50 Shades of Grey has been at the top of the New York Times Bestseller list for months. And if you don’t know what it is, well, it’s basically soft porn for middle-aged women. The writer, E.L. James, has described the book as a collection of her fantasies. So we decided to write to our own version called “50 Shades of Gray’s Papaya.” (Gray’s Papaya is a hot dog chain in New York City. No offense to you west coasters, but it was the best pun we could come up with.)
50 Shades of Gray’s Papaya
I pop two Advil and down it with what’s left of a Naked Juice I picked up in a bodega yesterday. I prefer banana and strawberry I think to myself as I tuck a lone shock of brown hair behind my right ear. As this cold, sweet elixir washes down my throat I realize this will not be enough to satiate my growing appetite. I need something more.
I put on my military jacket and grab my longboard. I know exactly where I’m going.
And then I reach my destination. Gray’s Papaya. I enter from the front and that familiar smell hits me in the face. I am immediately transformed from a weak, hungover 20-something into a ravenous, steely-eyed animal. A primal beast ready to take down his prey.
I stand in line.
When it’s my turn to order I waste no time. “Give me the Recession Special and a gallon of Coconut Champagne.” But it was clear that the girl behind the counter wanted to know more. I think she noticed my finely-manicured stubble. Or maybe she noticed the longboard tucked under my right arm. Either way, I may as well have just said, “Lay down on this tabletop so I can untie your apron, and ravage you like a cheetah ravages an elk. Or maybe a wildebeest.”
I slid myself over to the window to await my prize. As I watched her prepare my feast, I maintain vigorous eye contact. She grabbed the weiner and slowly slid it between the two buns. I could tell the way she handled this special weiner that it almost didn’t fit into her soft, supple buns. But she slowly kept working it until it settled into it’s snug new home. She’d never had that much trouble with a weiner before. But she also kind of liked it.
She looked me up and down and asked if I wanted onions. I narrowed my eyes and nodded coldly. Making it clear who was in control.
She dipped her tongs into the glistening mound of onions and pulled out a fistful of the hot, dripping mixture. She slid it down the weiner and stuffed it deep into the bun.
“More?” she asked, with a hard swallow. She clearly wanted to go farther, but she didn’t know how far. I knew that was up to me.
“More,” I demanded. “Kraut, too.”
Her face went flush as she began cramming both into her bun and up and down the weiner.
“It’s too much,” she pleaded. “We have to stop.”
“More.” I wouldn’t take no for an answer. And despite her trepidation, she acquiesced. A small bead of sweat ran down her neck. I knew her bun was reaching the breaking point.
That’s when I did the unthinkable.
“Put another weiner in there, too,” I said with a casual, careless air. I had all the authority. And she loved knowing who was in charge.
She began to shake and whimpered a soft, “No.”
I shifted my longboard from under my right arm to my left. I didn’t respond to her pleas.
Minutes passed. Or was it hours? I couldn’t tell anymore, but the next thing I knew I was back in my loft and no longer hungry. A small mustard stain was the only proof that it wasn’t a dream.
[Editor’s Note: This is the dumbest thing I have ever created.]