***UPDATE: All 170 pages of Fifty Shades of Puddin’ is available on Smashwords and Amazon for $1.99. The 5 star rating suggests you should get your copy, too. Just read the review below by a person I didn’t bribe and don’t even know.

You like me! You really like me!!

You like me! You really like me!!

First and foremost, thank you to each and every person who has read this, commented, liked, and passed it on. The response has been amazing and I can’t explain how good it feels to know you’re making people smile, laugh out loud, and on occasion, lose bladder control.

Now, on with the intro (that you’re probably going to skip anyway). I love that people who haven’t read the original Shades of Grey are still enjoying my version, but those who fall into that category are missing out on some of the little jabs I’m taking. I thought I’d fill you in on one of them. You see, in Grey, the author likes to use the same words/phrases over and over and over. This is a writing 101 “no-no”.  But she didn’t just break that rule, she chopped it up into little pieces, fed it to a pack of dogs, and once the dogs crapped it out, she ran over it again with a lawn mower. Yes, that kind of breaking.

To give you an idea of just how much she repeats words, I’m pasting part of the word count Katrina Lumsden took the time to compile in her brilliant review on Goodreads. I’m thinking this will help explain why I repeat phrases about screwing various things and being screwed by various things. It’s my response to EL James’s use of crap and holy this and that.

Word Count sample from the first book, Shades of Grey:
“Oh My” – 79  “Crap” – 101  “Jeez” – 82                                                            “Holy (shit/fuck/crap/hell/cow/moses)” – 172
“Murmur(s)” – 207  “Inner goddess” – 58  “Subconscious” – 82                      “Whisper(s)” – 199  “Mutter(s)” – 51
And in the spirit of repeating: **Go here for Chapter 1 **This is rated R for good reason. **My Wordpess theme took my indentations to Christian Grey’s red room of pain, beat the holy bejeezus out of them, made them say thank you for it, and then force fed them ’til they exploded (true talk).


Chapter 3
Kandy is happier than a pig in shit.
“I knew it would all work out,” she yells over Meatloaf blaring from her car stereo. “I can’t believe he was in the pet store. What on earth was he doin’ there?”
“He was just buyin’ some pet supplies,” I answer.
“Really? So what kind of pets does a rich bachelor have?”
I wish she’d just shut up and drive. “I’m not sure. He bought fish stuff but said he doesn’t have fish. He bought a flea collar but said he didn’t have a dog.” I think about how really strange it all seemed, but then I think about the way his waders curved around his belly and I forget about it. “Oh, but he does have a hamster now.”
“I tell you, knowin’ men the way I do, I think that was just an excuse to see you.”
“Uh, then how’d he even know I’d be there, Matlock?” I know she’s lying, but I have to admit that the idea that he somehow found out where I was and then came to see me makes the hair on my legs quiver.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens at work tomorrow.” Kandy glances over at me like she knows what I’m thinking. “But I think you like him too.”
“Whatever.” I stick my tongue out at her before turning to stare out the window. What if the squirming in my lower gut is me liking him and not worms? I mean, worms are more likely being that they are an occupational hazard for one who works with ferrets, but, what if? What if?

My Kandy-approved work clothes are hangin’ on my closet door but I still feel like my insides are a burlap bag full of cats. When I do sleep, I dream about hamsters riding on the backs of ferrets, goats wearing waders, big thumbs stirring bowls of chili, and a dark corner with a pair of green eyes staring out at me. I wake up three times; twice to pee and once because of the dreams. I’m gonna look like I was rode hard and put away wet by tomorrow.

