You know, sometimes I amaze myself. And I don’t actually mean that in a good way. Look, the truth is I kind of pride myself on not following another person’s lead, on being my own woman. And that is why I amazed myself by giving in and reading Fifty Shades of Grey just because every other woman on the planet is reading it.
And after doing so, I can tell you this: I would really love a refund for this book. First, the writing was horrifyingly bad. So bad, in fact, that I found my mind wandering off while reading it – even during the sex scenes.
The first tangent I wandered into was this: what the heck was the matter with the hero (Grey)? I mean, he’s 26, a billionaire, devastatingly handsome, and flies his own helicopter. But instead of wondering why he was into bondage, I found myself wondering why the heck he named his helicopter “Charlie Tango.“ He sounded like an escapee from a bad Bruce Willis movie. I mean, if I were a 26-year-old billionaire with my own helicopter, I’d name it something cool. Like Fred. Or Mavis. Or even Whirlybird. But Charlie Tango? No.
My mind also wandered when the description of the Red Room of Pain came up. Look, maybe it was because I’ve never actually been in a bondage room or maybe it was because I was confused by the whole “nipple clamp” thing. But all I could really think of was the bed, which was described as having red leather sheets on it.
Really? Really? How the heck do you wash those? I mean, there’s got to be some serious ick on those sheets. And where do you buy leather sheets, anyway? I’ve been in Bed Bath & Beyond countless times and I’ve never, ever seen leather sheets amongst the Nicole Miller and Nautica. (And yes, I did think of inserting a cheap “Bed, Bath & Bondage joke here, but I restrained myself.)
Then there is the whole lip-biting, peeping from under her lashes, blood quickening, mind-shattering, eyes narrowing, belly clenching, carnal dancing, freaking hot looking, gasping, head cocking to one side, eye rolling group of clichés. Who does all of those movements in real life? You’d look like you were having a stroke. Although, just to test my theory, I did peep at Harry from beneath my lashes last night. Not only did he not suddenly want me more than he has ever wanted me in his life, he also asked what the heck was wrong with me and wondered aloud why I was trying to get my contact lens stuck to the top of my eyeball.
And finally, there’s the whole stalking thing. Grey tracks the heroine (Ana) via her cell phone. Um, am I wrong, but isn’t that illegal? Not to mention really freaking weird? Call me crazy, but if some guy stalks me via my phone GPS I’m pretty sure he’d be watching me walk into the police department. Oh, and to top off the stalking, when Ana goes to visit her mom in Georgia, Grey conveniently shows up. And then the mother calls the police because obviously Grey is a stalker who followed her daughter across the country for the sole purpose of harassing her.
Oh. Wait. She didn’t do that. No, she invited him for dinner. Really? Who does that?
And lets not get into the fact that Grey was apparently introduced to the world of BDSM at the age of 15 by an adult woman. Yes, we do have a name for that. It’s called pedophile. That part was disturbing, to say the least.
Of course by the very abrupt end of the book, Ana leaves Grey. Apparently the chains and whips and chips and dips aren’t her cup of tea. Or possibly she realized that, like me, she could never be with a man who called his helicopter Charlie Tango. Or maybe it suddenly occurred to her what nipple clamps are.
Nah. It was because the author wanted you to buy Book Two: Fifty Shades of I Don’t Care to Read This Ever Again.Add me to your rss reader | Become a Fan on Facebook!