Fifty Shades of Nay

Unerotic Non-Fan Fiction by: Jesse Miller V

Ana began tapping her pen on her desk anxiously. Her leg was shaking. She bit her lip. Her eyes darted to the lower right hand corner of her computer monitor for the third time in the last forty seconds.

1:15. Just like the last three times she checked.

She began tapping the pen more rapidly then stopped abruptly when she became aware of her own nervous behavior. Ana looked around the room. No one seemed to notice the jittery waves of energy she was sure she was radiating. She allowed herself a sigh of relief. At the desk behind her, Morgan was resting her head on her left hand, and clicking diligently on her mouse with her right. The next desk over, Bob was pretending to study spreadsheets, when in reality he was watching YouTube videos in a small minimized window of dismayed cats being given baths. Lindsay, two desk down, was frowning at a water bottle that held particularly gruesome looking contents. All at once, Lindsay quickly knocked back a swig, slammed the water bottle down, then leaned forward and braced herself on her desk, with both hands, as if life itself would evacuate her bowels if she didn’t clench every single muscle in her body. When the harrowing ordeal finally passed, Lindsay—having seemingly narrowly avoided catastrophe—politely cleared her throat, gave her blonde hair a backhand toss, and continued typing.

At the very back of the room, Thomas was full-on asleep. He straight didn’t give a fuck.

Ana checked the time again. 1:16. He would be here soon.

He Keeps to a busy schedule of window staring

She started tapping the pen again. She stopped then began aimlessly moving items around on her desk. Maybe he wouldn’t show today, she thought. Her whole body seemed to shake now. She was suddenly overcome with an entirely different feeling. The anxiousness seemed to give way to something new. Was it anticipation?

It was at that very moment that he arrived. Somehow Ana failed to see him walk to her desk even though she had been looking for him. He stood there, over her, with his disarming smile. Christian Grey. Having just emerged from the bristling heat of summer afternoon, drops of sweat made his dress shirt around his chest transparent. Ana couldn’t help but notice his pecks. Hard. Glistening. Grey’s eyes were locked onto hers. She boldly returned his gaze. He stared back. He continued staring.

He stared entirely too long.

It got weird.

“I…” Ana began, “I’m sorry. Can I help you?”

“Hello, Ana,” Said Christian Grey.

“Hi,” Ana said, “So is there something I can do for you or…”

“Hello, Ana.” Christian said again. Eyes locked. Pecks glistening.

“Yeah…hey. Do you need something?” An impossibly long awkward moment passed. Ana’s eyes narrowed impatiently. Sweat began to form around the straps of her dress, accentuating her shoulders which were, let’s say, glistening.

“What?” Grey said finally.

“What?” Ana said exasperated, “I was saying—I’m asking you what you want, why you are here right now.” Another uncomfortable moment passed. “At my desk,” Ana added. She looked down and saw the ominous small white Styrofoam container he was holding. She checked the time. 1:17. On the dot. “Ah man…” she moaned, closing her eyes.

Grey’s smile widened. “So Ana,” he began.

“I know,” Ana interrupted.

“I got you this,”

“I know you did. I wish you hadn’t. I’ve been trying to tell you—”

“For you,” Grey said not listening, or unable to. He gestured toward her with the Styrofoam box.

Ana tapped her fingers on her desk in frustration. “Christian?” She asked, “Is that a goddamn—?”

“It’s a tuna salad sandwich!” Grey blurted clearly unable to contain himself any further. His eyes lit up in excitement.

The sexiest of the sandwiches

Ana pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, and sighed the longest sigh ever sighed. “Christian, it’s just that I keep asking you to stop bringing me tuna salad sandwiches. I mean, I don’t even like tuna. And you know that. Because I told you that. Remember how I keep telling you that? And why every day at 1:17, Christian?”

Grey laughed boyishly as if Ana had at long last solved a riddle. “Because, Ana,” he said leaning in while taking a seat on the edge of her desk, “One plus seven plus one is nine. Nine is the number for tuna salad on the menu in the deli downstairs, and you, Ana, are from Michigan. Michigan has lakes, lakes have fish, and tuna, my dear Ana, as we all know, are fish.” There was a very long pause as passion filled the room. As Ana took this in. As Ana took Grey in. All of him. Every last drop.

“That is,” Anna said slowly, “Without exception, the absolute stupidest thing I have ever heard. In my entire life.” The ‘f’ in life caught a drab of saliva which flew free as she said it, and caught the air. Glistening. “What, in the ever loving hell, is your problem, Christian?”

Before Grey could respond, there was the sudden sound of a plastic lid being unscrewed and the sloshing of liquid. Lindsay was at it again with the water bottle. She took another giant gulp and once again braced for impact. This time she groaned and her bottom lip quivered. Panic washed over her face. She stood quickly and made a B line for the bathroom while holding her rear end. Morgan followed her with her eyes and looked concerned. Thomas snored rhythmically.

“She’s juicing,” Morgan announced to the room, “It’s this whole thing with a blender, and I think kale is involved.”

“It’s the kale,” Ana said to Grey who nodded in silent understanding, “But listen about this tuna thing—”

“Shh!” said Grey shushing, “Not another word.” He placed a finger on her lips and began to lean in. Ana tensed up immediately. She began to breath heavily, and as he leaned in further for an electric, passion filled kiss, her desires were finally realized. She realized that what she wanted, in that moment, more than anything she could ever need, was for that to absolutely not happen.

When she leaned back to tell him the news, that, nope, maybe, definitely not so much with the kiss right now—or ever at any time, actually—she saw his face. And he looked ridiculous. An eyebrow was raised. Only one eye was closed instead of two. His tongue was already hanging out slightly for god knows what reason. He looked like a mentally disabled dog. And through all this, he continued to lean in, confidently, assuredly, with the false knowledge that, somehow, not only was this kiss appropriate, but there was a chance it would actually be pleasant for either one of them. And judging by this absolutely, impossibly terrible scene, Ana knew that there was none.

“Gross. Gross. Gross. Gross. So Not on board!”

And she couldn’t look away. She was frozen. In utter disturbed fascination and morbid curiosity, she couldn’t obey the impulse to turn away. The proverbial train wreck. On a direct collision course with her face.

This kiss was happening. In all the wrong ways.

At precisely 1:18 PM, the combined sum of the beef brisket with thousand island dressing on the menu from the deli downstairs, Christian Grey and Anastasia’s lips touched.

There were no survivors.


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