Guilty Pleasures
So I just read 50 Shades of Grey.
I couldn't ignore it any longer when my friend Liz threw it on the bed while we were in Hawaii and said "Take it, I'm done." Oh no, that's okay, I protested. I'm not interested. "Don't be silly, just read it, it will take you a weekend." And with that she smirked, closed the door and left the book behind.
And yes, I just used the word smirked. Get it, 50 readers? Get it?
I love books. There aren't many occasions when I would pass up a stray book without giving it a quick inspection to see if it held any interest. I'll read almost anything a friend bothers to pass my way. But 50 Shades just sounded too Anita Shreve meets Catherine M meets Oprah Book Club. (Not that there's anything wrong with Oprah's Book Club, of course.) It was dubbed porn for the housewife; mainstream erotica. Porn for the housewife? When did that become a genre? And given the success of 50, how can I break into it?
But I took it of course. It had been all over the news, the movie rights had just been optioned. I had to find out what had become the biggest talked about trilogy since the Hunger Games.
And so I read. Smart, virgin senior about to graduate college meets dashing, bazillionaire 26-yr old man who's into S&M. Fall inexplicably for each other owing to some desperate need to have the other. He advances, she hesitates. He hesitates, she leans in. She has orgasms at the turn of a page, at the sound of his breath. He excels at everything he does (fly helicopters, play piano, bondage) and looks amazing in everything he wears. She knows how to shoot a gun. They have lots of sex. She disobeys, he gets mad. He commands, she acquiesces. And she has to be reminded to eat. Like, every other paragraph. And he doesn't seem to work much. And he's psychotically possessive. The end.
And so the next time I saw Liz I rushed up to her with a stupid, accusatory grin on my face. "50 Shades? What the hell?" We huddled together laughing and rolling our eyes touching on all things 50: bad writing, semi-hot seduction scenes, ad nauseaum repetition, the last time we remembered being kissed like that and how could this ever be a movie?
And that's why you read a book like 50 Shades. And the Twilight series. Not for the character development or the writing or the well-crafted story lines. Because you can't turn away. You secretly WANT to talk about the absurdity of it all, to discuss werewolves vs vampires, to go crazy recounting how many times the author uses the same verbs to impart sexual tension and how maybe, just maybe, it left you longing just a little. Maybe.
And that's why you talk it up to your next girlfriend. To pull someone else into the web, someone you can laugh with as you smugly dismiss the shallow, drawn-out plot. Someone who can share your fantasies about on-demand, magical orgasms in a land of helicopters, unicorns and infinite amounts of money. A corporate mogul with a heart of gold; a plain Jane with a whip-smart tongue; destined to fall in love. If you haven't read it yet, I don't know why you're still here. Go. Run. Now. I guarantee you know someone who has it to lend even if they've never mentioned reading it.
And if you did read the book, you'll appreciate Ken Levine's take on the male narrative below.
From Ken Levine, the 50 Shades male narrative:
I spend most of my time in my giant swank office. I’m the equivalent of Bill Gates and Steve Jobs except I’m also gorgeous looking and not dead. I preside over a massive global conglomerate that feeds the poor (thus making me likeable) and brings in billions. I’m always on the phone speaking generically. “Get me those numbers, Ted.” “That sounds risky, I’ll need to look over the proposal.” “Reschedule the acquisitions team for Monday at 3:00.” So you can plainly see I’m legit.
On Friday night I fly down to Portland to see my brother and pick up some items from a hardware store. I fly my own helicopter. I also play concert piano, have read and can quote the classics, collect fine art and first editions, and look awesome in jeans. It’s clear I’m an expert helicopter pilot because I say things to the tower like, “Charlie-Tango descending to 1000 feet.” Don’t even try to make sense of it. You have to be a pilot.
I go back to Seattle because I need to be at my desk and look over reports when I tell people on the phone, “Have Brian call me tomorrow, and I want a meeting with his people.”
But before you know it I fly back to Portland to speak at a college graduation. My speech goes over well because I’m incredibly charismatic. Those kids hang on every generic word.
Home again in Seattle I drive to Bellvue to have dinner with my equally wealthy step-parents and siblings. They have a large mansion. The food is delicious. I'm a foodie and wine connoisseur too.
A few more days of taxing business decisions (“I’m not going forward till I see the projections!”) and I need to take the corporate plane to Savannah, Georgia. As you know, I’m also an expert glider pilot. But my trip is cut short. A business emergency.
I fly back to Seattle and now on the phone I use an angry tone. “Unacceptable!” “Call Gary. We have to re-think this.” That’s me in crisis mode – firm but in complete control.
And that’s about it. Oh wait. During this period I also banged a high-maintenance loony college chick.
