I read 50 Shades of Grey.
I’m going to give you a moment to judge me. Judge, judge, judge away.
Done? Okay, good.
I have been known to read a trashy romance book before. I’m not scared of a hot and heavy love scene. I don’t need it for a stimulating sex life, and I am not an erotica consumer. But, I’m not scared of a little smut either. If it’s a good book.
When I picked up 50 Shades before all the hype began, I laughed at the pure elementary level of writing and threw it down. (I know, this coming from me, the queen of the run-on sentence, and if we’re being honest here: she who has basically developed her own version of the English language. I know.) I can read or write a blog with a million errors and have no qualms about it. We don’t employ editors and proof-readers and whole publishing staffs to make sure our shit reads well. We put it down, let spell-check do it’s work, give it a quick once-over and hit publish. I can be a little more forgiving of that process. This is not where I meant to go today.
I finally gave into the peer pressure and read the stupid book. Yes, if my friends jump off of a bridge, there’s a good chance I will follow. I’m weak. I’m really not bothered by graphic sex scenes in a book. No, I don’t watch porn. No, I’m not a tramped up vixen with a torture chamber of love. I’m an as-vanilla-as-they-come house wife with a decent sex life that is not easily made hot and bothered by someone’s silly interpretation of the intimacy between two people who actually love each other. It’s like watching a B grade horror movie and comparing it to a well made blockbuster or film-festival winner. It pales in comparison and is laughable.
The thing that gets me about this book-once, of course, I got over the craptastic writing and 7th grade vocabulary for the erogenous zones- is the freaking bondage. I, admittedly, know nothing about BDSM. I don’t have a use for it, but I also don’t care if there are people who do. Whatever happens in someone’s bedroom (or red room of pain for that matter) is their business, not mine. I personally don’t need someone to be in control of me or vice versa. I’m about the partnership and give-and-take of a relationship. Not one person dominating the other- in the bedroom or in life in general. It’s just not my thing.
Actually, I guess I am a little judgy about it. If I’m being honest, I don’t understand how it can be anyone’s “thing” if they are a healthy individual. Why the shit should you want someone to treat you like a dog? Or small child? And aren’t you a little on the whacked out side if you need to treat someone that way in order to be aroused? I know, I’m going into some territory that I shouln’t. But I can’t help it.
I just can’t wrap my mind around all these women who are hot and bothered over “watching” a woman be treated like a lap dog. Sure, I feel for Mr. Grey and his myriad of issues. I want to know if he overcomes them and becomes (in my view) a “normal” guy that can let his woman touch his chest and not have to tie her up so she has no chance of doing it. I want him to have some resolve in his life. I’m interested in the characters for that reason. I want to read the damn second and third books just to see if these messed up people get their shit together. It’s like watching Celebrity Rehab. It’s a completely ridiculous (and horribly written) train wreck, but I need to know if these people get their lives in order.
I was not once twitterpated (oh yes, I’m pulling out all the vanilla words I can muster) by the “love scenes” between those two emotional misfits. What in the shit is wrong in relationships today that women are flocking to this book for some hot and heavy stimulation? I understand that everyone is turned on by something different. There may be a time here or there that I get a smack on the ass that makes me tingle. What? I’m human. That doesn’t mean I want to invest in whips and puppy dog outfits for my sex chamber. And I sure as hell don’t need to read about it to have a fulfilling romp with my man. What in the shit, people? I can’t understand. I just can’t.
Call me a dried up old prude if you want to. I’m still probably getting more delicious action than you are.
There, I’m done judging. Carry on with your whips and paddles. You freaks.