Synopsis
Felix Cramer is a dashing, eccentric and effeminately gay poet who adores his life. That is, until he wakes up in the parking lot of a national chain coffee shop and discovers not only does he have a new identity, his old life has been erased.
Felix hasn’t a clue why it has happened.
Bound and determined to prove who he is, he embarks on a path of danger, mystery and scandalous behavior and will stop at nothing to reclaim his life. That is, of course, if his old life actually did exist.
Forty-Nine Shades of Pink is a comedic story of one man’s struggles. While it contains adult themes, it does not contain any graphic sex. (Sorry about that)
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Shade One – Shades of a Dark Pink
Sweet Jesus, what happened?
One moment I was in front of the
coffee shop, giggling like a school girl playing with my whipped topping; the
next I was on the ground beside my car.
People stood in a circle above me.
They stared down at me, not with compassion but with perplexity. I suppose I
would do the same. Probably thinking, “Who is this big man in a pleasant yellow
shirt lying there?”
Had I
fainted? It was rather hot, but heat
never made me faint. Plus, fainting isn’t a very manly thing to do to in
public. I reserved that for when I was with friends; even then, it was
triggered by a nervous reaction or bad smell.
But I
didn’t recall any of those occurring.
“Mister,
are you okay?” a voice asked.
Before I
answered, before I said anything, I glanced downward to make sure I hadn’t wet
myself or done anything else disgusting. That would be embarrassing. Had I done
so, I’d close my eyes, be nonresponsive and wait for the paramedics. At least
those who hovered would dismiss my bodily misgivings as part of a seizure.
I
inconspicuously peeked down … dry. I clenched my butt checks … nothing there.
I was good.
Possibly a bad pose on the concrete was all I had to contend with.
“Look, he
has sunburn on one side of his face,” someone said. “Wow. How long has he been
here?”
Gasp. No
one had seen me fall? How long was I there? Not only was I on the ground but I
was lopsided in color. How pathetic.
Apparently,
they were waiting for help, because not a single person offered me assistance.
Don’t move
the man in the yellow shirt, they probably shouted.
“I’m fine.”
I muttered. “I think.”
“Stay put,
don’t try to move,” I was instructed.
Who said
what, I didn’t know; I had more people gathered around me in my fallen state
than I had at my last poetry recital. Perhaps with such an engaged audience, it
was time to spew forth titles of my poetry books.
“Fallen
leaves. Paperback. 7.99. Amazon.”
“Someone
get him water! He’s speaking nonsense.”
Great. I
sighed and just rested back.
Really,
what did happen? Things were fuzzy on how I had even got to the car.
I quite
clearly remember sitting outside the coffee shop. I brought my own folding
chair because their metal ones were not only uncomfortable but wrinkled my
pants.
The whipped topping was delightful,
I remember that. They made it special for me, adding a dash of mint for the
cool tingling feel against my tongue. Perfect on top of my frozen latte. It
dazzled my mouth, and I moaned out an ‘mmm’ as I engaged in conversation with
my best friend, Cee.
Cee, of course, isn’t her real
name. It’s Simone. When I first met her a decade before, I told her that there
was absolutely no way I was calling her Simone. It just brought visions of a
sloppy tribal woman eating half-raw chicken with her fingers. Grease dribbling
everywhere.
Yuck.
Cee was a blessing at the time when
I met her, simplistic and fun. The type of woman who always seemed to be in
dire need of a makeover, even if she just had one. Mainly because she really
didn’t care and let the new look quickly slip back into the plain Jane realm.
Perhaps that was why she didn’t get
my pleasure over the whipped topping.
“It can’t be that good,” she said.
“Simply amazing,” I replied. “Would
be wonderful on a penis.”
She choked and coughed out my name,
“Felix.”
“No, I’m serious. Not a big penis,
that would be too much. A small one, it would be like one of those tiny
desserts that hit the spot.”
She didn’t reply, she only laughed.
“That’s right,” I told her, “you’re
a Catholic girl, you don’t do those things. I used to be a Catholic girl, but
they wouldn’t let me wear the skirt so I went to public school.
That was when I saw him. He brushed into my chair, said excuse me, and kept walking. I don’t know what he looked like but the rear view of his body was divine. His clothes were expensive. I could tell those things; I had designer radar.
That was when I saw him. He brushed into my chair, said excuse me, and kept walking. I don’t know what he looked like but the rear view of his body was divine. His clothes were expensive. I could tell those things; I had designer radar.
“Cee, look at him. He’s a dream,”
She shrugged, not very impressed.
“You only see him from behind.”
“And your
point.”
“Felix, eat
your whipped cream.”
And I did.
I finished it all before taking a sip of my drink. But from that moment on, I
remember nothing. Nothing until I opened my eyes on the dirty ground.
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