Fifty Shades Effed

Table of Contents

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty (Epilogue)
  
• About the Author
  
• Accolades for Fifty Shades Effed
  

Fifty Shades Effed

by Phil Torcivia

Like Phil on Facebook:
Facebook.com/SuchaNiceGuy

Follow Phil on Twitter:
@PhilTorcivia

Blog:
PhilTorcivia.blogspot.com

Author website:
Torcivia.com

Nothing in this book is true except my desire to cover my ass with this statement.

Cover designed by Anna V. Chastain of
ChastainGraphics.com

Copy editing by Marguerite Walker II

Author photo by Micaela Malmi of
EpicPhotoJournalism.com

Copyright ©2012 Phil Torcivia

All rights reserved

ISBN: 147817286X

ISBN-13: 978-1478172864

Chapter One

By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong. - Charles Wadsworth

I’m playing catch with my teenage son. He has his mother’s blond hair. It’s a typical July day in San Diego—warm, bright sunshine, and not a cloud in the sky. The only sounds are distant birds and the slap of baseball against mitt.
Little stinker has quite an arm.

“No curve balls,” I warn.

“I know. So, Pop,” he asks as he hurls a four-seamer.

*BZZZT, CRACK*

Ouch.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been kind of seeing this girl at school.”

“Seeing her or
seeing
her?” I pry as I toss the ball back a little harder.

*PFFFT, SLAP*

Not bad for sixty-seven. The old man still has it.

“You know,
seeing
her. Anyway, I was at her house last night, helping with calculus.”

“Uh huh.”

*BZZZT, CRACK*

“Her parents called her downstairs, so I did some exploration.”

“And, what did you find?”

*PFFFT, POP*

“Well, since you’re always warning me to avoid bedside tables, that was the first place I looked.”

Oh, Jesus.

“And?”

“What’s a butt plug?”

*BZZZT, DINK, BONK* — Curve ball, square in the nuts.

“Argggh!”

I double over and feel as though my balls have shot out my ears.

“Honey. Wake up.”

Who’s shaking me?

“Mormon. Hey.”

Oh, it’s Bea.

“You had a bad dream, sweetie.”

I check my package. All good. “Phew, that was a strange one.”

“Tell me.”

“I was playing catch with our son.”

“Really? We haven’t determined that it’s going to be a boy, have we?”

“Well ...”

“OK, I’ll play along. What did he look like?”

“A cross between Wayne Gretzky and the most beautiful woman in the world,” I tease as I boop her nose and give her a kiss.

“Aw. And, his name?”

“Pippino.”

“What?”

“Pippino. If we have a boy, that has to be his name,” I state matter-of-factly.

“Ha, ha. You’re silly.”

“I’m not kidding. It’s an Italian tradition. My first son must be named after my father, Pippino Silveri.”

“No freaking way.”

Is she serious?

“Yes, freaking way. I’ll wrestle you for it,” I say as I attack her. She giggles. “How do you manage to smell so good in the morning?”

“Don’t change the subject, mister. Our son will not be named Pippino.”

“Resistance is futile,” I warn as I tug down on the waistband of her pajamas. “Do you hear that, Pippino?” I speak into her pelvis with my fake Italian accept. “You mamma, she’s ashamed of-a you name.”

“I think it’s going to be a girl, anyway.”

“Ah, Pippina!”

We laugh and wrestle, which naturally turns into morning sex.
No better way to start the day.
I’m thankful her morning sickness subsided, but I never realized women get hornier when pregnant. I’m definitely going to need assistance.

Chapter Two

I love you, not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. – Roy Croft

After good-morning nookie in my lover’s condo, Bea hits the shower and I hit eggs on the side of an omelet pan. Once again, I’m derailed by the clinking of spoon against coffee mug.
The beast rises.

“Top o’ the morning to you, Ms. Aspinwald,” I greet and bow.

“French toast.”

“Huh?”

“I’d like French toast with cinnamon butter.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer
blue
berry muffins with a side of rabbit?” I sneer. I can hardly look at her since she defiled my glove.

“You do realize, Blobber, that this wedding isn’t going to happen.”

“It most certainly
is
going to happen. Didn’t you get the invitation? This Saturday, Coronado Beach, noonish. Guests are encouraged to bring covered plates. I could sign you up for deviled eggs.”

“Chris is a powerful man. I don’t know if you’re more brave or stupid ... I’m betting on stupid.”

“You know dillweed has a girlfriend, right? Annie, I believe, was her name. Innocent thing with horrible taste in men.”

“She’s insignificant,” Grandma sniffs as she pushes her reading glasses up her nose and stares at printed pages. “Do you know what this is, Blobber?”

“An excerpt from my blob?”

“Five forty five.”

“Ah, it’s your weight analysis,” I respond while dipping bread in egg batter.

