Fifty Shades of Gay

Fifty Shades of Gay

T. K. Grath

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 T. K. Grath

Edited by J. R. Mokkan.

Cover design by Ronnell Porter.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Introduction

This is a comedic gay parody of the bestselling book Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James. I mean only to delight fans of the original rather than offend them, but at the same time I’m not afraid to point out the humor inherent in E. L. James’ writing ability. Like most people who go out of their way to make fun of somebody, I am secretly a fan of E. L. James. Well, not so secretly now.

This novel contains explicit language and sex scenes. No – you guessed it – this book is NOT suitable for children. Also, please don’t try any of the acts portrayed in this novel at home. Be warned: you may have a great time. However, you may have an even greater time suing me. So here it is: you are warned!

If you have any questions, problems, arousals, ideas, jokes, pranks, discussions, jests, or grievances for this humble author, please email me at tagggrath@gmail.com.

That’s all for now.

Enjoy.

You naughty, naughty reader : )

Sincerely yours,

T. K. Grath

New York Times Best-Recycling Author

Table of Contents

1. Dorian Gay

2. Tack Shop

3. A Man with a Helicopter is Hard to Find

4. Tickle Me Elmo

5. Bite the Headboard, Mr. Tanner.

6. Bath Salts Are Not the Only Things That Like Deep Dark Places

7. Rainbow Tie

8. He Knows He’s Beautiful

9. The Big Day is About to Get a Whole Lot Bigger

10. Dorian Gray

11. His Most Humble, Highest and Esteemed Majesty

12. When It Comes To Love

13. Why Can’t You Just Be A Good Boy?

14. Less Talk More Tongue

15. The Most Excruciating Pain of All

1. Dorian Gay

I am seconds away from talking about how terrible my hair looks today when I realize my opening paragraph is about hair. My name is Luke. But feel free to call me Anastasia or Bella or whatever. It really doesn’t make that much difference. I realize that I am realizing things in the present tense. I like the present tense. As a six-year-old in a twenty-one-year-old’s body, I have trouble conceptualizing the past and future.

I am annoyed if truth be told. I planned my day to be one of climatic masturbation. I should be studying for finals really. But nothing quite beats the high of a good jerk, not even straight As. And straight As were out of the question to begin with. Frankly I’m a C student. But hey, George W. Bush was a C student. See? I could be president.

Now Morgan, my BFF, is the A student. She enjoys calling me a habitual flunkard. She also likes to call me a pothead. Usually I’m about halfway through telling her to stop calling me I’m a pothead when I realize that I am a pothead. But so is she. In any case, her honor roll status got her the position of editor-in-chief of The Quill, the online student newspaper at Carroll Community College in Westminster, Maryland.

That is fine and dandy. But now she is requesting that I go interview some head honcho of a multinational corporation in downtown Baltimore. She’s been fighting to get this interview for months. It’d be the crown jewel of her publications while editor-in-chief.

I’m sick, she says. No you’re not. You just want to smoke one last time before finals. Bitch.

I say, Oh, poor thing!

I know, she sniffs. Please, Lucas! Please interview him for me!

Fine! I snap. Just stop calling me Lucas. It’s Luke.

Yay! she celebrates. You’ll like Mr. Gay. He’s so powerful and well connected.

Right. My words come wrapped in sarcasm. Because my life has been spent trying to get ahead. That’s why I’m over a hundred thousand dollars in debt after failing out of the English program at Washington College.

Morgan shrugs. It was the English program. Graduating from it is the same thing as failing out.

Your associate’s degree is in English, I remind her.

She grins. I know.

Morgan is doe-eyed, hair-dyed, and overweight like any respectable fag hag. She reaches for the lighter on the coffee table as I gather my backpack and pull myself through the front door and into my car.

It is still early. The roads are unblemished as I speed on Interstate 83 southbound toward the harbor. My mind races over my exponential unpreparedness. Morgan supplied a list of questions for Mr. Gay, but besides that I have nothing to go on. I don’t even know what kind of business he runs – or his age.

I turn on the radio to distract myself. The song is catchy and slightly orchestral, the singer apparently undecided about whether she wants to be called or not. Sighing, I switch off the radio. I need a license plate frame that says ‘I’d rather be masturbating.’

The tangle of garages downtown distracts my ability to arrive on time. The interview is scheduled for 1pm. I have twenty minutes. Finding a spot, I jump from the garage and practically sprint up the street.

The flagship office building of Gay, Incorporated is a gargantuan structure to behold. Forty floors high, it is a megalith of glass and steel to steal the heart of any architect. Indestructible. I walk inside. The white marble receptionist’s desk is a fifty foot long slab. Looking at it hurts my jaw for some reason.

Yes?

Surprise strikes me. The receptionist is not a busty blonde female but a tanned, coal-eyed hunk whose years could hardly have eclipsed my own. Far from being overdressed, he is wearing a tight, Under-Armor shirt. His undergarments remain unknown, hidden as they are by the marble counter.

I, I… I stutter.

Yes? he repeats.

I’m Lucas – Luke! I’m Luke Tanner here for Morgan McHale. Why exactly is the receptionist a gorgeous, muscular boy in his early twenties? She’s scheduled to meet Mr. Gay at 1pm today.

Ah! he says. His eyes linger on my sport coat and khakis. I’m clearly overdressed. Down the hall and to the right, Mr. Tanner. You’ll find Mr. Gay’s office on the fortieth floor. The doors open onto his personal lobby. Can’t miss it.