The office of the trailer park looks the same as when I left it, only without all the blondes running around. I’m nervous and my stomach gurgles as I approach the steps. I made sure not to eat junk food for breakfast this morning like I did before the interview. Just a Pop-Tart and a Yoo-hoo for this professional. I walk up the stairs, trying to balance in the heels Kandy insisted I borrow from her. She’d wanted me to wear one of her dresses too, but I drew the line. Professional women wear pants, so I’m wearing my best pair of leggings with a classy black and white lace print on them.
I open the door and slip into the office. The lights are already on. “Hello,” I call out.
“Ambrosia?” calls Curtis Brown’s voice from the back.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m in my office. Come on back.”
I walk down the same hallway with the same green and white linoleum I had the day of my interview. This time the door to the other office is cracked open and I can see a small little flash going off. What’s goin’ on back there? I slowly push the door open and…Oh, my mashed potatoes and gravy.
Curtis looks like a vision painted by angel hands. His hair is still damp from a shower or sweat, makin’ all the curls really tight and bouncy. What had been unshaved stubble is now trimmed into one of those sexy goatees you usually only see on men who can afford Harley’s or work as bouncers at the highfalutin bars that checks I.D.’s at the door.
His nether regions are covered by a pair of grey sweatpants with the ties undone. The pants hang low enough that the band of his blue-grey camouflaged Fruit of the Looms are peekin’ out like they want to invite me over to play. Red rover, red rover, please send me right over. On top he’s wearing a black and red checked flannel shirt that’s unbuttoned, lettin’ God, me, and the Thomas Kinkade see just a samplin’ of what his mamma and daddy blessed him with.
“Well, I see you found your way here,” he says walkin’ towards me. “I like that level of smarts in a girl.”
I think it’s a compliment but I wonder if he’s forgotten that I’d been here for an interview. I don’t know what to say and I’m really distracted by how hot he looks. Fireman probably show up at his house by mistake all the time.
“I’m glad you’re here. I need some help with something.” His smile sparkles like chrome pipes on a Dodge, and my crotch twitches like Fluffernutter has crawled into my drawers. “As you may know, I am a semi-pro bass fisherman. That keeps me in high demand around these parts. It keeps me in the public eye.”
He stands and stares at me, turning his phone over and over in his hand. I swallow hard and before I know it, my lips have pulled a thick strand of hair into my mouth and I start chewing. He smiles a bigger, crooked smile and the Fluffernutter shuffle starts in my pants again.
“The Society of Semi-pro Anglers of Hog Hollow has asked me to be the featured angler for their quarterly newsletter. They want a picture to put with it.” He pauses, reachin’ up and pulling the hair out of my mouth. “I figured you could help me out with that.”
I nod like a bobblehead riding on the dash of a Civic blazing down a dirt road.
“I thought you could. I mean, the camera might be tricky for you at first, but I figure you’re a fast learner.” He winks. Oh, my Mississippi mud pie. “And I figure a woman’s eye will know best how to capture what my adoring public will want to see.”
“Ok. I took picture takin’ as an elective at the vo-tech. You got an old 35 millimeter or a digital?” I feel real good knowin’ that I’ll be able to help with my first assignment for Curtis Brown, important business man and fishin’ celebrity.
He doesn’t look too impressed with what I’ve said. “Shit no, girl. I got’s me a cell phone that takes pictures. We don’t need those dinosaur fossils you’re blabbin’ about.”
I feel real embarrassed. Why did I have to open my stupid mouth?
He presses the phone in my hand. “You just look at the screen and push the button when it looks good.” He walks back over to his desk and pulls a big can of Crisco out of a drawer. “Now I want you to say ‘prime rib’ before you take each picture so I can be ready.”
“Not cheese?”
“Fuck no. Do I look like a god damn mouse or some French fucker?” he asks, taking a glob of Crisco out of the can. “I’m a carnivore. A grade-A-beef-eatin’ man.” He starts rubbin’ the Crisco between his hands, heating it up before he starts massaging it into his chest. He’s smiling and watching me the entire time. I can’t take my eyes of his thumbs and the beads of oil in his chest hair.
When he’s finished perfecting his glistening sheen, he drops down to the floor and starts doin’ push-ups. He grunts and groans with each one as his body dips to the floor, his man parts almost grazing the linoleum. Lucky linoleum.

