This week’s New York Times Best Sellers list is a head-scratcher for me. Number 1? Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James. Number 2? Fifty Shades Darker by E.L. James. Number 3? Fifty Shades Freed by E.L. James. And slipping in at Number 8…yep, it’s the freakin’ Fifty Shades Trilogy by E.L. James. In the event that you have been tied up for the past few months, the Fifty Shades books are filed under Mommy Porn. As I understand it, the “plot” explores the erotic relationship between an inexperienced college co-ed and a slightly older, complicated business man who likes to get his freak on with props. Snore. Consequently, the books now have people in the BDSM, that’s Bondage-Domination-SadoMasochism, community all twisted up that their fetish is being demonized as a psychopathology. But, that’s not who’s snatching these books off the shelves. So. What. Ever.
Here’s a quote from the first book that I found online:
“He grabs me suddenly and yanks me up against him, one hand at my back holding me to him and the other fisting in my hair.
“You’re one challenging woman,” He kisses me, forcing my lips apart with his tongue, taking no prisoners.
“It’s taking all my self-control not to fuck you on the hood of this car, just to show you that you’re mine, and if I want to buy you a fucking car, I’ll buy you a fucking car,” he growls.”
I think that Forever by Judy Blume may have been more titillating and for sure better written. I don’t even know what “fisting my hair” would do besides warrant 15 minutes of “me time” in the bathroom with a bottle of Johnson & Johnson de-tangling spray and a wide-tooth comb. Ouch, now that hurts!
Over the weekend, girlfriend Tracy said that one of her friends had just posted on Facebook that she had gone to her local library in hopes of checking out one of the Fifty Shades books. She landed at number 300 on their list of frugal, horny housewives waiting for the book. Given the subject matter, I am pretty sure that I would want a fresh, unused copy that has not been clutched in over 600 spontaneously self-molesting, public library hands. I don’t want to be glued to those borrowed pages. Ewww.
Have you read one, or gasp, all of these books yet? I haven’t and it is making most of my girlfriends about to crawl out of their skin from frustrating disbelief. “Oh. My. God…you HAVE to read them!” “Read them with your husband…you’ll be so in the mood!” “I couldn’t wait to get home and be alone; you know…” Call me easy, call me predictable or call me consistent, but I still respond enthusiastically to a bottle of red wine and Big Daddy asking, “Did you start working out again?” Really. That’s pretty much the entire how-to manual of getting just about any woman to give it up.