JUST A PASSAGE FROM THE EROTIC ROMANCE NOVEL “50 SHADES OF GRAVY”
“I scowl with frustration at my reflection in the butter. The butter is in the skillet, melting like the glaciers in Antarctica. Climate change is real. And so is my pain. It takes so long for butter to melt, and to find romance. That’s why I’m frustrated. All my self-worth is tied to landing a man. I hope he’s creepy and abusive and has a voice cold and chunky like canned cranberry sauce or something.”
I whisk in the flour to dance with the butter and form a carnal union. And from a small, barely used part of my brain -- probably the corpus callosum but maybe it’s the lateral ventricles but it could also be the occipital lobe but it’s probably the central sulcus, yes, it’s definitely the central sulcus -- I imagine getting railed by a rich douchebag. My inner goddess does the Lindy Hop in ecstasy.
I cook the butter and flour for a minute or two, and watch it darken, like the sky when it’s that middle time between day and night. My stomach cartwheels as I whisk in the turkey drippings left in the pan. Don’t worry. I asked the turkey to sign a nondisclosure agreement. He agreed to be basted and abused and tasted. Just like me. My inner goddess does the Macarena in a quinceañera dress.
Who am I? I don’t know. I’m totally passive with no personality, no passion, no anything, just an empty box, like you would buy at the Empty Box Store. I season the gravy with salt. Holy crap! The salt is wearing a white shirt. I add pepper. Holy cow! The pepper is smiling like a sphynx. I add a thirst-quenching splash of cream - oh! My inner goddess twerks in 50 Shades of Gravy sunglasses.”
(50 Shades of Gravy by L.J. Hanson began as The Babysitters Club fan fiction and is now one of the top selling books in the world, making all other authors slam their heads against the wall.)