Chapter 4 –Sexual Acrobatics

All of my life I've known who I am. Most girls grow up with crushes on boy bands, teen actors, and the like, having posters all over their bedroom walls. Not me. I vividly remember having posters of Monica Bellucci, Winona Rider, and Lucy Lawless taped to the ceiling over my bed. Heck, Lucy Lawless was my number one fantasy girl. I knew who I was early on. I wanted to be Xena Warrior Princess and have my way with Gabrielle.

The one thing I hated growing up were people with bubbly personalities. It always felt like they were that way to hide a dark, candy center. The bubblier they were, the darker the center. It meant they were fake, untrustworthy, and under it all, the most fucked up. Christian and I both felt this way. Heck, in many ways, Christian and I were like twins as we shared the same thoughts on many things.

One night we got drunk in the office after closing a big deal. We compared notes in terms of our personalities, and then he panicked telling me he was adopted and rambled on and on that maybe we were siblings. Yeah, we were really shitfaced that night. He had Taylor go out, get DNA test kits and more booze, and sent them out to make himself feel better. I knew I wasn't related to Christian. I mean, I knew who my biological parents were because they raised me, where they came from, and had an entire family history dating back hundreds of years. It's not a hard thing to do when you are Scottish. We keep track of our clans. He almost seemed disappointed when the results came back negative. My response: you still can't fuck me. Then we laughed.

Back to my girl - Gwen Allen is effervescent, kind, honest, vivacious, high-spirited, and underneath it all, she had a sense of humor that was as fucked up and twisted as mine. There was nothing fake or dishonest about her. I'd say I was wrong, but I'm like Fonzie from Happy Days – I just can't say it. Gwen is petite, blonde, beautiful, intelligent, and perfect in every way. Yeah, I know, I have it bad. Fuck you for pointing it out. Sometimes I hate my self-conscience. She was also quite adventurous in the sack, so we hit it off immediately and never looked back.

What I liked most was the fact that she was meek yet bubbly when you first meet her, then bat shit crazy when you got to know her. Of the two of us, she was the more mature one. She'd moved back to Seattle from New York nearly a year before when her parents were in a horrific accident and needed care. She kept editing books for Harper Collins from her parent's home. The day I met her, she'd finally moved into her own place a few weeks before, as her parents were back up and on their feet. She didn't live more than a few blocks from me.

Our first few weeks of dating consisted of time at the Wildrose, since we were both big sports fans, dinners, museums, and exploring the numerous adult boutiques scattered around Seattle. Hell, Gwen even created her own anonymous web site for lesbians reviewing different boutique products for lesbians. Trust me when I say, we tried them all and in every way possible; hence Ros's first rule when it comes to sex swings – always have a padded area to fall onto when your kinky ass is getting it's freak on, because inevitably you'll try to do something on it that it wasn't meant for and when you fall, break your nose, hand, arm, and wrist plus show up to work with six stitches in your head and a concussion, you either think of a good explanation fast or are forced to tell Christian the truth.

I've learned a basic math truth: hung over Ros + pain meds = not thinking fast on her feet. It was bad enough having to try to find an explanation to give Christian the next day, but the fact that fucking Elliot was in the office with the final plans for the Grey House building that was going to start going up meant that I would never, ever be able to live this down. Naturally Christian picks this time to finally act his age. I wanted to crawl into a cabinet and just die. It's a day that will live in infamy, never to be forgotten.

I woke up the morning after freak fest with a hangover to end all hangovers. The only sick days I'd taken in my entire working career were after I was shot a few months ago. I thought I would go insane sitting in my apartment with nothing to do. The first few weeks at home were the worst – pain meds, being uncomfortable, and not thinking clearly sucked. Christian popped in nightly to see if I needed anything, and had his housekeeper, Mrs. Gail Jones, pulling double-duty as chief cook and bottle-washer at my place and his. She's awesome and banging Jason Taylor. If I swung that way, I'd bang him too. Beneath his CPO, I don't take shit from no one, badass exterior, which is all most people see, resides a caring, hilarious, well-read, trustworthy, asshole, and I consider him a brother. When Welch stepped up as head of Grey Protective Services, Taylor stepped up to run the day-to-day Grey House security, on top of being over all of the CPOs surrounding Christian, his family, and me. I couldn't help but wonder if today would be the day Christian saw the other side of Taylor's personality, or if Taylor would just sit in the background with his boss while Elliot raked me over the coals over my accident.