“Alright!” He whoops and jumps up. “Let’s give them the pictures they want. Me in my day-to-day life.” He checks himself one last time in the Tennessee Volunteers mirror on the wall before turning those okra-green eyes back on me. “So, how do you want me?”
Deep fried on a biscuit with a side of… It takes me a second to realize he’s asking me where I want him for the pictures. “Oh…uh, how ‘bout sitting at your desk?”
“That’s boring. Folks don’t want to see that. They want to see the real Curtis Brown. Folks want a glimpse at the life they can only dream about.” He walks to the back wall where the three deer heads are mounted.  He leans back against the wall, placin’ his head between the two biggest. He puts his hands on his hips, making sure his shirt is good and open. He gives me a nod and then settles his mouth into a yeah-I-killed-these-fuckin’-deer smirk. I raise the phone and center him in the screen.
“Prime rib.” Click.
He turns and tries another pose and I take it. Then another and another. The only noises are my shouts of “prime rib” and the click of the phone. I notice he’s breathin’ harder. I had no idea that modeling would be so strenuous. He reaches up and yanks a deer head from the wall. He holds it in front of his crotch. His hands are gripping the antlers so it looks like the buck is springing forth from his love junction. The deer’s glass eyes are lookin’ out at me like he really is getting’ a back-door visit from a stranger, but Curtis looks like he’s in his natural habitat.
“That’s good,” I say. I can tell he’s really gettin’ into it, and I’m gettin’ into it too. “Yeah, turn your head just a little. Give that look again. Yeah, that’s it.” Click…click…click.
He tosses the deer head on the couch and goes to his desk. He shoves all the papers off on the floor and crawls on top. He lays on his side, propped up on an elbow. I take some more pictures. I can’t believe how much I’m liking this. I never had this much fun in class. Maybe if I’d been shootin’ Curtis Brown instead of tractors and cows I would have done better than a C. Of course tractors and cows didn’t make me feel like varmints were wrestlin’ in my pants neither.
“Get on all fours,” I tell him. He looks a little surprised but then he turns and does what I said. “That’s right. You’re a car-nee-vore. A big panther. Show those other fishermen what makes you the man in the newsletter.” It’s like I have no control of what’s comin’ out of my mouth.
He’s on his hands and knees smack in the middle of his desk. He pulls up one of his hands like it’s a claw and swipes at the air. “Roooaaaar,” he says, showin’ his teeth.
“That’s right! You’re a big ol’ mountain panther and you’re gonna go catch you some prime rib.” My words sound like I’m a cat purring. “Catch that rib, baby. Catch it!”
He tosses his head back and let’s a genuine panther scream blast from his throat. He pounces off the desk and onto the couch. He wrestles the deer head with his finger-claws and then sinks his teeth into the deer’s ear.
I lower the phone and we nod at each other, knowin’ that there’s no way we can get more perfect than that. He stands up from the couch and begins buttoning his shirt.
“After all that work, I think you should join me for a snow cone,” he says, running his still greased hand through his curls.
In the name of George Walker Bush and the virgin Mary, is he asking me out? My unconscious wakes up and karate chops me in the neck. What the fuck do you think?Does he got to spell it out in Cheez-It’s for you?
I slowly nod. “Ok.”

Curtis takes my wrist, leads me out of the office, and locks the door behind us. Before we even reach the bottom of the stairs, a golf cart skids to a stop in front of us. It’s all tricked out to look like a black, miniature H2. Between the spectacular vehicle and the fact that Curtis Brown is leading me around by the wrist, my heart is doin’ the Cotton-eyed Joe.
But before I can figure out what all I’m feeling, a little man dressed in all black leaps out of the cart. He does a running-roll like you see in action movies and then leaps up, spinning around and pointing a paintball gun up at the trees and around every corner like we’re about to be attacked by flying monkeys or liberals. What makes the scene all the more confusing is that… he’s a midget.
“The area is clear, Mr. Brown, sir,” he says in a high-pitched voice.
“Thank you, Trent.” Curtis looks at the Rambo munchkin like he’s a dog that just performed some really special trick. I still can’t believe I’m seeing a dwarf in real life.  I thought the only ones who existed were famous circus folk or on reality television shows. Curtis must be Jerry-Jones-rich if he can afford his very own midget.
“Trent, I need you to drive me and Miss Wood over to Frosty Balls one.”
“Yes, sir. Right away sir,” he barks like one of those little schnitza-doodle dogs. He marches off to the driver’s seat of the cart, the sun glinting off his carrot-orange, buzz-cut mohawk.
Curtis leads me by the wrist to the back seat of the Hummer cart. I climb in and as soon as Curtis is seated Trent takes off. My heart is still boot-scootin’ in my chest and my stomach feels like the cats are back for mating season. I cannot believe that little, ex-convict me is going for a snow cone with Curtis Brown. I don’t even eat snow cones; they give me gas.

