While on vacation recently, I happened to find myself on the verge of a discussion about sex with a family member who was reading Fifty Shades of Grey.  I was lying on a lounge chair in the sun when I overheard my mother-in-law ask my sister-in-law how her book was.  “Oh, it’s horrible,” she said indignantly.  “It’s so filthy.”  At the sound of this very loaded word, I opened my eyes, glancing through my sleepy haze and cheap sunglasses in the direction of the conversation.  My sister-in-law held in her hand a copy of the latest literary darling, which also happens to be the latest critical black sheep.

I noticed that my sister-in-law’s tone was not one of reticence, of coy refusal to commit, as one might employ when discussing a work of erotic literature with one’s own mother.  No, her tone was one of revulsion, conveying the feelings of someone forced to read something against her will.  In a manner of speaking, this was partially true; when asked why she was reading a book that gave her such strong feelings of animosity she said that it was her book club selection, and that she had no choice.

I am a sex blogger, obviously, and as such I presume that I have read more about Fifty Shades of Grey than most of Jill’s family, whose exposure to the book might consist solely of reading a review in Entertainment Weekly.  However, I have not read the book itself.  When word of this extremely polarizing tome began to permeate Twitter and the sex blogosphere earlier this year, I visited our local library, just out of curiosity, and found that every copy in the county was checked out, with holds in place on all of them for the next three months.  I eventually managed to get my hands on a copy, and in the hopes of seeing what all the fuss was about, I read one chapter.  However, it took only a couple pages for me to realize that this simply wasn’t the right book for me.


Disappointing, really; anything that brings a decidedly kinky practice like BDSM into the mainstream should be a good thing, right?  Perhaps someday an up-and-coming author will write a book that does the same thing for non-monogamy.  Unfortunately, I found author E.L. James’ writing style juvenile and unimaginative, with nothing to offer a reader who’s already discovered the likes of Tristan Taormino, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Kristina Wright, Allison Tyler, Thomas Roche, and others.

Yes, I can see why Fifty Shades of Grey has captivated the sensibilities of the vanilla mainstream.  It promises the average reader a taste of the taboo, a foray into a forbidden arena they’ve not yet explored.  I assume that, for the women who are consuming these books so voraciously, BDSM is far too exotic, dark, even dangerous to be a part of their actual sexual repertoire.  The closest women like these come to BDSM is purchasing a pair of pink plastic handcuffs from Spencer’s Gifts, using them once, getting a cramp, and then burying them at the bottom of a nightstand drawer.  Let’s face it, the average member of the book’s target audience isn’t a regular BDSM practitioner.  Regular BDSM enthusiasts are probably not going to waste their time reading this book.

Judging by the title and cover alone, Fifty Shades of Grey is a lot less salacious than, say, the typical erotic anthology written by real erotic writers and edited by an individual with a healthy attitude about sex.  The cover features an admittedly artistic and nicely-lit photo of a necktie.  Suggestive, but not too offensive for the delicate sensibilities of the mainstream.  By comparison, the erotic books that hold places of honor in our bookcase have covers that feature (much more artistic) photos of women in corsets, women clasping garter belts to stockings, women performing implied oral sex, and lots of naked people locked in the sort of embraces that don’t make the covers of Harlequin-type romance novels.  The title alone is less inflammatory than something like Best Women’s Erotica 2012, which might earn you a dirty look as you read it in a public place.

Most importantly – and somehow most perplexingly, even to someone who understands the appeal – Fifty Shades of Grey is tremendously popular, breaking sales records in the U.K. and elsewhere, unseating Harry Potter as the fastest-selling paperback book of all time, and landing its author on Time Magazine’s annual list of influential people.  Universal Studios holds the film rights, with Bret Easton Ellis and Angelina Jolie expressing interest in writing and directing, respectively.  That means that even if you’re given a dirty look by a conservative type sitting next to you on an airplane as you read it, you can adopt a haughty “Fifty million frustrated housewives can’t be wrong” attitude.

Everytime I see a post by one of my Facebook friends – usually a high school or college acquaintance – gushing about how Fifty Shades of Grey is the hottest thing she’s ever read, my respect for that individual nosedives a bit.  Make no mistake, I’m always in favor of people reading rather than languishing in front of a television set watching Jersey Shore.  And I certainly have nothing against someone declaring Fifty Shades of Grey a decent time-waster, the sort of throwaway read one might take to the beach, enjoy, and forget about, especially if said someone isn’t very sexually adventurous.  But hearing someone declare this book the hottest thing ever makes me want to beg them to read something better, by a writer who’s actually been there.

It’s worth mentioning that these are the same Facebook friends who regularly line up for the midnight premiere of the latest Twilight movie.  This is especially noteworthy when one considers the fact that Fifty Shades of Grey started life as Twilight fanfiction.  And although no significant resemblance exists between the overrated vampire romance novel series and the overrated BDSM romance novel series, the fact that someone who is sufficiently interested in Twilight to write fan fiction about it under the nom de plume “Snowqueens Icedragon” should be rewarded with a publishing contract is baffling, and not just because I’ve yet to be rewarded with one myself.

One of the things that has gotten under the skin of most of the BDSM community is the fact that James reportedly had no prior first-hand knowledge of or experience with BDSM, and corresponded with a Dom she’d met online as a way of doing research for the book.  For this, I hesitate to compare James to Vanilla Ice, if only because when the exaggerations of Vanilla Ice’s hip-hop qualifications came to light his career fizzled, while no one seems to care that James’ BDSM qualifications are spurious.