I couldn't ignore it any longer when my friend Liz threw it on the bed while we were in Hawaii and said "Take it, I'm done." Oh no, that's okay, I protested. I'm not interested. "Don't be silly, just read it, it will take you a weekend." And with that she smirked, closed the door and left the book behind.
And yes, I just used the word smirked. Get it, 50 readers? Get it?
I love books. There aren't many occasions when I would pass up a stray book without giving it a quick inspection to see if it held any interest. I'll read almost anything a friend bothers to pass my way. But 50 Shades just sounded too Anita Shreve meets Catherine M meets Oprah Book Club. (Not that there's anything wrong with Oprah's Book Club, of course.) It was dubbed porn for the housewife; mainstream erotica. Porn for the housewife? When did that become a genre? And given the success of 50, how can I break into it?
But I took it of course. It had been all over the news, the movie rights had just been optioned. I had to find out what had become the biggest talked about trilogy since the Hunger Games.
And so I read. Smart, virgin senior about to graduate college meets dashing, bazillionaire 26-yr old man who's into S&M. Fall inexplicably for each other owing to some desperate need to have the other. He advances, she hesitates. He hesitates, she leans in. She has orgasms at the turn of a page, at the sound of his breath. He excels at everything he does (fly helicopters, play piano, bondage) and looks amazing in everything he wears. She knows how to shoot a gun. They have lots of sex. She disobeys, he gets mad. He commands, she acquiesces. And she has to be reminded to eat. Like, every other paragraph. And he doesn't seem to work much. And he's psychotically possessive. The end.
And so the next time I saw Liz I rushed up to her with a stupid, accusatory grin on my face. "50 Shades? What the hell?" We huddled together laughing and rolling our eyes touching on all things 50: bad writing, semi-hot seduction scenes, ad nauseaum repetition, the last time we remembered being kissed like that and how could this ever be a movie?
And that's why you read a book like 50 Shades. And the Twilight series. Not for the character development or the writing or the well-crafted story lines. Because you can't turn away. You secretly WANT to talk about the absurdity of it all, to discuss werewolves vs vampires, to go crazy recounting how many times the author uses the same verbs to impart sexual tension and how maybe, just maybe, it left you longing just a little. Maybe.
And that's why you talk it up to your next girlfriend. To pull someone else into the web, someone you can laugh with as you smugly dismiss the shallow, drawn-out plot. Someone who can share your fantasies about on-demand, magical orgasms in a land of helicopters, unicorns and infinite amounts of money. A corporate mogul with a heart of gold; a plain Jane with a whip-smart tongue; destined to fall in love. If you haven't read it yet, I don't know why you're still here. Go. Run. Now. I guarantee you know someone who has it to lend even if they've never mentioned reading it.
And if you did read the book, you'll appreciate Ken Levine's take on the male narrative below.
From Ken Levine, the 50 Shades male narrative:
I spend most of my time in my giant swank office. I’m the equivalent of Bill Gates and Steve Jobs except I’m also gorgeous looking and not dead. I preside over a massive global conglomerate that feeds the poor (thus making me likeable) and brings in billions. I’m always on the phone speaking generically. “Get me those numbers, Ted.” “That sounds risky, I’ll need to look over the proposal.” “Reschedule the acquisitions team for Monday at 3:00.” So you can plainly see I’m legit.
On Friday night I fly down to Portland to see my brother and pick up some items from a hardware store. I fly my own helicopter. I also play concert piano, have read and can quote the classics, collect fine art and first editions, and look awesome in jeans. It’s clear I’m an expert helicopter pilot because I say things to the tower like, “Charlie-Tango descending to 1000 feet.” Don’t even try to make sense of it. You have to be a pilot.
I go back to Seattle because I need to be at my desk and look over reports when I tell people on the phone, “Have Brian call me tomorrow, and I want a meeting with his people.”
But before you know it I fly back to Portland to speak at a college graduation. My speech goes over well because I’m incredibly charismatic. Those kids hang on every generic word.
Home again in Seattle I drive to Bellvue to have dinner with my equally wealthy step-parents and siblings. They have a large mansion. The food is delicious. I'm a foodie and wine connoisseur too.
A few more days of taxing business decisions (“I’m not going forward till I see the projections!”) and I need to take the corporate plane to Savannah, Georgia. As you know, I’m also an expert glider pilot. But my trip is cut short. A business emergency.
I fly back to Seattle and now on the phone I use an angry tone. “Unacceptable!” “Call Gary. We have to re-think this.” That’s me in crisis mode – firm but in complete control.
And that’s about it. Oh wait. During this period I also banged a high-maintenance loony college chick.
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