“It’s your credit score.”

Nosy little nit.

“Right. So?”

“You’re behind on mortgage payments and you have four maxed-out credit cards.”

“I also have a hairy mole on my ass,” I respond while glaring at her.

“My granddaughter will soon realize you’re marrying her to get your hands on my money. She’ll dispose of you like dryer lint.”

“I’m marrying her because I love her, and I’ll gladly sign a pre-nup.”

“Why don’t you accept the offer from Chris, pay off your debts, and find a more appropriate mate—perhaps one with four legs.”

“You two will never buy me off. Stop wasting your time.”

“Warm up my coffee, and flip those before they burn.”

I endure breakfast with the beast as I hear the shower turn off and wait for my love to rescue me.

“I must admit, you’re a decent cook. I could put in a word for you at Denny’s,” Grandma remarks.

“How kind of you.”

As Bea emerges from the bedroom in her silk robe, Grandma rises to leave. Naturally, she places my credit report in front of Bea on her way out.

“Have a wonderful morning. Bea, your future ex isn’t a bad cook at all. He’ll make someone a nice housewife someday,” Grandma remarks as she exits.

“You made her breakfast? You’re such a sweetie,” Bea compliments as she crumbles the credit report, tosses it in the garbage, and checks the pan. “Ooh, French toast. Are these for me?”

“They are.”

“And, I see you found the syrup,” she teases as she dangles Mrs. Butterworth between her thumb and index finger. “I love syrup.”

“Do you know what I’m going to do with that syrup later?”

“Pancakes?”

I take the bottle from her, squeeze a dot on my left index finger, and place it in her mouth. She sucks the tip, teasingly. I slide my finger down her chin, over her neck, and down her chest, parting her robe as I do. Bea tips her head back. I squeeze a bit more between her breasts and let it run a bit before catching the sugary stream with my tongue and planting a sweet kiss on her soft lips.

“I’m going to coat you and lick you to nirvana.”

Chapter Three

In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything, and two minus one equals nothing. – Mignon McLaughlin

On my way home, Bea’s assistant, Eric, calls to invite me to lunch. He refuses to tell me his motive over the phone.
Maybe I can scarf more of those little yellow pills to help keep up with my sexual dynamo.

I get a few more blog entries done and meet Eric at the San Diego County Fair.
Hmm, beer battered chocolate covered bacon for lunch? Sure, why not? You only die once.
I hope he’s not a fan of rides, as my stomach has never appreciated them.

“Big E, what’s happening?”

“Good to see you, Mormon,” he greets while giving me the handshake, shoulder-bump man-hug.” Let’s hit the food court. I’m starving.”

“Me, too.”

“So, I wasn’t sure if Bea told you, but she has asked me to walk her down the aisle Saturday, and I wanted to make sure you’re cool with that.”

“Dude, of course I am. You know, she rarely speaks about her parents.”

“She was twelve when they had the accident. Her grandmother and various nannies raised her.”

“Well, she turned out perfectly crazy, and I’m absolutely crazy about her. I just wish there were some way to win over Grandma and make Chris disappear.”

“I’m sure it will work out. Love conquers all, Mormon. Ooh, and speaking of love,” Eric beams as a handsome fellow approaches; “here comes my man, Daniel.”

We greet and stroll around the Fair, sampling the artery cloggery that abounds.

“So, gentlemen, I’d like to enlist your help in a stunt I’m planning. Bea is having a girls’ night with her friends on Thursday. I want to surprise them with something. Should I hire a male stripper?”

“Wait. Wasn’t she on stage for your party?” Eric asks.

“Indeed she was.”

“Then you must return the favor,” Daniel adds.

Ha! No fucking way.

“Yes, dress up in a police uniform and jump out of a cake,” Eric teases.

“Right.”

“I’m serious. It would be hysterical.”

“It would be traumatizing. I’m fifty. I
eat
cake.”

“Oh my god, I still have that uniform from the Pride Parade. It comes with handcuffs, too,” Daniel offers.

“Perfect,” Eric cheers, “and you two are similar size. You must, Mormon. Come on. We’ll both be there to provide oral, I mean
moral
support.”

“Seriously?”

“Please,” they chime, in stereo.

“Fine. Fuck it. I’ll chug half a bottle of tequila and do it.”

“I’ll arrange for the cake and bring Daniel’s costume to work with me tomorrow,” Eric insists.

“Can’t believe I’m going to do this. Will Grandma be there?”

“No, Thursday is bingo night at The Rock Church. She’d never miss that.”

“Phew. Now I need a favor from you, Eric.”

“Anything.”

“Got any more of those pain-thrillers Bea borrowed from you?”

“Indeed I do,” Eric agrees.

“Might I have a handful for the honeymoon? I’m probably going to need all the help I can get.”