Am I living through some kind of propaganda drop from WWII? It's like millions of copies of Fifty Shades of Grey were dropped from the sky from some sick sons a bitches that want to distract us from reality and make all women crippled by sexiness. I was at the pool this week, and as I sat there trying to bang my head against HTML code, every other woman sat there oiling themselves and writhing around reading Fifty Shades of Whatever. I can't decide if it's Obama trying to make women think they are empowered by sex contracts, or Romney trying to convince women they should just stay at home and be sex toys. One of those bastards is behind this shit. I think it's just a big ploy to keep women from voting this year because they'll be trapped at home with their vibrators. If you think I am paranoid, I would refer you to Magic Mike, yet another movie made solely so women are paralyzed by a chorus line of abs and pelvis.
Ahhh... "pelvis." Does everyone agree that "pelvis" is a dirty word? One of my girlfriends has two boys, very close in age. She told me they renamed the neighbor cat, who likes to lay around their yard in the sun and chase chipmunks. Now when they see him, they scream, "PELVIS! PELVIS!" They also do this weird dance, involving heavy use of their midsection. At first, she tried yelling to her startled neighbors that the boys were screaming, "ELVIS"" but it was obvious no one was buying it. The boys were enunciating. So she tried to explain to her sons that she would kill them if they continued to scream "PELVIS" but was unable to explain why. I can imagine the neighbors whispering, and feeling great swells of pity for my friend, because her children obviously have a special condition that causes them to gyrate and scream "PELVIS."
OK, I'm back from my tangent. Where were we? Oh, Fifty Shades of Grey. I first heard of the book when I saw an ad for it float across my browser. I clicked on it because the title is awesome. I thought it was a story about race identity or gay textile workers or about an aging gay textile worker committing suicide over race relations. I got all excited, thinking it might even be my very favorite form of fiction: leprosy in Japan in WWII. "Fifty Shades of Grey; a gripping story of leprosy in war torn Japan that leaves a trail of littered body parts that are fifty shades of gross." (Sadly, no...)
I read the synopsis,
"...a relationship between recent college graduate
Anastasia Steele and manipulative billionaire Christian Grey. Steele is
required by Grey to sign a contract allowing him complete control over
her life as well as a non-disclosure agreement,
something that he has required from all of his previous submissives.
Upon learning that she is a virgin, Grey agrees to have sex with her in
order to prepare her for later encounters, fully intending that the
contract would be signed."
Yeah, I stopped reading at "non-disclosure agreement." Yawn.
But it wouldn't go away! The very next day, my sister in law texted me and asked me if I had read it yet.
Sis in Law: OMG! Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey yet? I can't put it down!
Me: Uuuhhh. No. Not my thing. But have fun.
Sis in Law: NO! You have to get a sitter right now and read it! It's amazing!
Me: isn't it just about sex and toys and shit?
Sis in Law:...yeah but it's so good!
Me: I doubt it. grossed out because you might be fantasizing about my brother. never speak to me again.
Later that week, I met some friends at a wine bar, and one of my most level headed friends slid into the chair next to me and whispered,
"You read Fifty Shades of Grey yet?"
I spit out my Spanish red and said, "What the fuck? No! And don't whisper in my ear! I'm not reading sex trash! Did you read it?"
"No, it's Mommy Porn. I figured you'd have read it. I'm not reading it."
"OMG! Eeeeeewww. And I'm insulted. I'm not reading that shit, it sounds exhausting. I got as far as "sex contract" and I started snoring. It sounds complicated."
"Everyone says its amazing. You know, for Mommy Porn."
My friend Audrey texted me...
Audrey: OMG 50 Shades, blowing my mind, can't leave house, you read it yet?
Me: Eeew. Am not interested in masturbatory lit. and eeeew. Isn't it just Mommy Porn?
Audrey: Well, yeah. But it's gripping and sensual.
Me: So's my husband. Leave me alone. and eeeew.
Audrey: need to go shopping. need more "accessories."
Me: Sounds exhausting. Have fun with that. and eeeew.
Audrey: dishwasher safe!
Me: You are dead to me.
I finally found someone else who is just as unimpressed by this book as I am, my texting/social media friend, Shirley, from such posts as Laverne and Shirley Make Me Go Over My Texting Plan. Mother of 4 boys under the age of 11 and many free-range tortoises, she works as a full time nurse. I think based upon the sheer number of children, one can assume she is in a loving relationship.
Shirley's Book Review of Fifty Shades of Grey
"So I decided to read 50 Shades of Grey after a friend showed me a skit
from SNL showing how this book, dubbed as 'Mommy Porn", had quite an
effect on mommies across the nation. The skit shows women getting
caught pleasuring themselves while reading the book. Also, all my
friends were talking about it. So when I saw it on the Wal-Mart shelf
(to hell with all you WM haters) I had to buy. I made it thru half of
the book before my intelligence prevented any further interest. I want
to be one of those women, wives, mothers that felt 'reawakened' and rejuvenated sexually by this book."
