Monday, July 2, 2012

Fifty Shades of Crap

My literary tastes are, not surprisingly, dark as the winter sky. I'm a "No Country for Old Men" kinda girl who loves violent, underbelly stuff. You know, real Annie Proulx material. I write that way (in my fiction life) and think that way, and have lived that way in many circumstances.

So, when I was basically coerced by a friend into letting me borrow her unmarred copy of "Fifty Shades of Gray" I was practically giddy to crack that baby open. You can stop shaking your head in Puritan disgust, you know you wanna read it, too. It is touted as a dark novel, an erotic novel, exploring the secret world of Doms and Subs in urban Seattle. A struggling college grad meets Mr. Filthy-f*cking-rich with a dark side. Like leather bed, chains and riding crops dark side. I was sold.

I was sold until I started, about 3 pages in, hating the protagonist. Meet 21-year-old Anastasia Steele, who narrates the entire story in the first person. Which I don't generally like or use in my fiction.

OK, fine, I'll get over it...or will I. Miss Steele is a total chump. I glower at her weakling character. She trips over everything, literally, she bites her lip like a 5-year-old child, she stutters, she doesn't exercise or eat much, she doesn't know a good wine from a bad beer, the list is exhausting. I tried to relate to her, you know, you gotta get close to your characters right?

Yeah, right. This snivelling little sh*t is ridiculous. And you know what's more ridiculous, apparently she is the perfect woman. At least according to the New York Times bestseller list. Wanna know why?

She's a virgin. That's right. Miss Steele has never been tapped, or kissed, or felt up, or anything like that. A supposed bookworm swimming in a sea of sadists. It's grating on the nerves. What is this, a middle-school slumber party? And yet Mr. Gray thinks she's perfect for the "claiming" so to speak, and claim he does.

Did I mention she's never had an orgasm? Yeah, not one. But, miraculously, with every sexual encounter she has with Mr. Gray, she is "shattered" by her body's response.

I almost stopped reading when the old "blood on the sheets" scene came up. You know, due to her purity. Give me a goddamn break.

This is not a real woman. Not even close. She possesses no control, no confidence, and no brain. Her vulnerability borders on hilarious. My son has more street smarts than her.

Oh, but when it comes to giving "oral pleasure" to Mr. Gray, she is a freakin' pro, first time out.

Sure she is.

Where are the real heroines who earn their own cash and don't need their rich boyfriends to buy them iMacs, Audis and Blackberries (swear to god)? I can remember back to my college days. If a guy came at me with a riding crop he'd either be dead or handcuffed to a bed wearing my underwear! And if some snotty dipshit tried to educate me on the merits of a good wine, I'd take him down to my basement and show him what a real vintage was made of.

So much for standing on your own two feet. She bats her eyelashes, has slumber-party conversations with her best friend and apparently isn't bothered that some sick-o insists on having a private doctor screen her for sexual diseases before they "commence" their S&M party, at his leisure, of course.

Why am I still reading the novel? NO. But, I do wanna know why and how this man became so messed up. And then I want him to staple her thoughts shut and end the "little-girl-lost" crap with a taser.

And if you are a man who dreams of debasing a virgin as your penultimate sexual goal, then you better steer clear of girls like me. I could have you for breakfast.

1 comment:

  1. The saddest thing about this whole 50 Shades phenomenon is that the biggest selling paperback novel started out as fucking Twilight fan fiction, and people say e-books are killing literature. Not to mention that this kind of "oh so lurid" subject matter has been tackled in the past by far better writers (de Sade, Sacher-Masoch, ect...)