Friday, September 21, 2012


Image by Freddyo

The first time I read 50 Shades it was given to me as a PDF by a friend who found it on the web and thought I would get a laugh out it.

She was right, I read it out loud to my significant bother in bed and we both laughed and laughed until our stomachs hurt. At no time during this oration of schlocky crap, did we become titillated in the least.

In fact, we thought it was so contrary to arousal that when one of us wasn't in the mood to fornicate WE WOULD READ PASSAGES OF IT in a loud voice to distinguish the other person's burning desire for mating.

Then the soft-core Cinemax-lite story was published for real and that's when things got weird. People I knew began wishing to be abused mentally and sexually in order to spice up their love life and would use these books as instruction manuals for minimally enjoyable sex that they would later claim as being fantastic.

It was odd and I hoped that soon, the tide of poorly written pornography would trickle down to the occasional short story found in the pages of a returned library book.

But then I saw this:

Yes, dear readers, at a time when print media is closing it's doors and precious magazines are going out of business, this ode to what suburbia thinks happens in bath houses has been financed.

Let me share with you just a few of the articles you will find inside this glossy toilet paper: A Sex Whisperer (I use my body to fix broken men like Christian Grey), Cocktail recipes inspired by Christian and even a story about why 50 Shades should be required reading for men.


 I had no idea that this collection of books written by a Twilight fan had this kind of effect on the world's population. How sad it is that the copulation experienced by the majority of men and women are so sub-par that reading something like:  

Anticipation hangs heavy and portentous over my head like a dark tropical storm cloud. Butterflies flood my belly – as well as a darker, carnal, captivating ache as I try to imagine what he will do to me.

Would lead to sex that feels only slightly better than itching a bug bite until it bleeds.

My god, I've been so blind to the pain and suffering of my fellow human beings.

Here I am, married to my best friend, together for almost a decade, and when we naked-touch one another we simply enjoy the sensations that a long and happy relationship filled with honesty about our desires and needs brings to our quivering nether regions. I mean sure there are times when we cross into a bit of kink that is uncomfortable and weird but I just say "Hey buddy, wrong hole" and then we realign our parts and everything is better again.

I'm so sorry 50 Shades fans that I made fun of you when I should have realized that you and your orifices have been so thoroughly neglected by society.

From now on I will leave you to your passages of spunk gurgling and inner goddesses and throbbing manhood and various alcoholic recipes that presumably include Roofies while I simply have sex with my husband who asks me in a breathy, manly tone "Do you need me to leave the room so you can finish?"

May you find the strength my friends.

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