This lurid line from 50 Shades of Grey is perhaps one of the better pieces of writing from the entire three book series, which is saying a lot.
Let me first explain, I did not read the book to admire the literary skills of the author; I read it as porn that worked. After reading it I wondered why this porn worked. I’ve read better.
Reading a book is a personal trip, and BDSM does not work for me. Neither does lurid prose. Here’s why.
I first encountered BDSM and Marquis De Sade when I was thirteen during my summer vacations. Ah the joys of having parents who smiled approvingly when they saw their daughter with nose in book, without having a clue about the book in which said nose was buried. That book created strange sensations in the nether regions of my body and made the heartbeat go a bit fast.
And then, after the excitement died (I think it took a few days for it to die) I began wondering about the women the Marquis wrote about. Did all that beating not hurt? Wouldn’t the body show scars? Why the hell did it arouse me so? Questions like these plagued my teenage mind. I had sense not to ask these questions out loud and loose my freedom to choose the kind of books I read. I had already given up gothic horror and witchcraft after I read Rosemary’s Baby. Marquis De Sade ensured that I would not ever read BDSM. I was delighted to know about his various imprisonments and incarceration in lunatic asylums.
Other erotica was lapped up with enthusiasm.
Hey, don’t judge. It was B.I. or the era before internet. No understanding parent or teacher would gather kids and educate them about birds and bees. And peers – well! There would be shocked gasps and red cheeks as they’d say, “Say what? What goes where? Gross.”
“You mean our parents did that?”
So I leaned about facts-of-life (which is a popular euphuism for reproductive gyan) through porn.
A.I. (After internet) has brought its own challenges, but that is not the subject of this blog.
50 shades of confusion moved me enough to blog about porn. That and Rubina Ramesh who thought I would be the right person to blog about this phenomenal hit.
BDSM is not the only reason the book did not work for me. Bad writing, horrible plot, poor characterization and lack of logic are also factors. Remember those inner goddess lines? No? Allow me to refresh your memory.
1. "I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me."
2. "My inner goddess is beside herself, hopping from foot to foot."
3. "My inner goddess fist pumps the air above her chaise lounge"
4. "My inner goddess stirs from her five-day sulk."
5. "My inner goddess is doing the meringue with some salsa moves."
6. “My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the uneven bars, and abruptly my mouth is dry.”
Ana has astonishingly low levels of common sense. And then the author has the nerve to call her stupidity inner goddess? May be inner goddess is her nickname for her vagina. Ana is that kind of girl.
Okay here’s another example of awful writing :
His pointer finger circled my puckered love cave. “Are you ready for this?” he mewled smirking like a mother hamster about to eat her three legged young.
I’ve read bad porn, I’ve read cheap porn. There was a rag called Mastram that was published every 14 days. It was slyly circulated in my group of friends and did stellar service. It helped us teenagers deal with hormonal excitability. Even that did not liken sexual excitement with parents eating their children, be it animal or human. It takes away from the sensual experience. And what’s with puckered love cave? The porn industry has better standards than this.
And what the fuck is pointer finger? It has a name, the index finger.
I will not even go into characterization or logic – one does not expect that in porn.
Oh well, since I am writing about this book, why refrain? Here goes:-
Ana is a bimbo. Let me explain in Ana’s own words ...
1. “Argon? It rings a distant bell from chemistry class—an element, I think.”
2. "He's my very own Christian Grey popsicle."
3. "And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain—probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells—comes the thought: He's here to see you."
4. "His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly."
5. "I am all gushing and breathy—like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the state of Washington."
Gosh! I think I want to smack Ana, hard – on her face, not below the waist. So dear reader, relax and get all HLA fantasies out of your head.
At the time of writing this post 50 Shades of Grey has sold over 100 million copies. It has already been made into a movie. The author of this post is also a published author of modest stature. She and a certain green eyed monster called Envy are close friends. She would like to assure you that this post is inspired by said green eyed monster and also by her complete confusion as to why this book has enjoyed such success. She is experiencing 50 shades of Confusion.
About the Author
She loves spinning tales, but no longer has her captive audience as her children grew up and flew away from the coop. Her three dogs don’t pay much attention. She began writing in the vain hope that the characters she creates will listen to her, even do her bidding.
She has five books out in the market, A Bowlful of Butterflies, HILAWI, Chakra, Chronicles of the Witch Way and Wrong, for the Right Reasons. Her fifth novel, His Father’s Mistress is coming soon. You can know all about her and her book Wrong, for the Right Reasons here.