Thanks! I exhale, and as casually as possible I make my way to the elevator. I’m whisked up to the fortieth floor. Just as promised, the doors open onto sudden, even grander grandeur. Here the white marble is inset with diamond-shaped black rubies. This place must have cost a fortune.

Another similarly-dressed supermodel greets me from behind the marble countertop. Equally tan, his dark eyes trace my steps forward. You’re not scheduled, he tells me, looking me up and down. "Or not yet, at least."

Luke Tanner for Mr. Gay. I mean – for Morgan McHale.

Now I’m royally confused, says the hot receptionist.

Just then a door to the right opens. An Asian man exits. Quail hunting this Saturday, Gay? he asks. Good! I’ll bring the birdshot. I love birdshot! No matter where you shoot something gets shot. Always makes me feel like I’ve practiced. Waving distractedly, the man walks past the reception desk and to the elevators.

You can go in, Supermodel Number Two tells me. "No need to knock. If he doesn’t want to see you, he’ll be mad at you, not me. He’s like that."

I take a deep breath. And go in.

All of a sudden everything happens at once. First, I see that Mr. Gay’s desk is pointed away from the door, so that his chair and lap are visible from the open door. Next, I trip over the threshold and go sprawling with a yowl. Finally, my head, completely by accident, falls directly into Mr. Gay’s crotch.

Stricken, I gaze up from his well suited midsection. Burning beneath a fine brow, green eyes find me. Their grin is restrained. Indeed, more restrained than the muscles curving the well structured contours of his mouth into a smile. Red flushes assaulting me, I struggle to my feet. Mr. Gay helps me up.

I’m so sorry! I blurt. I, I didn’t see…!

He shakes his head. Apology unnecessary. Regardless, an explanation is. Given your complete lack of even miniscule breasts and, I’m guessing here, a pussy, may I safely presume that you are not in fact Miss Morgan McHale?

I exhale audibly. This man is so terrifically gorgeous. I can tell he’s tall even while he’s sitting. His skin is white and suffering a mild tan. His cheekbones are slightly high, forcing dimples into his smile as he gazes at me, and his dark hair is straight and combed into unrestrained elegance. His years can hardly eclipse thirty.

Nah – no! I stutter. Why am I blushing? And why is Mr. Gay alone the only person around here dressed in an impeccable black suit? I mean yes! I gasp. "I am not Miss McHale. My name is Luke Tanner. And you?"

I close my eyes in horror. Did I really just ask the man I am interviewing who he is? Those two words erupted from my mouth before I had time to stop them. Now the only thing I can do is attempt to minimize collateral damage and proceed. Proceed somehow, anyway. I need a miracle.

Gay, he says. "Dorian Gay."

A snort escapes my nose. I cover it quickly, attempting to force self control into my being. Did I really just laugh? Sure, it had been a quelled laugh. But he had to have seen it for what it was. He had.

Think it’s funny? he asks.

No, I lie.

Mr. Gay cocks his head to one side. Have a seat, Mr. Tanner, he says, brushing his hand toward the chair opposite. Time is of the essence when you’re the CEO of a multinational corporation. Surely you must know.

Yes, I breathe awkwardly. Of course! I take the seat indicated. Mr. Gay leans forward over his desk, his hands meeting to clasp each other on the desktop, his green eyes fixed upon me like alien fireflies set free on a moonless summer night. First question, I begin, pulling the list from my backpack. Have you been lucky in life?

Mr. Gay blinks, his expression turning unfathomable. I don’t give many interviews, Mr. Tanner, he says. For an opening question, yours is both lazy and contrived. Regardless, because of those facts, I must answer in the negative and state that I have not been overly lucky. If I was, you wouldn’t be here.

I flush terribly. This is not going well. Sorry, begin. It’s just – these aren’t my questions. They’re –"

They’re Miss McHale’s questions, Mr. Gay hijacks. Yes. Any fool could see that. You look about as flustered as a new Chief Justice on his inaugural presidential inauguration day, if you don’t mind my saying.

I choose another question from the list over responding. Do you go out of your way to seek power, Mr. Gay?

Moist, full lips curve into a smile. Power is a grip for which my hand was fashioned, Mr. Tanner. It is a Tempur-Pedic mattress at my perfect setting. The leather wrap around my Mazda Miata’s steering wheel whose friction never fails my grasp. So yes, Mr. Tanner, I like power. And power likes me.

You – I begin.

"You find my name funny, Mr. Tanner, Mr. Gay states, interrupting me. Why is that?" His hands are retracted now – one lying on the desk, the other upright and stroking the dimple in his chin.

His movements are made of sex.

"I’m interviewing you, Mr. Gay, I say, surprising myself with these bold words. I ask the questions."

A searing smile burns across Mr. Gay’s face at these words. Lowering his upright hand, he opens a drawer in his desk and pulls forth two glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. If you want rocks I can summon my secretary, he says.

Surprised, I shake my head. No thank you.

Dorian, Mr. Gay says, though I hadn’t mentioned him by name. Call me Dorian. And I’ll call you Lucas. That way we can disregard all the pretensions and move into the realm of the real. Do you read Oscar Wilde, Lucas?

Luke, I correct.

Pardon?

I sip my whiskey absentmindedly. "Luke – please call me Luke. Lucas drives