50 Shades of White

Wow, I sighed. Biting my lip, I stared at the bed and the enormous mound before me. How did I let this go for so long, I asked myself. 

I stared down at my hands.

“Stop fidgeting.”

I jumped a mile high and snapped to attention... ‘who said that?’

“ROB... ROOOBBB,” I screamed to my husband rushing out the door of my bedroom.

“What?” He sprinted up the steps two at a time. “what’s wrong?”

“I think someone is in our room... I heard someone say like, ‘stop fidgeting,’ or something like that.”

He eyed me, dubious, but went into the bedroom for an extensive search. The closet, the shower, under the bed and out the window, he left no corner unchecked as I snuck closer into the room my feelings shifting from fear, to humility. 

My cheeks flushed. “Sorry honey, I swore I heard something.”

“No problem... what are you working on anyway?” He asked, hopeful. 

“The laundry.” I answered his prayer. “I’m sorry I let it go on so long. I’m done with my book now though and swear I will get this all under control tonight!”

He smiled, “no problem,” he breathed, though I could sense the relief in his voice.  He is so patient with me...

I shut the door behind him and turned the TV on to keep my imagination at bay.  Dance Moms, perfect, I thought. It is just fine as background noise but not interesting enough that it will keep me from concentrating on my project at hand. 

I turned back to the pile on the bed.  “Hmm, it looks even bigger than a second ago,” I mused to myself. 

“That’s what she said.”

I stopped dead in my tracks again and looked around but quickly dismissed it and turned up the television. 

I sighed heavily and tried to let my mind relax to the sound of harpy helicopter moms screeching about their under-appreciated brilliantly twirling daughters as I grabbed a T-Shirt and began folding. 

His folded clothes to the left of the bed, mine to the right, kids in their baskets at my feet and the wrinkled tangled mountain still untouched, dead center.  After about 20 minutes I gave myself a mental break to peek at the hotly debated team routine. The 9 year old got the lead dancing part over the 11 year old even though the 11 year old much better fit the part of a ‘harlot in need’ which happened to be the emotional motivation for the principal dancer in this piece.  Finding it hard to look away at the beauty that was at once a train wreck and an affirmation that I am clearly not the worst mother in the world, I scooted the pile of clothes back an inch and rested one finely sculpted butt cheek on the edge of the bed. 

Something seemed to purr beneath me. I shoved the clothes further over to make sure I wasn’t sitting on a phone or something, but never looked away from the screen. 

A movement in the edge of my periphery vision made my heart stop. I slowly turned to my left and saw that all of the clothes from Rob’s pile had unfolded themselves and shuffled back into the pile. Pinching myself, I stood. My heart leapt to my throat blocking all breath as, one by one, each of the piles of folded clothes became not so. 

And there it was again. Low, wanting, knowing, a voice that conveyed pain and confidence with just two words, “hiyas baby.”

My mouth formed a perfect but silent ‘O’ as I tried to scream for my husband again.  My brain told my feet to stamp, to run, anything, but they stayed resolutely glued in place.

Shifting, sashaying and finally lifting from the fray came the owner of the voice. A white Brooks Brothers 100% Cotton No Iron button down. And it was so white... 50 shades whiter than any shirt I had ever seen.  The way it hung around the air with nothing under it scared me, but excited me... down there.

I instinctively reached my hand out, slowly and retracted it still unable to find my breath, let alone words.

“Its been a rough week for me.” The sleeve reached to the collar, oh the way it reached to the collar. “Over and over, you brought me here, to your bed, only to shove me away to a basket again at nightfall.  Every time your delicate fingers curled around the binding of your Kindle I dreamed they were touching, folding me. You have no idea how sexy you are... do you?”

I bit my lip.  Immediately something flapped against my thigh and said something unintelligible. 

“The underwear says not to bite your lip or they’ll whack you again.”

I took a cautious step back but the shirt’s left sleeve reached out and wrapped itself around my right wrist. 

“Where you think you’re going baby?”

“Hey I just met you. And, this is... crazy.”

“Crazy,” purred the mouthless voice, “or exciting?” 

I bit my lip again.

thwack  “cắn môi của bạn!”

thwack “cắn môi của bạn!”

thwack “cắn môi của bạn!”

“OWWW what the hell is the underwear’s problem? And why are they screaming at me in Chinese?”

SMACK. this time the sleeve’s right cuff slapped me across the cheek leaving a visible scratch from the button. “Stop biting your lip! and,” SMACK this time across the jaw. “it’s Vietnamese you racist, that’s where they were born.”

My hand shot up to my aching face. “RED,” I screamed at him. 

He stopped short.

“That’s right, you bastard, I swear to God I’ll launder you in hot water with something RED if you don’t stop.”

“Then,” he choked, “I’ll probably never see you again.”

“Yes.” I sobbed too. I hoped he would listen to me, this has been the most exhilarating laundry folding 10 minutes of my life. It was already clear I couldn’t live without seeing where he could take me. 

He flushed. I blushed. My eyes widened. “I’m sorry.” I gasped. 

I waited to see if he would forgive me. 

“Hiyas Baby,” He said again, which didn’t totally make sense to me, but I figured it meant he forgave me so I was excited again. down there.

His sleeve caressed my swollen cheek and he ordered some socks to rub my head. My blood sang in my veins. I looked down and saw some khaki shorts and was hurt when there seemed to be no action taken by them. 

My fifty shades whiter eyed me curiously.  Then, like he could read my mind, said, “that’s a common misconception. Pants aren’t alive like you or me.”

I rolled my eyes at my own silliness. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tie fly toward me, but shirt put himself between us just in time. 

“The ties fucking hate it when you roll your eyes.  Really, they’ll hang you. Don’t do it again.”

Maybe I should have been scared but I was just so excited.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” the voice smelled like ambrosia in my ear.

“jeez.”  I looked him up and down. “umm... “

“tell me,” he begged.

I didn’t know what to say, I was so new to all this but my body was alive in ways I never knew it could be. Blood was rushing in muscles I didn’t know I had.

“Cuff Me” I screamed without knowing what I was saying. 

“what?”

“ummm, with your cuff, I mean... I... ”

His collar was against my neck. I was confused and excited. But I also had no idea what the hell he could actually do for me. 

“TELL ME,” he demanded. His starch got stiffer and he turned about 12 shades less white.

“uuhhh... shirttail me?” I asked, meekly. 

Again, silence.  Fuck, should I have pretended like he was a guy and not a shirt? did I offend him? I bit my lip again and rolled my eyes while gasping and blushing. mistake.

I screamed as ten thousand pieces of clothing rushed me at once. “Mandy,” I heard the voice but it was lost as I was being pushed back onto the bed by millions of determined threads of cotton. 

“MANDY!”

It’s too late, I thought to myself.  I may never see my fifty shades whiter again.

“Mandy,” the voice was clearer. Clothes were being thrown across the room and a face appeared.  Not like a pretend one on a shirt... the actual face of my loving husband. 

“Seriously? What the Hell are you doing?”  He did not look amused... not even darkly amused. 

“ummm laundry?”

“you should seriously see a doctor.” He gave me a final odd look before marching back out of the room. 

The room was quiet except for the bitching dance moms that had turned into bitching pageant moms.

I rolled my eyes and flushed at my overactive imagination, vowing never to read something so base again.

Something moved. I smiled.  Oh, my fifty...

the end?