard to crack.



I sheepishly lead the way. Once in Bea's condo, I head straight to the bar.



"I'm going to freshen up. You two get acquainted," Bea suggests as she abandons me.

"How do you take your brandy, Ma'am?"

"Like my men: neat."

"I'm glad you didn't say 'stiff.'"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, did you have a nice trip?"

"Trip where?"

"Here. I assume you're visiting from out of town?"

"I own this building."

"Oh." Shitboogers.



I pour her brandy along with three fingers of Maker's Mark to sedate me. I hand one glass to her and she continues to scowl.



"What exactly do you do, Mr. Silver?"

"Let's have some fun. Guess."

"Plumber?"

Hag.

"Nope."

"Shopping cart collector?" 

I so want to drop the C-word.

"Nope."

"Paperboy?"

Is it legal to kick an old woman in the baby hole?

"Nope, but you're close. Give up?"

"I do."

"I'm a blogger."

"A what?"

"Blogger. A writer who writes things for the web."

"Does one make a good living as a blobber?"

"Blogger. Good enough."



She gets up into my space. She's under five feet tall and yet I'm intimidated.



"For some people, but certainly not good enough for my granddaughter," she insists as she tweaks my nipple. I squeak like a second grade girl on the playground.

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter One

She said yes. Now what? Can this work long term, or is it all a game to Bea? In my fifty-plus years I've never been exposed to such kinkiness. I must admit, it's not bad. Still, I worry about keeping up with my little minx. Mormon Silver may need help with this one.



After my proposal was accepted (thank goodness), we watched the game while kind fans offered congratulations. I would have preferred tequila to calm my nerves, but was gracious. Bea beamed as she stared at the ring. I beamed as I stared at her.



"Sweetie, I wish I could afford something more substantial."

"Don't be silly. The fact that this was handed down through generations makes it priceless," Bea assured me as she squeezed my thigh and kissed my cheek. "We're going to the Hyatt after the game and I'm going to give you a proper thank you."

"If you insist."



The Padres lost, as usual. Bea was cool about staying until the final out. It drives me crazy when fans abandon their team. Anything can happen in baseball, regardless of the score, until that final out.



Outside the stadium, Bea insisted we take a rickshaw to the Hyatt. Great. I get to smell the Eastern European man-stank of the driver for eight blocks. As we cruise along, Bea keeps grabbing my package, teasing me.



"Quit it. I don't want to be walking into the Hyatt with wood," I whisper.

"Really? Ooh, you are becoming engorged."

"Engorged? I'm certainly at half-mast."

"I love it, Sailor Mormon."



I tip the rickshaw driver. Let's hope he spends it on deodorant. We walk through the lobby to the elevator and I see that familiar look in Bea's face: Something kinky will be going down while we're going up. We step into the elevator (thank God, alone) and head to the 43rd floor. No chance we're making it all the way. Fuck. There had better not be cameras in here.



Bea pulls out the stop button around the twentieth floor, and all hell breaks loose. She slams me up against the wall and undoes my jeans in record time. Her mouth is so warm and wet around me as she looks up occasionally to see how close I am to exploding. So damn close. Think of something non-sexual, Mormon, quick!



I used to be able to think about sports like hockey and baseball to delay my ejaculation, but Bea has ruined those counter-fantasies. All I can think of is recipes. I begin mentally concocting the design of my own natural protein bar.



Bea tugs at my testicles every time she senses I'm close. She's quite skilled. I close my eyes and concentrate.




"You're not coming yet, mister. You can peek over the edge, but tonight we're going over together."

"Two cups of natural peanut butter, ..."

"What?"

"Oh, sorry."



The elevator alarm starts to ring. I panic and push in the button to stop the ringing. Bea laughs and stands up as I yank up my jeans quickly. Naturally, Mormon luck kicks in and the elevator stops at the next floor and the doors open to an elderly woman. My purple torpedo pokes through the zipper of my jeans and points directly toward the poor woman who stands, mouth agape.



"Oh, hey, Grandma. This is my fiance, Mormon Silver."

Down boy.

