By now everyone in the world, their cousins, their co-workers, possibly the Pope, and even you, (yes you!) has read Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James. I live in New York, and there was a period of time where all you saw were feverish women on the train flipping through the sea of “Grey” colored paperbacks and kindles on their, now too short, commute to and from work. It was basically like watching porn on an iPad on a crowded train. Not literally, but the book’s reputation was pretty notorious, and if you saw someone reading it you also knew their thighs were clenched so tight they could set off sparks. I was one of them.
I was so excited to start reading this book. See, I love sex. I love having sex. Good sex, rough sex, soft sex, yummy sex, all sex. I love talking about sex. I love looking at sex. I love thinking about sex, while having sex as I’m watching sex with a side order of sex. So I was very excited to start reading about sex, in some place other than my OkCupid incoming messages from creeps and strangers. It’s important that I make that very clear because what I’m about to say will shock you.
This book is preposterous.
Almost as preposterous as E.L.’s use of synonyms. Sort of like the word: preposterous. These giant words flowing out of the mouths of EVERY character in the most insignificant parts of the book—mostly during their inner monologues—was jarring. For example: “I brusquely towel-dry my hair and try desperately to bring it under control” Seriously? You want me to believe that a girl with frizzy hair who wears pants on dates and doesn’t own a computer, would just bust out the word “brusquely?” No. Sorry. You have a thesaurus nearby, E.L, we get it. Stop beating us over the cranium with it already.
Aside from the adjective abuse, I also took umbrage with the fact that it’s 2011 and the lead character, who is at a University, somehow manages to get by her entire scholastic existence without the use of a computer or email? Really? Ok. That seemed a bit ridiculous and rather pointless to the plot, but mainly I wondered, “WHERE IS THE SEX?” Like in porn, I expected the sex to roll out before character development or “plot.” I mean, c’mon who was actually reading this for the story? And then I got to their “first time.” More importantly, her first time. Ever.
Are you fucking kidding me? Is this book science fiction or fanfiction? Spoiler alert: Anastasia Steele gives her very first blow job to a man in a bath. Does she have gills? How is this humanly possible? I’ll tell you what—it isn’t. A person can hold their breath, for how long on average? 30 seconds? A minute? Right. Who was the last man that came from a blow job in under 2 minutes? Especially a guy that’s getting his knob slobbed on the daily by bitches who he contractually binds into working out 3-5 times a week. Give me a break! Not to mention that although it was little misses’ first blow job ever, she was also AMAZING at it. Miraculously…on her first try…right. This amphibious fallacio was just too much of an insult to my intelligence, my womanhood, and my self respect. It had taken me 15 years to perfect the blow job, there were many penises I’d have to experiment with—most of them regrettable—to get to the skills I now had, I was not going to be convinced that this awkward mess of a chick nailed it on her first try and with the world’s most beautiful, albeit submerged, penis. Nope. It was just beyond silly. And silly sex isn’t what this book promised, dammit. I wanted hot-awesome-sexy-sex between human beings, not sea creatures.
I put the book on a time-out for a few days after that, like the disappointing boyfriend that it had become. But my curiosity got the best of me, and like with disappointing boyfriends—when you get horny enough you’ll forgive pretty much anything. So I read on.
I won’t go into the references to her “inner goddess,” which you’d only suspect a 50 year old yoga enthusiast post a soul-finding trek to India would mention, because it would be redundant.
Instead I will discuss the last straw which came in the form of a sexual encounter that began with Christian Grey feeding mouthfuls of wine to Anastasia like a momma bird. Please, NO. I really can’t think of anything less sexy. That was it. The book had done everything it could to annoy, upset, and kill my lady boner before Grey’s BDSM contract had even been signed.
That was it. I tossed the book across my room. Fired up the laptop and put on some YouPorn—where people have good ol’ raunchy sex without the nonsense.
However, if they cast Alexander Skarsgard or Alex Pettyfer as Mr. Grey, I’m totally going to see the movie. Twice.