Humour: Fifty Shades of Shite
Christian Grey – Git to his friends – stood in his office on the top floor of Liberty Hall in Dublin and stared moodily at the silvery snake of the River Liffey below, watching its slow meander through the centre of town.
Jaysus he felt rough this morning. That last pint was definitely a mistake. And now he had some bint from the local rag coming in for an interview.
There was only one thing for it. He reached out with his extraordinarily long index finger and buzzed for his secretary, settling himself back into his chair as the cool blonde entered the office.
‘Git?’ she enquired, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow.
‘Get us a breakfast roll will ya, love,’ he belched. ‘Extra hash browns, and don’t forget the black puddin’.’
He grinned, grey eyes glinting, noting her curvy hips and high, firm breasts beneath her demure office attire as she left the room.
She was a right little ride, so she was, a fine thing. He’d have a go at her later in the pub, buy her a bottle of WKD, the ladies loved that.
Twenty minutes later he wiped the grease from his fingers, adjusted his low slung trousers – he was going to have to buy a belt – and prepared for the interview.
Miss Anastasia Steele – stupid fucking name – fell into the room all big eyes and long hair, ivory skinned and delicate, biting constantly at her lower lip.
Probably coming down with a coldsore.
‘Alright?’ he asked, hoping to put her at her ease. She’d already dropped her notebook and looked mortified, though he couldn’t be sure that wasn’t her permanent expression. You could never tell with burds these day.
Botox and all that.
‘Tell me Mr Grey, um, Git, to what do you owe your success?’
Straight away in with the hard questions. He liked that.
‘Ah, a bit of this, a bit of that, you know yourself. Do you go out around town much?’
‘I’m sorry?’ She sounded confused.
‘Town. Do you go out much? At the weekends like. I love me weekends, can’t wait to get out of this kip,’ he grinned, deciding he’d throw her a bone after all.
‘What about hobbies?’ she asked, hurriedly moving on to the next question. ‘I read somewhere that you like music? And animals?’
‘Aslan,’ he replied, promptly. ‘Best band in the fuckin’ world. Christy Dignam in his bare feet, belting out Crazy World; it’s a religious experience. I’ve an oul mutt as well yeah. Leo Dowling, I call him. Looper, an absolute looper.’
‘Fine, right, em… Mr Grey, you’re never seen in the company of a woman more than once. Are you gay?’
‘WHA’?!’ he exploded out of his chair, almost losing his trousers in the process so low did they hang off his hips, lips tightening with rage.
‘Gay? Me? Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, but Jaze, no! No! Who told you that?’
It was probably that bitch at the front desk. Just because of that one time he couldn’t get it up. But what did she expect after a feed of pints and a cheese curry chip? She hadn’t been complaining when she’d been lashing back the Smirnoff Ice.
‘No, Miss Steele, I’m not gay.’ And I’ll prove it to you, he thought, imagining the playroom in his penthouse apartment in the Docklands and what it’d be like to have her there.
You never know, she might clean it up a bit. It was in a jock after the last time, massage oil and lube all over the place. That shit was a pain to get off. Got everywhere. He’d lost count of the number of genuine leather couches from Cost Plus Sofas he’d destroyed.
When he had her stripped and tied up with the laces from his football boots, with a bluey from the three for €20 range at Xtravision playing on the flat screen, she’d know all about gay.
He bet she was a screamer. The shy ones were always screamers.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gray. The question was just written here… I’ll go now,’ the girl said, blushing and rising to her feet.
‘Grand job, gameball, you’re grand,’ Git replied, seeing her out. She had a fine little arse on her all the same, she was probably a right goer.
Door safely closed, he sank into his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin – decisions, decisions. He wanted to know much more about Miss Anastasia Steele, but how?
His hand hovered over the speed-dial to call in his private detective but then he remembered Miss Steele was 21-years-old and there was probably an easier way.
A slow smile spread across his face as he called up his Internet browser. Of course. Facebook. And that was the rest of the morning sorted.