Fifty Shades of… seriously?

I’m just jealous. I’m sure that’s it.

E.L. James is livin’ the dream, making a ton of money off her writing in a very clever, and carnal kind of way, and I am not. I am Fifty Shades of Green.

In case you have been living under a rock (or under a huge pile of butt plugs and S&M manuals) Fifty Shades of Grey is a phenomenon, titillating and arousing women (and their grateful partners) the world over. It is porn, thinly disguised as romance, all neatly tied up in shackles and silk ties on a four poster bed where the empowered female libido can stretch her languorous self in the hopes of a good rousing spanking.

My butt cheeks burn with furtive glee.

The problem is… well, there are a lot of problems. Involving carabiners and cat-o’-nine-tails mostly.  But the main problem is the believability of it all. And the smouldering. There’s an awful lot of smouldering.

At no point in my virginal, pre-intercourse, pure-as-the-driven-snow romantic life did I ever consider signing a contract promising that I would not poop on my partner, or insert sharp objects into his anus. (I don’t think I knew at that point in my life that things could go into anuses. A fact I am still staunchly willing to uphold. That is an outy. Not an inny.)

This is why I simply cannot jump onto the band wagon that is Fifty Shades of… seriously?

At twenty-one Anastasia has never been drunk, never had a boyfriend, never had sex, and she is blithely considering  signing a contract basically saying romance is dead, you can’t pee without me telling you where and when and how much and oh, by the way, this is gonna hurt?

And don’t look me in the eye. Or touch me. And you have to call me Sir while I whip you.


So real.

So, he tickles her nipples and she comes. Impressive. After nursing four babies I am obviously out of my league with these kinds of athletics.

I’m just jealous. Not of her, Ana-beat-me-with-a-stick-stasia. She is a twit, and a twat, and a tool… I prefer my man to have a brain, a conscience and a gentle side, so I am perfectly happy to leave her to the smouldering Grey with his just-fucked hair.  (I have a problem with repetition in novels. Use a good word once, then move on. You don’t reuse condoms, so don’t reuse vocabulary… although at one point Grey ties up a used condom and puts it in his pocket, which I think is quite gross.)  I’m jealous because EL James is becoming a millionaire over the sweaty shattering of her heroine’s libido, while I am still a dime store wannabe who has trouble having her heroine kiss the hero, never mind tie him up and flog him with a paddle.

I hesitate to be critical of a real author’s writing, especially a millionaire author who can dream up grisly acts of delight involving anal fisting.  Do I really want her as an enemy? I am especially hesitant to offer criticism of the craft when I am not famous, not worthy and not sure what genital clamps actually are. I obviously have huge gaps in my education which leave me with little room to judge much of anything.

I just wish every orgasmic experience didn’t leave the character shattered. First into a thousand pieces, then into a million pieces… my God the poor woman! It must be exhausting having to pick herself back up and rearrange all those sweaty pieces, because he sure isn’t going to. He’s too busy waxing his butt plugs. And then there’s the lip biting. It must be absolutely shredded because it’s her response to everything… he’s looking at me, chew chew chew… he’s not looking at me, chew, chew, chew.  Christian-fuck-me-with-a-chainsaw-Grey finds it sexy, I just find it boring. Couldn’t she scratch her brow, or twirl her hair, or make condom balloons, just to change it up a little? Chew, chew, chew. She won’t eat a full meal but she’ll gnaw on that bottom lip like Big Bubba Joe on All You Can Eat Wing Night at Alley Nine.

I just wish the plot were slightly more believable. Ok, way more believable.  The poor horn-queen can’t even say vagina, but she has no problem shoving weird ball things up her hoo hoo. “My muscles clenched deliciously down there.”

Down there? Where? The bargain basement of Giant Tiger?

(Oh come on, we all know what a hoo hoo is. Sheesh.)

I just wish there were a metaphor or two, maybe a simile here and there, to give it some literary weight. How about:  “I chewed my lip like a beaver, while he whipped mine with a leather switch.” Or perhaps: “His just-fucked hair and my just-fucked hair smouldered in tangled abandon on the precipice of a shattering avalanche of sated flesh and anal beads.”

No? This is why I am jealous. How am I ever going to make my millions as an author?

I just wish he wasn’t always smouldering, or looking at her with hooded eyes, and I wish they would play chess, or do crosswords, or go fishing instead of this incessant fucking that is going on. Not that there’s anything wrong with a good fucking. But crosswords can delay Alzheimer’s. Ponder that for a moment.

I just wish I had thought of it first.

I’ve decided that my future novels will all involve random acts of bizarre intercourse… because it sells. My characters will be having sex with each other, their friends, their pets, their power tools, their outdoor patio furniture… nothing will be beyond the scope of my literary carnality.

Here is an excerpt of my future greatness :

“Oh look,” he smouldered. “It’s a hummingbird feeder.”

“Why yes, it is.” She chewed on her lip, on his lip, on the edge of the barbeque, on the neighbor’s dog who had wandered innocently over from next door. “I just filled it. It’s very… sticky.”

