The Real Christian Grey is Dead
FICTION FICTION FICTION. THIS IS FICTION, PEOPLE. I HAVE ALSO NEVER READ FIFTY SHADES OF GREY I SWEAR.
Since the release of the first Fifty Shades of Grey book, I was hooked. I wanted a real life Christian Grey: a man with power, money, an insatiable thirst for my body, and evident mommy issues. I was looking for the real deal and modern technology was going to help me get it. It could happen, right? With over seven billion people on the planet, this person must exist. I took my guilty pleasure too far — just how I like it.
I needed to start somewhere. I tweaked the age range on my dating profile and listed in great detail what I was looking for:
I AM LOOKING FOR A REAL CHRISTIAN GREY. IF YOU HAVE MONEY, POWER, MOMMY ISSUES GALORE, AND A SEX DRIVE LIKE THE FORCE OF A CATEGORY FIVE HURRICANE, MESSAGE ME. DO NOT WASTE MY TIME IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE BOOK. IF YOU’VE JUST SEEN THE MOVIE, THEN THAT’S OKAY.
My OkCupid inbox had flooded by the end of the day and one man in particular had caught my eye.
I floated up the escalator to the second level of the Hilton in Times Square, where my potential Christian Grey chose to meet. His name was Mr. Bloom and his photos made him look like a sophisticated character from Mad Men. I wouldn’t say he was full Don Draper. Maybe a young Roger Sterling with a hint of Peggy Olson. Good enough.
It was only five o’clock, so I didn’t know what to expect on such an early date. The little black dress I borrowed from my roommate began to ride up as I walked towards the hotel restaurant. It was a peculiar spot for a date, but I was up for anything.
“I’m here to meet Mr. Bloom. It’s a little early, so I think we’re probably just getting happy hour drinks,” I said.
“There is no happy hour at the Hilton,” she said.
She led me through an empty dining room to a table in the sunlight. There sat a man wearing side shield sunglasses. In case you didn’t know, side shield sunglasses are widely known as “old people sunglasses.” They’re thick, black, and they wrap around from ear-to-ear to block even the most mild rays of sunshine from such delicate eyeballs. They look impenetrable.
“Wait no,” I said looking to the hostess as she scurried away.
The pile of death seated at the table was familiar though. The white sunlight highlighted his liver spots, but also a very familiar jaw line. It looked so similar to the pictures I had seen on Mr. Bloom’s profile. With plenty of resistance, it became clear my date’s “vintage” pictures on his profile were not due to the use of a hip filter, but literally vintage photographs of himself from decades ago. This wasn’t happy hour. This was a regular dinner time for a senior citizen.
“Mr. Bloom?”
He didn’t respond. I looked to see what he was staring at out the window. It was an animated M&Ms billboard across the street. The red and yellow M&M’s danced with glee as my world crumbled. Those fucking M&Ms mocked me. Mr. Bloom’s head drifted and slid off his hand it was resting on. He fell against the window and sprung up.
I watched him slowly — slowly — come back to reality. I could see the wheels turn as he tried to figure out where he was, why he was there, and, possibly, who he was.
“Uh — are you Mr. Bloom?”
“Yes. Pardon me, I just dozed off for a moment. Please sit. Please sit down.”
He took off his sunglasses and revealed his cataracts.
“You know, I don’t think this is — ”
“Don’t be silly, my dear. You’ve come all this way and you look so nice. Have a seat.”
It’s true. The trip all the way to Time Square, the pulsating zit on New York, couldn’t go to complete waste. With regret, I took a seat. I stared at him and tried to understand how I could be so wrong about this match. Mr. Bloom’s photos were decades off. I had been bamboozled. BAMBOOZLED.
“Ready to order?” said our waiter.
“I’ll have the caesar salad with extra dressing. Don’t be stingy either, I mean extra,” Mr. Bloom said.
“Wine. Just wine,” I said.
After two glasses of the Hilton’s finest red, I remembered the mission. I was set on finding a real live Christian Grey, no matter the age. Maybe Mr. Bloom was dark and witty, like Larry David if you added half of a century. I could get into that. He could have some tricks up his liver-spotted-sleeve. I’m looking for someone with experience and he’s probably been treated for syphilis multiple times.
“My dear, I’m so happy you came. It’s so hard to find younger women to date. As soon as you popped up on Octocupid— ”
I have a tendency to tune out older white men, so, that’s when I stopped paying attention. He reminded me of my childhood dog, Humphrey. My parents had to put him down because of a bladder infection that wouldn’t heal due to his old age. Humphrey and Mr. Bloom had the same cloudy eyes.
“Yes, well, you were quiet a find. Setting your age range to at least eighty? Well, aren’t you an openminded broad? And you shall be rewarded,” he said pointing his knife at me.
His chapped lips were lathered in salad dressing. Each word exiting his mouth was accompanied by a rocket of creamy saliva.
“So, you’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey?” I asked
“No, but I saw the movie. You said that was acceptable on your profile. Well, I actually had to watch it twice because I fell asleep through the whole thing the first time. What an expensive nap! Movie tickets aren’t as cheap as they used to be.”
“You mean when they were a nickel?”
He laughed and dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin from his lap. Clearing his throat sounded like a dying crow cawing its last caw. As he slid his hand across the table and I slowly retracted mine.
“Relaaaaaax. Here have some more wine. My doctor says I can’t have any because my heart will probably explode, but you should have as much as you like.”
I stared out the window at a giant Olive Garden sign in the distance. It twinkled as the familiar words “When you’re here, you’re family” glowed. It was silent now. I suddenly realized I hadn’t heard Mr. Bloom’s monotonous voice in a while. I turned to find him in a peaceful slumber. I stood up, chugged the wine remaining in my glass, grabbed the rest of the bottle I had started, and walked out.
When I arrived home in Brooklyn, I walked up the stairs, passed my apartment, and headed to the roof. I lit the communal grill and held my copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. This wasn’t the life for me. I wasn’t money or sex hungry. I just wanted to feel alive and after sitting next to Mr. Bloom, I knew I’d never need that validation again. I squeezed lighter fluid onto the grill and tossed that cursed book into the rising flames. Red wine dripped down my chin and I watched it all burn. Christian Grey was dead to me that day. Mr. Bloom also might have died, too, but Christian was definitely gone.