My mom can beat up your mom.

OK, not really. She tends to drop her left when she throws a right hook. Still, my mom is pretty darn awesome. For one thing, she brought a sarcastic fuzzball (me) into the world. She certainly doesn't agree with my views around spirituality and sexuality, but she respects my right to have them, and that's cool.



I bet your mom is cool too.



I can only partially relate to being a mom. I have no children, but I do have two cats. When they annoy me (Syd, get off the damn keyboard.) and make messes (Symon, must you continue eating until you puke?), I contemplate life without them. There would be fewer messes to clean, less poop to scoop, fewer runny-eyed guests, less money spent on tuna, and freedom to go away for more than two days without a cat sitter.



The same must apply to offspring, although most parents won't admit it. There must be times when mothers think:


Why must almost everything that comes out of a child be disgusting?
I can't keep anything nice.
Sleep? What sleep?
I liked the kid better before he could talk.
I could be living a peaceful, childless life in Tuscany.
What I wouldn't give for one hour of peace and quiet.
I'm a maid, cook, and taxi driver. The pay sucks.
After thirteen years of my time the little prick tells me he hates me. I can't wait until he's a parent.
A dog ... why didn't I get a dog?
Who is this downtrodden person I see in the mirror?



Then Mom takes a deep breath, counts to five, and goes back to being the world's greatest mom. Amazing!



My mother, in particular, went way overboard in the momming department. After she gave birth to me, she adopted four children. Sure, Angelina would sniff at this, but Mom didn't have the resources to hire an army of nannies. Then, Mom pushed the dirty diaper further and became a foster parent while raising us, the original gangstas. Babies were shuttled through our house faster than subway cars through Manhattan. I think she was being paid somewhere in the neighborhood of $3 per day per baby--a veritable fortune, if it were 3000 BC.



Now she's in her late seventies, so one would expect her to slow down, maybe play a little bingo. Nope. She works full-time in a daycare center. She does all of this while suffering with Crohn's disease and arthritis for decades.



I can dream up some crazy shit, but this is the honest-to-Zeus truth. I can't imagine anything as special and wonderful as my dear mother.



Happy Mother's Day, Mom! You are an inspiration and will always be my hero.

Are you mom enough? You betcha.

The latest issue of Time Magazine shows a 26-year-old mother breastfeeding her three-year-old son. Naturally, this picture has caused quite a stir, so allow me to dip my rusty spoon into the media hype soup.



Things I find disturbing about the photo:


He's not using a napkin.
He's not properly cupping the breast while extending his pinkies--horrible manners, young man.
The look on his face definitely says, "nya, nya."
There's an unoccupied breast.
I detect a bit of thickness around his middle, suggesting he's overindulging and needs to take a few laps around the neighborhood before his next meal.
I appreciate that while serving food, she has her hair up, but shouldn't she also be wearing gloves?
Camouflage cargo pants are so 2009.
He's not paying proper attention to the clitoris during nipple stimulation ... oh, sorry, my bad ... this only applies to lovers, not offspring. Never mind.
Her choice of shoes is atrocious. She could help the little suckling reach by wearing pumps.
Why did his grade school allow him to take his chair home with him, or did mom deliver his lunch to school?

Things that would make it more disturbing:


If she were unattractive.
If her daughter, with a bob cut, dined.
If his father watched.
If the son had a mini-boner.
If she were holding a romance novel in her free hand.
If he invited his neighborhood buddies over for dinner.
If they were in the bathtub.
If she were a Kardashian.
If Ryan Seacrest interviewed her while feeding.
If his T-shirt read, "Got Milk?"

Things that would make it less disturbing:


If some of the milk dripped off his chin, onto the floor, and the cat lapped it up.
If he wore a cute bib--maybe one with a lobster on it.
If he were fifty years old.
If he were black or Latino. Where's the EEOC when you need them?
If he had some Oreos.

OK, Time Magazine, next time you know to consult me. Here's a suggestion for your next cover: A father (either paternal or priest) showing the daughter how to insert a tampon.



(http://www.time.com/time/magazine)