Down There

I realized a couple of things last night:  1 -  I am sometimes a judgmental a-hole and, 2 - I might not be as compassionate as I think I am.

 

1.  I don’t understand all the hoopla surrounding 50 Shades of Grey.  The trilogy has held the top four spots (the fourth being the boxed set) on Amazon’s Top 100 list for 132 days.  One-hundred and thirty-two days.  Let that sink in a little.  It has been on the New York Times' Best Sellers list for 20 weeks!  Egads.

As a voracious reader and lover off all things book-ish, I like to stay informed on what’s “new and notable”, the “hottest new reads”, what’s getting readers like myself excited.  As such, I have been inundated with 50 Shades fervor.  From what I understand, it’s Twilight fan fiction, only less sparkly and with a whole bunch of sex -- violent sex, slightly rapey sex, BDSM.  Sure, fine, ok.  If that’s what you’re into.  Let me be clear, I am not against erotica (and let's not kid ourselves, that's exactly what this book is); I am against poorly written erotica. 

Fair or not, I immediately judge people I see reading 50 Shades (says the admitted book snob).  Kristy and I decided that if we are to (continue) to be judgmental a-holes, we have to at least read it ourselves so we are informed judgmental a-holes.  Reluctantly and with utter dread, I loaded it onto my Kindle last night and headed off to the gym.

I was annoyed by the first sentence,  “I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.”

And again a few sentences later,  “I roll my eyes in exasperation...”

Best of all, "My subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me me..."

Like this?

What the ... what?!  THESE ARE TERRIBLE SENTENCES.  How did this get past an editor?  Was it the editor of the high school newspaper?  That's the only way this makes any sense.

And then, brace yourselves folks, she gets into the sexy times:  “I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly.”

IT’S CALLED YOUR VAGINA AND, IT’S NOT IN YOUR BELLY.

“Dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark unexplored places...”

Lady, it's your VAGINA.  Or call it something a little less clinical, if you prefer.  Hoo-ha?  Va-jay-jay?  Bearded clam?  Sweaty love box?  Snatch?  The world is your oyster, but please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop referring to it as if it's some mysterious creature in your stomach.

“He gives me a wicked grin, the effects of which travel all the way down there.”  (Emphasis hers.)

THAT’S YOUR VA--- oh, never mind.  

I made it about three chapters in and I don’t know if it’s wise for me to continue lest I get all stabby or start referring to my va-jay as down there in every day conversation (because what modern gal doesn't talk about her meat locker in every day conversation?).  

Look, I’m no paragon of ‘good writing’ over here.  I write because I enjoy it.  I try to be funny, it takes time to write these posts, but I am under know illusions about my abilities; I know where my talents lie and clearly, it's with MS Paint.  

The mysterious vagina monster, terrifying women everywhere.

But there are better books!  Beautiful books.  Books that will take your breath away.  Books with or without sexy times.  Books that don’t have a vapid, sniveling idiot as a protagonist; a woman who can’t even refer to her own vagina as a vagina.  If you just want the sexy bits, you don’t have to rely on drivel.  You could, I don’t know, communicate with your spouse/significant other and tell him/her what knocks your socks off.  Or just. Watch. Porn. 

As Kristy says, “the one positive take-away from this is America, normally very OH EM GEE SEX GET IT AWAY IT WILL CAUSE OUR DOWNFALL, has made a book ABOUT sex a bestseller. Maybe if people can admit that they're reading erotica, we're getting closer to a place where we won't be ashamed of our sex lives.  And maybe if that happens, they'll stop teaching abstinence only in schools and telling young girls that they'll be ruined if they lose their virginity too young.  Or at all.”

Word.

All of this being said, maybe, hopefully, many of the folks reading 50 Shades are doing so with tongue firmly in cheek, recognizing its utter ridiculousness and enjoying it anyway for the silly, mindless trash that it is.  And even if they're not -- even if they're reading it and enjoying every thought-provoking word because it's the only way they're comfortable exploring the mysteries of down there, that's ok too.  Don't we all need a little escapism now and again? 

… now, where is my copy of Twilight?

(This post is too long now, so "Compassion" will come later.  Unless you're me, who has none.  Apparently.)