As the movie trailers for Fifty Shades of Grey began appearing on Facebook this week I stopped to reflect on my own interaction with the novel.
I tried reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Honestly. The hype was bubbling around the book like fizzy soda, and avid reader that I am, I inhaled those bubbles and dove right in. For all of maybe 50 pages of 50 shades. Then, I called a friend.
“Hey, you’re reading Fifty Shades of Grey, right?
“Ummm, yes,” she moaned.
“Does it get better?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she cried.
I hung up.
I read another hundred pages. I still didn’t get it. Who was this inner goddess, and why didn’t I have one? Did the inner goddess perhaps serve as a replacement for a personality? Was there supposed to be sexual tension between Mr. Grey and Miss Steele? Did I need to reassess my definition of sexual tension?
I called another friend.
Hey, I’m reading that book you recommended, Fifty Shades of Gray.
All I heard was buzzing in the background.
“Hey!” I said, a little more forcefully. “Does the couple in the book ever actually do anything?”
Our connection must have been bad; the buzzing continued, only more loudly.
I hung up.
“Perhaps I should skip to a sex scene,” I thought.
It was a little difficult to determine exactly where in the book that sex scene took place, though. There were so many rules, regulations, and tools involved. It read more like an orientation for shop class than a sex romp.
I called my husband.
“Hey, Studly,” I said. “Do you think we need a contract for sex?”
“You know, a contract so you can’t be found legally responsible if I get hurt during intimate relations.”
He guffawed. “Intimate relations! That’s a good one!”
I hung up. What a sadist.