There are lessons to be learned from my stupidity:

Lesson number 1: Never attempt bedroom acrobatics after seeing a Pink concert. She makes acrobatics look easy, yet it's not. It's fucking dangerous to combine a sex swing, sex toys, and silk acrobatic gear without a safety net, head protection, and careful planning. Gwen was lucky. She landed on top of me. She had a soft, squishy, boobalicious landing. So other than a few bruises that can be hidden by clothing, her pretty face was spared, though I did have an unexpected bite mark on my right boob along with some bruising from her spectacular landing.

Lesson number 2: Don't ever get home from six hours in the emergency room, high as a kite on pain medications, and start drinking. Really – don't do it. Gwen now has blackmail material on me for decades.

Lesson number 3: During a post-concussion drunken evening, and one, always sleep with a garbage pail next to your bed; and two, don't eat Taco Bell and a 7-Eleven Slurpee on the way home from the ER. Enough said on that one. Let your imaginations and color palates run wild. Note to self: order new bedroom carpet.

Lesson number 4: Never EVER and I mean NEVER EVER forget about or neglect personal security. They placed me on the ambulance stretcher, followed me to the hospital, and helped me back home, then filled my prescriptions. It was an incident, so they filed a report. Fucking control freak Christian Grey and his rules! Next time I need to remember to pay off the security team before heading to the ER.

Lesson number 5: Never let Christian and Elliot see that they are getting to you. Elliot will never stop and Christian will enact his revenge for all the crazy shit you've done to him over the years.

Needless to say, I was screwed before I even snuck in the door to GEH early that morning. I normally arrived around seven, but to avoid everyone I arrived at six and locked myself away in my office. If they thought I was busy, they'd leave my sorry ass alone. I needed the time to get my story straight. So here I sat, carefully plotting and planning as I stared blankly at my computer. An appointment pop-up reminder interrupted my thoughts:

Appointment Subject: Grey House – Final Blueprint Review before construction.

Time: 7:30 am

Place: Christian's Office

Attendees: Christian Grey, Ros Bailey, Elliot Grey, and Jason Taylor

15 minutes until meeting commences

Fuck! The meeting was moved up from this afternoon. I was so screwed. I thought I had a few hours to get my story straight and at least try to get myself looking presentable. Right now, I look like shit and that's being polite. No amount of concealer is going to hide two black eyes, though I'll give it my best shot. Nothing is going to hide the swelling around my nose. I'm just grateful it was a minor fracture and didn't leave me looking like Owen Wilson.

It's times like this I wish I was a guy. They don't have to wear fucking make up, or bras, or spend any real time on their hair in the morning. I mean take Christian for example, he rolls out of bed, hit the shower, shave, throws on tighty whities, I imagine anyway, and a suit before running his hands through his hair and he's off to begin his day. Lucky bastard. And me? Shower and shave the old legs, body cream, moisturizer, bra and panties, business suit, tights on occasion, power heels, twenty minutes or more to get fucking make up on, then another thirty to get my hair perfect. That doesn't even include the time I have to spend getting my nails done and certain other parts regularly plucked, buffed, and polished. Fuck socially expected norms! If I were a dude, being smart would just about be enough.

After fifteen minutes of plotting and planning, I decide to go to the meeting without make up, my hair not up to its usual standards, and stoned off my ass on pain medication. I'm going for the sympathy vote. Maybe if I look like shit, they'll have mercy on my soul and not taunt me too much. By now, I have no doubt that Taylor has the whole story and probably shared. Hence the meeting time change. I figure I'm fucked either way, so I get off my sorry ass, groan as I get to my feet and head toward Christian's mausoleum-like bat cave.

As I passed Laura, our shared personal assistant, I could see the look of sympathy on her face as I approached the door. "It's going to suck, isn't it?" I couldn't help but ask her as I rub my temples. No amount of painkillers is going to take away this headache or the body aches. I tell my inner bitch to just grin and bare it. After all, over the years I'd fucked with the brothers Grey and more recently Taylor until I laughed so hard I thought my heart would explode. The shit I did was definitely not workplace appropriate and so worth it. What goes around comes around, so I'm probably fucked.

"Most definitely," was her smirking response. Laura had given her notice a week ago. She was moving to Los Angeles to marry her actor boyfriend of three years. I'd miss her once she was gone. We had three weeks to find a suitable replacement, maybe two as between Christian and I we'd driven her nuts over the last year or so.

I take one final deep breath, which makes me feel nauseated, before I push the door opened. Christian, Elliot, and Taylor are sitting around the meeting table in the corner of Christian's office with the Grey House plans spread out before them. All conversation stops as they turn toward me. The borderline grins that had been on their faces dropped at the sight of me. This was the reaction I was going for.