Technically it shouldn’t matter; to my understanding the author has not claimed that Fifty Shades of Grey is a true story, or that her protagonist Anastasia Steele is meant to represent her; James is an author of fiction telling a story that is presented as such.  Whether her research methods consist of first-hand experience, interviews, reference books, or online resources, they should ideally have no bearing on how the book is received provided an entertaining, factually accurate story is told.  This brings me to what has raised the ire of most of the BDSM practitioners who’ve voiced an opinion on Fifty Shades of Grey.

Christian Grey, the love interest of Anastasia Steele, practices BDSM as a result of deep-rooted childhood trauma.  I can’t say whether the author is attempting to claim that the link between psychological damage and interest in BDSM is an across-the-board constant, but if so it clearly betrays her lack of knowledge on the subject.  There is no factual accuracy to the theory that all or even most of those who practice BDSM have such issues; additionally this is an extremely short-sighted sex-negative position that insults not only those who enjoy BDSM, but also those who have suffered a similar trauma.  Actually, the sex-negative aspect might help to explain the book’s mainstream popularity.

Additionally, many mainstream literary critics have condemned Fifty Shades of Grey for ostensibly negating feminism, and furthering the false notion that women who submit do so out of a lack of self-respect and the desire to relinquish their free will to a dominant male.  This criticism is ridiculous; those who lack self-respect are unlikely to actively seek out fulfillment of their healthy sexual desires in a consensual fashion.  Perhaps James should not be blamed for how others interpret her work; having failed to complete more than a single chapter I can’t reliably say whether or not such an attitude was her intent.

As you can tell, my feelings are strong despite the fact that I only made it through eight or nine pages.  Actually, it might be more accurate to say that my feelings are strong because I only made it through eight or nine pages.  I might have viewed a book written by a more competent author, with better-developed characters and greater substance on offer, more forgivingly than I did this one.  At any rate, it’s due to these strong feelings that I wisely opted out of the discussion despite the tractor-beam-like forces drawing me toward it.

I would have gladly discussed the book’s pedestrian roots as fan fiction, E.L. James’ questionable qualifications to write it, and the book’s reputation as an “easy read”, a book designed for those who find the typical romance novel too wordy.  I would also have recommended the alternative of Taormino, Bussel, et. al in a heartbeat.  But I wasn’t about to get drawn into a debate on the merits of alternative sexual practices lest I inadvertently reveal details about Jill’s and my sex life to individuals from whom we’ve thusfar done a great job hiding them.

I certainly wasn’t going to debate the issue with an individual who’s recently made it clear – only to Jill and I, presumably not to everyone else in the family – that she thinks I’m a sexist pig, a disrespectful chauvinist, and perhaps if I’m willing to read between the lines not good enough to be married to her sister.  We have long suspected that certain members of our families would judge us if they knew some of our sexual interests – read more about that here – but the revelation that our suspicions have merit kept me lying silently on that lounge chair.

I considered getting into a BDSM debate with someone who’s reading 50 Shades, insists that female subs have no self-respect, and says the…
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) June 28, 2012

…book is horrible (which it is), but refuses to stop reading it. Instead I debated politics with my 14-year-old nephew. #ikickedhisass
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) June 28, 2012

@jackandjillcpl just send to molly’s 50 Shades of me post 😛
— Signs (@DomSigns) June 28, 2012

@DomSigns I actually considered that! What an excellent post. This is just not the sort of person we can have discovering our own blog.
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) June 28, 2012

At some point, Jill also noticed the book and asked her sister what she thought of it.  She was given a diatribe on the protagonist’s lack of self-respect, followed by the clueless argument that those who practice BDSM are fucked up.  The entire rant – and believe me, that was a rant – was capped by the following argument-winning checkmate:  “It doesn’t matter anyway because the book is just disgusting and the only reason I’m reading it is because I have to.”  Frankly, I’m disappointed that her main gripe about the book was a negative judgment about its subject matter.  Had her main gripe been “This book is horribly written and whoever gave the author a publishing contract should be fired”, I would have been powerless to resist piling on.

To Jill’s credit, while she didn’t get dragged into the debate – if you can call it that – she did ask her sister why she has to read it.  It’s a book club selection, after all, not an English class assignment.

“Well, you have to,” she said.  “It’s the selection for this month.”

“What happens if you just don’t read it?  If you feel so strongly about it, refuse on principle.”

I believe the discussion died off at this point.

I am always frustrated to learn that intelligent and mature people I respect and care about have bad attitudes about sex.  It shouldn’t be surprising, of course; we are conditioned to believe that sex is a necessary evil, something we do for procreation but not for pleasure; or else something that we do for pleasure, but only with strict adherence to conservative guidelines, i.e. behind closed doors; and that daring to talk about it with other adults is akin to urinating in your grandmother’s face.  So it doesn’t shock or surprise me, but it does make me sad.  Such people could be getting so much more fulfillment out of life if they simply embraced the notion that sex is normal and healthy, and meant to be enjoyed.  Maybe that’s the real reason that we don’t talk sex with people unless we’re certain that they have similar attitudes to ours:  We just don’t want to be disappointed.

-Jack