Issue 35, Final Fringe

Fifty Shades of Greystoke, Lord of the S&M Apes

by g c cunningham Issue 32 10.15.2012

I am 22, studying for exams, enjoying my college virginity.

Mr. Greystoke, CEO of Greystoke Inc. enters the True Value store where I work. He drags me by my hair to a limo and then up a glass elevator to his executive tree house.

Is he attracted to me?

I slip on a banana peel, falling, and he catches with firm, Nautilus-trained arms. His eyes pierce. My heart races. Holy Mackerel.

“Me, Tarzan,” he says. “You, submissive? You like heliports?”

The tree house is all hand-tooled leather—Rococo microwave—penthouse view to die for: I see not just three separate In & Out Burgers, but all of Tarzana, the 101 and everything.
Gadzooks. What’s this?

“A flogger,” he points out. “And a Judas cradle, a Spanish donkey, cat o’ nine tales, morning star farms, the medieval ‘Billy’ shelving unit from Ikea (birch or natural).”

I clamber into a spacious bedroom and continue clambering on to his rustic bed. I’ve got to stop using the word “clamber.”

The bed is bigger than Chris Christie. Cheese and crackers!

My subconscious says, girl, what do you know about this wealthy savage? Does he have his shots? Pertussis, Rubella? Is he at risk for autism or is that a myth?

Greystoke swings across the bed on Red Vines, yodeling furiously when I reveal my pristine womanhood, my sex (that place down there).

“You never saw a Betty Page film on YouTube?” he scolds, gently pulling his earlobe, signaling Carol Burnett.

I’m running now, panting, breathless. I feel the lasso tightening my neck, felling me. He wraps my legs in rope as a bell goes off.

We place fourth in hog-tie, but I’m exhilarated.

Is it the money, or Greystoke’s perfect teeth?

His Visa Centurion card, or his company’s sexist internships?

My poverty, or his ocean of Ben Franks? I’m so confused.

We make reasonable, Warren Buffet-love. That’s to break me in, he says, producing a list of rules: No smoking. No Melissa Etheridge.

Son of a biscuit, he’s so hot!

I demand to know why a chimp is watching from the oxblood leather divan.

“We all have our kinks, Miss Steele. Cheeta has his.”

I sense there will be punishment for this indiscretion, delicious waves of fear, perhaps a zesty duck à l’orange for dinner.

g c cunningham

g c cunningham

Read More

A UCLA grad, g c cunningham lives in Los Angeles, sometimes working in film post-production, other times in Birmingham, Alabama, state of origin. Fiction is printed in Denver Quarterly, Fiction International and upcoming in The Texas Review and Bat City Review; online pieces can be read at Potomac Review and McSweeney’s. The avatar is a watercolor of Lee Harvey Oswald by the author.