“I see you are chewing on the barbeque. That’s so hot. I want you.”

“But what about the dog? He doesn’t belong here.” She ran the hummingbird feeder slowly over her hoo hoo. It made a squeaky noise that reminded her of the squeegee mop. She always enjoyed the squeegee mop. “The neighbor was very angry about the dog last time. You remember last time, don’t you?”

“I picked dog hair out of my teeth for a week.” He ran his hands through his gonna-fuck-the-dog-with-a-hummingbird-feeder-hair, and smouldered at her again.

I think I am totally onto something.

Just send money.

Check out my new novel: That Thing That Happened, available now for kindle.

Finalist in WFNS Atlantic Writing Competition                        

Compulsion Reads Endorsed

26 thoughts on “Fifty Shades of… seriously?

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  1. Honestly, you make me cry. Laughing. It hurts. Stop. (Sheesh, even that sounds awful. So go ahead and sell it. It’s all yours.) – Sofie.

  2. Alley Nine has all you can eat wings? Hm. Thanks for the chuckle! I will never be able to look at Humming Bird feeders the same again.

  3. Well. I don’t know what to say. Everyone at work is reading it and going on and on and on about it. I have no intentions of doing so. I am so flippin’ fed up with them and thought I was the only one. Yay for you. You have said what I would’ve loved to have been clever enough to say. Get your book out there. Going by what I’ve read so far, it will be a great read. Very entertaining and hilarious. I like the bit about doing a crossword. Your writing is fantastic. Ha Ha Ha…. 🙂

  4. Before its release, I saw the 50 Shades book cover, and I instantly thought, “Not a book for me; too grey, which indicates boring; too formal (a tie?), which indicates boring. Men in suits, which indicates boring”. I wouldn’t have bought the book because of the cover. It shouted boring.

    Now that I’ve learnt what’s inside those pages, I’ll never buy it, never read it. The content is horrible, and…well, I’ve read that the writing is equally as horrible. There are too many good books out there waiting for me to pick up.

    Fifty Shades of Grey is the perfect example of how people are like sheep. Everyone runs to buy the book, and…everyone runs to buy the book.

    Mind you, I’d like to have a percentage of what that woman raked in with that piece of trash.

    Great post. You made me laugh and stare wide-eyed. Thanks.

  5. I’m sad to say I too gave into 50 Shades. Read all three books and then burned them, er deleted them from my iPad. Your post is hilarious tho.

  6. Wow, this was hilarious. I couldn’t make it past the first nine pages of that book, and since then I’ve had much more fun reading reviews like this. E. L. James got really lucky.

  7. Ew. Don’t write like “50 Shades of Twilight for Adults.” Popular does NOT mean good. As sad as it would be, I’d rather sell one copy of a book that is PHENOMENAL literature than sell eight gazillion copies of garbage I’d be embarrassed to admit I actually penned. I haven’t read the books, so can’t truly comment, but there isn’t a single appealing thing that makes me want to. Books still sell, people still read, but what they read? Worrisome. I’ll read your book based on your two posts I’ve read. Woo! GO you!

    1. Yay! That’ll make TEN copies sold! Eat that, ELJames! Thanks Kimberly, and I agree. There has to be integrity in everything we do… says the woman who writes about her weiner with alarming regularity 😉

  8. I’ve read enough about Fifty Shades to feel like I’ve already read it. And I just died laughing at your review! Anastasia must not have seen Vagina Monologues. She doesn’t know all the fabulous names for her down there area 😉

    Seriously though, there’s way better porn on the internet here people. I’m just mind blown that there may be a MOVIE in the works! I mean honestly, wouldn’t that just be a porno? I don’t get it. Can we sell porno in regular book stores and movie shops now? No beaded rooms? Well we know what beads lead to…

    1. I directed and performed in the Vagina Monologues a few years ago… seriously empowering stuff! Every woman should get a free copie of the VM when they buy the S o’ G. Sigh. Thanks for your post!

  9. I don’t see a way to contact you except to make a comment. So comment, I shall. You’re very funny. I thoroughly enjoyed your blog post on 50 Shades and sent it to my sister and my best friend. I just thought I’d mention that you should have an RSS feed so people can sign up for your blog and get it delivered to their inbox. I’m terrible at remembering to check a blog, but enjoy the convenience of a few that arrive in my email. I would enjoy reading more of yours.

    Best wishes,
    Sydney Jane Baily (soon to be published . . .)

  10. You made me cry this morning – with laughter! I read all three of the books because i just had to know how bad it could get, and boy, did it get bad. I was talking to my inner goddess the other day, and she totally agreed, then my subconscious weighed in while looking at us over her bifocals, and she had not one nice thing to say about this book before she did a bunch of backflips in my mind. Holy crap, I mean, it wasn’t hard to inveigle a response out of those two sides of my clearly split and mercurial personality, especially when butt plugs were mentioned.

    Really funny post, and I look forward to many more sex scenes in everyone’s writing from now on.

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