"There was one awkward moment, as I was sunning myself on our
trampoline. The trampoline prevents the wayward ant or spider from
mistaking me as an acceptable object to climb over on its way to
wherever they're always going. Also, from one of the tortoises that graze
in our fenced backyard from mistaking my toes for a mushroom. I was
really getting into the build up of sexual tension going on in the book
between Anastasia, a 21 perfect woman specimen and a virgin (can you
believe it?) and Christian Grey, a gazillionaire Adonis who's been around the block. I was lying on the trampoline when my kids decided it was a
piece of entertaining equipment they could just jump all over. "GET OFF
MY TRAMPOLINE AND GO WATCH TV!" I yelled and it ruined my first, and
little did I know, only, moment of the 'tingly feeling'."
Do you see what I mean? Shirley doesn't have time to proof
read sex contracts or shop for sex hamsters. SHE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE TIME
TO READ SEXY MOMMY PORN ON HER TORTOISE PROOF TRAMPOLINE!
Laverne wanted to add... while the sexual contract shit sounds boring to her too, she would be willing to get behind it if she could work out a contract with her son's dentist. Somewhere in the realm of a "filling" for a filling... if you know what I mean. Genius. Shirley and I were both immediately as attentive as a pair of prairie dogs, sniffing the air and dreaming of sexual favors in exchange for orthodontia and fluoride treatments. That shit's expensive. Sex contracts as a form of health care? Sure. That's real "Mommy Porn."
Personally, I just can't imagine having the time or concentration for all that Fifty Shades fantasy crap. The conversations, the shopping for ball gags, the sheer hours and weeks alone that these people DO NOTHING BUT HAVE SEX THAT REQUIRES TOOLS AND INSTRUCTION. I'd get bored. That's why I can't read this stuff. I can't follow the story. If some hot guy said to me:
Hot Sex Man: Dana, I want you to sign a sex contract with me. I'm all rich and emotionally damaged and the sex will be borderline humiliating and very complicated. Some scenarios will take hours to set up and you're really gonna have to focus.
Me: I'm calling the cops.
And the time involved! A back rub alone would put me to sleep, let alone laying there getting all oiled and trussed like a Sunday roast chicken. I would totally fall asleep. Remember that story about Sting being able to have sex for 12 hours straight? My first thought was, "Holy shit, I'd be bored to tears after 45 minutes. And then I'd just have to act polite about it. It would not be hot. It would be awkward."
And, when you have kids, any sexy business is just as sneaky and furtive as it was before you got married. There's lots of blocking doors, setting the kids up with ice cream and a movie, rounding up the pets so they don't watch, and my personal favorite: clearing all the laundry off of the bed. My bed is really more my folding/sorting table for laundry, so before I can rock anyone's world, I have to put laundry away. 70% of the time, it turns into an argument over whose, a-hem, organization style is keeping his clothing in a hideous raccoon nest on the window seat. And why should I even bother doing laundry if everyone just drops it in a pile on the floor? Does anyone care how hard I work? It's three flights of stairs one way with each load of laundry and I run up and down those stairs all god damn day like a fucking pack mule at the Grand Canyon! And don't even get me started on the one fucking dangling light bulb in the utility room!
Nobody ruins a mood like I do.
We had a friend over the other day who made, what was probably for her, a casual comment. Her children are of the kitty variety, and probably not all that concerned if their parents have sex. She said, referring to her husband:
"Sometimes if we're in a hurry, we just take a shower together in the morning. You know."
I'm not sure if she noticed, but the comment just hung there in space. Winston locked confused eyes with me as we examined her statement, floating there between us. We were scared, mystified and JEALOUS! It was as if she had just announced she had arrived in her flying boat en route to her unicorn farm. Shower together? We're not allowed! The kids would never permit it! The risk is far too great! If we were discovered... OMG it's just too horrific to even consider. They would never buy the old "mommy and daddy are wrestling" cover story. No, no, no.
Which brings me to another horrifying practice I have discovered: couples who go away on sexy tropical vacations with other couples. Come on, we all know people like this. It's unnatural. If my husband and I actually had the opportunity to go away somewhere together WITHOUT THE KIDS AND THE POODLES AND THE CAT, there is no fucking way we would go with another couple. No fucking way. We would go ALONE. We would spend our time eating, sleeping, banging and getting sunburnt and drunk on the beach. We wouldn't be meeting for breakfast, snorkeling and para-sailing with some other tan, laughing couple. We wouldn't meet up at night for cigars and margaritas. We would eat bacon sandwiches and hot dogs EVERY DAY and lay in a haze on the beach with a cooler of beer between us. Occasionally, we would float about the ocean to feel less bloated.
Maybe I can't read Fifty Shades because I am a bit of a prude and a bit of a 10 year old boy at heart. I watched Wild Orchid years ago, and all it gave me was a mad case of the giggles. To this day, if I see Micky Rourke, or if Winston whispers, "Micky Rourke, sex therapist" to me sarcastically, I will degenerate into squealing donkey laughter. I think the movie was trying to make a sexy point, but I missed it laughing at all the butts and boobies.
I think sex should be low tech and free of conversation and paperwork. You can keep your Fifty Shades of C-Span. With grad school and kids and dogs and this damn money pit falling down around us, that's about all I have the ability to process. There is a window of maybe 5 minutes a day when sex is possible, although extremely unlikely. Also, at any point we might have to abort due to the kids knocking on the door, demanding to know when we are coming to fix the Xbox or clean up dog puke.
That's why I am grateful to be married to a man, who doesn't need a contract or a gag or a scenario involving WD-40. A man who likes to proclaim, "Baby, all I require is your presence!" I can manage that. Occasionally.
~dana