"Good morning," I muttered and slowly made my way to the table to join them.

"God, you look like shit. How are you feeling?" Christian asked with concern as he grabs his phone and sends a text.

"Just golden."

"After this meeting, I'll have someone take you home. Consider yourself off for the rest of the week," Christian orders. I know that tone of voice, there's no arguing with him. It's the same tone he used on me when I walked into the office two weeks after I got out of the hospital after the shooting.

"So how do the plans look?" I ask

"Rough night Ros? Good thing you have Gwen because no woman in their right mind would take you now," Elliot comments trying to hold back his smirk.

"More stupid ones for you then," I counter. "They are the only type you can get after all."

"Christian and I got you a gift." Christian pulls an envelope from his pocket, while Elliot pulls a large gift- wrapped package from the nearby closet. It's a massive box that I greet with trepidation. I glance over to Taylor, who is struggling to not smile and failing miserably. Dumbass. I can't help but just stare at the box.

"Aren't you going to open it Ros?" Christian asks. "It's not polite to receive a gift and not open it."

My mind is racing. I got back from the ER last night around eleven p.m. so in the roughly eight hours or so since then, how much prep time could they have had. This has got to be something lame, so I decide to open it we can move on with business.

With help from Elliot, I unwrap the box. I'm a natural leftie, so with my left arm, wrist, and hand broken, in a cast, and supported by a sling, doing anything, including wiping my own ass, is a challenge. It fucking sucks the big cannoli. When I pull the top off the box, I fearfully look inside. The first thing I see is a ton of frou-frou, pastel-colored paper with an envelope sitting on top. When I open it, I pull out the contract for an additional million dollars in life insurance that covers hazardous sexual activity and it even includes samples of these activities with drawings. I'll hand it to them its two women doing it in each and every sketch. I can't help but blush at the last drawing or two women, one who looks like me, while the other resembles Gwen harnessed up and ready for action. I can't help it. I laugh.

"You three are such fuckers. I adore you!"

They have the nerve to laugh at me. Taylor pulls a thumb drive from the breast pocket of his suit and hands it to me. "Turn the security camera in your apartment off next time you use your library for extracurricular activities. Also, don't be surprised if the security team can't look you in the eyes for a few days."

"Oh fuck," is all I can mutter over and over in shock. The three of them busted out laughing hysterically. Me? Well, yeah, it was amusing, embarrassing, yet I'm still stoned and in a bit of stunned surprise as they make their smart ass remarks at my expense. I only caught parts of them but I'll give you a few examples – grace of a drunken baby on roller skates; your tattooed ass looks bigger on screen; Gwen is all type of hot; boobs – real or fake, let the debate begin; Christian wanting to use clips as a promotional video for a new company of sex toy assistance videos and what not to do; and, my personal favorite, you definitely nailed the landing.

Christian pushes an envelope toward me with a smirk on his face. "It's a gift certificate for new curtain or blinds - your choice. I'm betting it was quite the show for many at Escala since one of the security cameras from my patio caught a glimpse of your late afternoon sport."

"Fuck!" is still all I can mutter.

"And those fuckers wouldn't let me put it on the web, so you owe them," Elliot fake-pouted.

As I continue rummaging through the box, with Elliot's help, I find: a new sex swing with extra harnesses; dozens of kinkier lesbian sex toys; a video with gift certificate for acrobatic training for both Gwen and I; a sample of a gymnastics matt with a gift certificate attached for a large one; and, first aid ice packs with instructions for where to place it if I take another fall like that again.

"Ice packs?" I ask and they bust out laughing.

"For next time you fall while playing hide the dildo," Elliot laughs hysterically as he pulls the last item from the box – a one-foot by three-foot picture frame with nine four-by-six portrait oriented pictures of the glorious event so it's like watching a cartoon cell-by-cell. Each picture, though humorous, thankfully doesn't reveal any clear visual of our asses, boobs, or pussies.

"I actually think this is my favorite gift ever. You guys are so over the top," I laugh causing my head to pound unmercifully. "It's going in my bedroom. It's embarrassing as all hell, but awesome. It's almost as bad as you took those three babes home Elliot and they handcuffed you to the bed, screwed you senseless, then left you there and I had to come release you."

"Good times Ros, good times," he laughed, while Christian and Taylor looked at him in shock. "Next time you lend me some of your kink-cuffs, remember to give me the keys upfront."

Readers & Writers Unite – Embrace your inner Ros and be bat shit crazy!