We weave through the park and I get a good look at what is Brown’s domain. He truly is the top predator in this food chain. But why would a man like him want to take me for an ice and syrup treat?
Trent drives us past the Brown Hill towing office and then across the parking lot where the biggest of the Frosty Balls Snow Cone Shacks sits next to some picnic tables, a dumpster, and a row of port-a-potties. As soon as we come to a stop Brown jumps out and pulls me along. I eyeball the blue plastic outhouses and realize that maybe what I thought was nerves might actually be the Pop-Tarts and Yoo-hoo working their way to an exit.
“I need to use the restroom,” I mumble.
“Sure thing.” Curtis says, leading me over to the first of the toilets. He yanks the door open and we both jump back with surprise.
Inside are two old people goin’ at it like jackrabbits. They jump apart so fast they almost tip the potty over. The woman starts tuckin’ her boobs back into her tube top while the old man pulls up what looks to be his adult diaper. Curtis and I stand back as they push their way out and start walking real fast towards a shopping cart full of aluminum cans parked nearby.
Curtis starts laughing and shakes his head. “What is it about portable shitters?”
I smile. I like the way he looks when he laughs. My cooter clenches reminding me that I have business to attend to. I go to the next potty and let myself in. While my bladder is releasing its store, I get a minute to catch my breath and control the shit-eatin’ grin I have on my face. I just took pictures of Curtis Brown and then pretty much watched some live geriatric porn with him. Screw me in a pot of grits. It’s turning out to be a damn good day.

Brown is waiting for me at the snow cone stand when I come out. He looks like a vision from a CMT special. He’s so beautiful it almost hurts to look at him, like I’m staring at the sun. I glance up as I walk over and find that Trent has somehow climbed onto the roof of the little shack and is laying on his stomach looking through binoculars with his gun in his other hand.
“So, what can I do you for?” he asks, a fresh toothpick in his mouth.
For just a second I feel like I got hit by a Peterbilt. Did he just ask if he could do me? Luckily, my unconscious is still awake and cranky. No, you dumb, white bitch. What flavor snow cone do you want?
“I like lemon,” I answer.
Curtis turns to the girl behind the counter. “One yellow snow and one witch’s tittie.”
The girl takes her time sizing me up. She’s blonde and looks like she’s probably in high school at best. Her eyebrows are pierced as well as her lip. While she makes the snow cones she keeps her eyes locked on Curtis and starts playing with the barbell she has in her tongue. I don’t know if it’s just me, but it looks like she’s comin’ on to Curtis. It ain’t just you, fuck-tard. Bitch wants his junk. I wish my unconscious would go back to sleep.
“Let’s go sit down.” Curtis takes the snow cones and walks to one of the picnic tables. We sit down and he starts licking his snow cone with long slow strokes. I’m scared of what the frosty dessert is going to do to my already twisting tummy, so I take small, little licks. My tongue darts in and out like a lizard. He starts rubbin’ his thigh with his firm, rippling thumb again.
“So, was that big colored man your boyfriend?” he asks.
I’m shocked and not sure what he’s talkin’ about at first. Then it hits me. “Oh, do you mean JuJu?” I start to giggle. He must be joking. “No. Why would you think that?”
His face is suddenly more serious. “I don’t know. Maybe it was the way he kept grabbin’ your ass.”
I can tell he’s not happy and I remember how pissed-off he looked at the pet store when he saw us together. “No. He’s a really good friend. In fact he’s more like my sister.” I figured anyone could tell that JuJu liked boys the second they met him.
Brown just stares coldly at me like I’m either really stupid or he’s really mad. “Ok. If he’s not your boyfriend, who is?”
“Nobody. I don’t have one.” I feel like I’m a toddler that got her hand smacked but doesn’t know why.
“Why? Do boys scare you?”
He takes a long, slow lick. “Do I scare you?”
What do I say to that? “I’m not sure yet.”
“I should scare you. I scare most common people,” He says leaning back against the table. “It’s hard for people to get use to bein’ around somebody as blessed as me. When you’re in the presence of somebody who God just obviously loves a little more than the rest, it can be intimidating. You know, like with Jesus. I’m sure folks never felt like they could get comfortable enough around him to scratch their ass or tell some good Jew jokes.”
I’m not sure what to say. Even my unconscious seems to be at a loss of words. But Curtis isn’t. He keeps on talkin’.
“But I only want you to be half scared of me. The other half I want to trust me.” He winks at me and all the creepy weirdness just floats away. Rich, hot guys are just different, I tell myself.
“Do you have any sisters?” he asks.
What? “One brother.”
“Your parents?”
“Mamma lives in Mississippi and daddy lives in Louisiana with his sixth wife.”
He looks at me like he’s waiting for more so I keep going.
“Daddy left when I was five because of Mamma having that sleep-eating disorder and my brother being born a half-wit. I still remember the day my daddy left. I felt like my heart—“
“Yeah, yeah. I got it,” he interrupts. We sit there in silence as he eats his cone. I can’t help but glance up at Trent on the roof.
“Who…or what is Trent?” I ask.
“My bodyguard. A man can’t get to my position in life without making a few enemies.”
“Oh. Well, do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Both. Gerry is my brother. He’s a certified marijuana farmer. He grows ganga for the government so people in California with fucked-up eyes and other diseases can get high on doctor’s orders.”
“Your sister?”
“She’s going to some fancy circus school in Florida,” he mumbles. “Tell me about Burt Reynolds.”
He changes the subject so quick it startles me. “What about him?”
“You said your thing was Burt Reynolds movies. Tell me about all that.”
“I just always loved his movies. I watched them with my dad when I was real little. Smokey and the Bandit, Cannonball Run, Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.” I start to smile thinking about the times I would sit on my Daddy’s lap and take sips of his beer while we watched those movies. I take another lick of my snow cone wishing it was an Old Milwaukee. A glob of the lemon ice drips down my mouth and chin.
Brown reaches over real slow and runs the side of his big, throbbin’ thumb across my lips and chin, scraping off the syrup. He then takes his tongue and licks his thumb just like it was his snow cone. He shoves the whole thing in his mouth and sucks on it, keepin’ those cold, serpent eyes fixed on me. Way down in the dark places of my tummy, I feel like somebody’s playing me like a squeezebox.
He slips his thumb out of his mouth. “Tell me about your name.”
“Ambrosia?” I whisper.
“Isn’t that the name for that fancy puddin’ old ladies serve at Christmas and funerals. Then one with nuts and shit in it?” he asks, lookin’ at me from under his furry brows.
I nod. “Yeah, Ambrosia is the name for the food all those Greek gods ate on Mount Olympics.”
His smile comes back. The one that makes my panty ferret want to leap out and start humpin’ his face. “That makes sense. A man like me should only eat puddin’ made for gods.”
Oh, my chicken-fried steak. Is he sayin’ he likes me? My unconscious yanks a wad of my hair out. No, you dumbass cracker. He wants to do a tongue-tornado in your rodent-infested crotch.

