Christian and I dance around the Ball Room gracefully. By some grace of God, I don’t trip, even when Christian twirls me in a spin.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Grey?” Christian asks, looking to his mother, who sits in the corner. Exhibitionism is his newest fetish. I hated it, at first, but because it was in our contract, I found that I couldn’t stop it from happening.
Mrs. Grey, of course, declines to answer. Christian made her sign a contract as well. She signed it, thinking highly of her son, knowing he would never trick her, but now she must not speak of what she sees, and she’s legally bound to endure our show. He’s so romantic like that, my Christian. So loving.
We dance past the biggest testicle sculpture in the Ball Room, the one that the artist had spent hours painstakingly chiseling pubic hairs into. They were colored blue, for some reason. Christian chuckled when he saw them, saying, “If my balls ever look like that, I’ll take you to the Black Room of Doom.” I’m too innocent to know how to turn a man’s balls blue, but I know that I don’t want to go to the Black Room of Doom.
Things went downhill after our two year anniversary. Christian watched one too many episodes of Rehab Addicts, and he decided that our house needed a remodel. The Red Room of Pain wasn’t enough. We now had the Black Room of Doom, the Ball Room, and the White Room of Stains, where Christian would go to pull out my tampons each month. Modern art, he insisted.
“Shall we get to the final act?” Christian asks. His pants are hanging on his hips just so, and my hairy southern lips begin a-tinglin’. He’s wearing only a gray tie while I’m wearing Kate’s plum dress. Christian got the dress from Kate in a contract, so it was mine now, but Kate has to wash it for me.
“Yes,” my inner goddess says. It’s really me that says it, actually, but my inner goddess starts twerking in anticipation. Christian’s tie bobs up and down, his thick stick of man meat ready to make an omelet. I don’t know why he started wearing ties on his manly sword of desire, but I say nothing as I fall to my knees to assume the position. The Savasana Pose is my favorite yoga position, so I align myself and close my eyes, imitating a corpse.
“You know I love it when you do that,” Christian says, running his python down my sides. He bought it from the pet store at Fifth and Main, and he started using it instead of a feather. The python, named Monty, usually lived in the Black Room of Doom and seldom participates in activities outside of bondage. Monty must want to help perform for Mrs. Grey. “I want to get as close as I can to raping you, all within the legal boundaries that my lawyers can wiggle around,” he says. My inner goddess starts doing calculus, worried about my upcoming math test. Christian tests me each month to make sure I’m being a satisfactory wife. He makes the children watch.
Monty is finally put back in his cage. I see the tie dangling in front of my face, taunting me. “Not yet, Ana Banana,” he said. “My little girl, just wait.” The anticipation is killing me. My downstairs burns like an old man fell asleep while smoking a cigar and one of the windows were open so an ash blew onto his old armchair which caught on fire and roasted the old man and the curtains and the whole living room caught on fire and was on fire. However, no fireman could douse this heat, and I burned for my Christian, my Fiddy Cent.
Music plays in the background, a peppy beat about an animal. It goes sorta like Ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding! Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow! It is a haunting melody, and my heart contracts with every note. “Please, Sir. Give me your magic stick of meaty glory,” I beg. My inner goddess begs with me. That whore would do anything for a Scooby Snack.
“Not quite yet, love. Bite the tie off first,” he says. This is his latest game, making me work for the privilege of shoving his baldy-headed spunk-juice dispenser into my mouth. I watch the tie swing back and forth, matching the sway of his pendulous spunk-juice holders. I bite for it, but I miss. He flexes his deep-veined purple-helmeted Spartan of love so that the tie moves out of my reach. In my position, I cannot reach it.
My inner goddess cheers me on. She wants his doo-dad just as much as I do.
“Wait a second, you fucking slut,” I say, turning to my inner goddess. “Christian is MY husband. You can’t have him!”
“No!” my inner goddess cackles. “He will be mine!” She whips off her brown wig to reveal blond hair underneath. I gasp. That slutty cum-dumpster of a whore!
My resolve strengthens. I will not be outdone by my inner goddess! I jerk my head up and chomp down hard, tearing at the tie with my delicate girly teeth.
“YOU FUCKING WHORE!” Christian yells. He screams in pain and I open my eyes. Weirdly, he is bleeding. But we aren’t in the White Room of Stains. What’s going on?
I try to talk, but I realize that his tie is still in my mouth. I spit it out and gasp in horror. My inner goddess also gasps in horror. Mrs. Grey simply sighs in resignation. There, on the ground, is Christian’s foaming beef probe. Blood gushes from the wound as he falls to the ground and roars in pain.
“No! My baby! My Fiddy Cent!” I say. I caress his head, his beautiful hair falling in his eyes just so.
“Get away from me you cunt whore,” Christian says. “Call 9-1-1!”
“You’re just saying these things because your mother was a crack whore,” I say. “I can fix you.”
Monty slithers over, attuned to his master’s distress. I welcome him to our cuddle circle, but I see too late what his objective is. My inner goddess forges an Egyptian passport as Monty unhinges his jaws to take Christian’s severed one-eyed night crawler into his mouth. He swallows it whole, and Christian cries in horror when he sees what his python has done to his python.
I apologize for nothing.