Fifty Shades of Awesome

in category of Opinions, 50 shades of grey, books, Lindsay Beitzel

 

Fifty Shades of Grey is flying off bookshelves faster than the inappropriate innuendos on its subject matter can keep up. Never before has literary BDSM been so in-your-face across every major bookstore, discount chain, and car wash. Yes, I just said car wash. I took my car to get washed and found a kiosk display of the series next to the air fresheners. “Awkward” would be an understatement. I prefer to purchase my porn in self-perceived classier environments, not the library equivalent to the back of a Ford Festiva.

Up until recently, I didn’t know much about Fifty Shades, although I kept hearing about it. A friend of mine got an earful about the series from his roommate’s middle-aged mother during an Easter gathering while hovered over a bowl of potato salad. My own 71-year-old mother preached an earful about it after listening to a segment on her favorite conservative talk station. “It’s nothing but smut, dear.”

Smut? That’s it, where’s my car keys? I need to get to the nearest Barnes & Noble ASAP.

After entering the bookstore, I was immediately visually assaulted by three display tables with stacks of Fifty Shades stockpiled higher than a condom dispenser at a Vegas hotel. At checkout, an elderly woman wearing vibrant-colored parrot earrings beamed as she described this “delightfully explicit series.” As she spoke, she waved her arms at the rows of glossy wooden shelves behind her to emphasize what is clearly the store’s current pandemic of Grey. “Do you need volumes two and three, dear?”

At the time I didn’t. I was curious about what I was getting myself into with book one, and I didn’t need an overzealous senior with an exotic earring fetish to promote me jumping ahead of myself. Later that night, I crawled into bed with my newfound high-glossed porn novella and jumped on the bondage bandwagon. Three days later, I couldn’t restrain myself and purchased the second and third installments.

The series is not literary genius. The plot is simple: extraordinarily wealthy, good-looking man with issues meets simple ordinary girl who likes to fix issues. Now what woman cannot relate to the need to fix issues? It takes an entire book for Anastasia to figure out exactly what kind of issues she’s dealing with involving Mr. Grey. She also gets a second book for her to battle with these issues, and a third book to finally accept and come to a compromise again over said issues.

Spank me if I’m wrong, but sound familiar, ladies? No wonder masses of the female population are emotionally tying themselves up over this saga that comes packed with more sex than an evening at the Mustang Ranch.

A straight woman can unfortunately rationalize anything that comes with a hot body and a...fill in the blank, ladies. “Well, he did have a bad childhood. Is that a whip?”

Mr. Grey comes complete with so many hot issues; they are labeled in levels of shades. What shade of grey would you be willing to put up with? Ten, twenty, thirty-seven shades?

“Fifty shades, baby.”

“My fifty shades,” she whispered.

Yes, that’s an actual line from the book.

I guess if someone were to buy me an Audi, twenty grand worth of clothes, and a Mediterranean-style villa, I would be persuaded to be put up with fifty shades.

Maybe.

Is that a whip?

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