Ms 50 Shades of Grey

After her third unsuccessful Tinder date, Alison’s inner goddess is doing the lonely merengue with some bean-flicking moves on her cat-haired covered couch. Her thirsty loins have been inflamed by 50 Shades of Grey, and she yearns for a powerful deviant to smash her inner dam wall and let the river of feminine desires flood her Victoria’s Secret underwear.

Oh, Christian Grey, she thinks, while she strums herself like an acoustic wanker around a campfire. Having smashed out her third lady-wank for the evening, Alison decides she simply has to see the movie. She assembles the dildo-squad: the usual suspects of unlucky-in-love hens that are also captivated with letting a wealthy man choke-hold them while giving their arses a lesson in sensual thumb-packing. Just like a romantic rugby scrum with NRL legend John Hopoate.

Alison slips on a sexy black dress and carefully perfects her makeup. You never know if there is going to be a bum-hungry billionaire at Garden City Hoyts after all. They giggle, blush and smile at each other through the unadulterated tripe that makes Adam Sandler’s Waterboy look like an Oscar-winning masterpiece. A room full of doughy-eyed woman slosh out of the cinema in underwear that is destined to be discarded. Thoughts of bondage and being dominated fill Alison’s head as she drives home from the movie. She yearns for her own billionaire flavoured cockpop.

She is in luck, a man posing next to his Audi contacts her on Tinder. She hopes the man’s fantasies are unconventional. She arranges to catch up with her Mr Grey. They meet up at Funtastico, and she discovers that her Mr Grey is a balding used car salesman who is driving around in an Audi from his lot. 50 Shades of Grey has pumped her womanly super soaker to the point of no return, she needs sensual man-meat to trigger her tank and explode in a wet mess of literature-influenced yumminess. He invites her back to his Como rental. That would ruin her fantasy. “No, take me in your Audi”.

The baldy man tries to take charge but comes off as authoritarian as a cross-eyed substitute teacher on the last day of school. Her fantasy is almost dead, and then baldy drives his salivary finger up her sacred lower cave, “oh fuck no, get your finger out of there you pig!” His wayward finger was the nail in his own coffin.

Looks like baldy had a lack of funds and the bank of life rejected that particular dirty deposit!