“Time to go.” Brown suddenly stands up and grabs the remains of my dripping cone and throws it in the trash. Trent disappears off the roof but comes around the side of the shack. It scares me. He’s like a tiny ninja.
‘Trent, we’re gonna walk for just a bit.” Curtis strolls along towards the trailer park and I try to keep up in my heels.
“So, you got a girlfriend or what?” I spit out. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Curtis smiles. “Hell, no. I ain’t got no girlfriends. Every set of titties is attached to a soul-suckin’, fun-killin’ leech. I’m too young, rich and hot to suffer with that shit.”
The hope in my heart, which had felt like a dandelion bloomin’ in the sun, shrivels up like it has just been doused with gasoline. His sweet, Karo Syrup words and the way he’d hung on to my wrist and wiped the snow cone off my chin had made me think that maybe—just maybe, he liked me for more than a jail-bird secretary.  I suddenly feel like I have to get away.
“Thanks for the frosty ball. I gotta go.” I start clicking off as quick as I can in Kandy’s infernal hooker shoes.
“Shit fire, Ambrosia!” screams Curtis.
I snap my head up just in time to see a grocery cart full of aluminum cans flyin’ down the hill strait at me. The two old people we caught screwin’ in the port-o-pot are runnin’ after it. I freeze. My unconscious is off doin’ her nails and the rest of my brain has abandoned me too. Please, somebody save me.
The cart crashes into my shins and flips over with me tangled up in it. “Mother-fuck-beaver-twat-ass-licker-cum-whore!!!!” I’m buried under a pile of stinky, sticky cans. My palms are skinned up and I’m pretty sure I pulled something in my ass when I landed. I want to die.
Hands reach through the cans and pull me up. It’s Curtis. I try to get my bearings but I hear screaming and I know it’s not me anymore. I look over and see Trent shooting the hell out of the old people with his paint gun. They’re splattered in fluorescent colors and jumping around like they’re being stung by wasps.
Curtis yanks me into his arms and pushes my cheek against his chest. “Don’t look. Your blue eyes don’t need to see the ugly that goes on in my world.”
I feel safe and warm buried in his Crisco treated chest hair, but I pull my face away and look into his eyes. For the first time since that jail guard offered me a pack of smokes, I wanted to kiss someone. I wanted his fat tongue to probe my tonsils like they were part of an alien abduction.

Sorry. There used to be a link here to chapter 4 (the gross-awesomest thing I’ve ever written), but now you have to purchase the book to read it. I know, but a girl has to be able to pay for her neccessities like Crisco and ribs. But to keep you from feeling totally deprived, here’s the link to another Ambrosia story, The Hunger Camp. Enjoy.