To say that I was surprised to see my wife reading something that wasn’t a BBM message is an understatement. So I happily sacrificed my Saturday morning plans and took the kids out for a breakfast of boerewors rolls and getting pushed around in the car-shaped trolleys at Builder’s Warehouse.
On my return I noticed that the dishes were still in the sink, the beds hadn’t been made and I couldn’t put cartoons on for the children because neither the DSTV nor the TV remote had any batteries in them.
My little bookworm was having a bath, with Massive Attack playing in the background, and when I burst into the bathroom she splashed about, the hand-shower snaking wildly. She threw her book at me and said some gibberish about interrupting her me time. In the corner of my eye I saw my daughter run down the passage singing a Hannah Montana song into what she thought was a microphone.
And you thought that the book in The Neverending Story was dangerous?!
I mentioned all this to a friend who said that his wife was also reading 50 Shades of Grey. (He intitially thought it was an Audi catalogue.) Clearly it wasn’t just Miss Anastasia Steele getting fucked.
Now when it comes to 50 Shades of Grey you can actually judge a book by its cover. The book is as exciting as the photo library image of a corporate noose. At least the smut my mother kept in her bedside drawer had an airbrushed Hercules on the cover, with flowing locks and a sword, his bulging arm curled around a big-busted Amazon in a ripped dress… And at least Twilight was about a virgin trying to decide if her first time should be necrophilia or bestiality.
50 Shades of Grey doesn’t even mention the anatomy inside of our bathing suits, and is all “down there” and “my inner goddess” – meh.
Yes, this column is probably not going to win a whole lot of awards, nor will it make me rich, yet here I am lambasting a record breaking book that continues to top bestseller lists and bored housewive’s bedside tables. Jealous? You bet! But then consider the other best-selling books of all time: R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps. Beatrix Potter’s Tales of Peter Rabbit. Harry Potter. Twilight. The Hunger Games. This is reading for people who have only just learned to eat with a knife and fork.
Now I have no qualms with the literary merits of 50 Shades Of Grey. Stuff like – “My tongue swirls around the end. He’s my very own Christian Grey-flavored popsicle.” – is laughable. However, I take a dim view of the blatant double standards at play here. If I had dedicated the better part of my weekend to a pornography fuelled wank-fest I’d be painted as a monster. A creep. A beast! But for some reason, because this particular pornography product has been given the, ahem, thumbs up, by Oprah it’s acceptable?
Porn is often criticised for portraying an unattainable body image. Well it’s far easier to bleach your bum-hole and get a boob job than it is to be a millionaire with a headmaster’s affinity for the cane. How are we ever supposed to compete with a fictitious successful entrepreneur?
Now I have to deal with things like: “Why can’t you be more romantic?” And, “When last did you rent a helicopter and whisk me away on a romantic weekend?” Well, love, if you haven’t noticed I work all the time, and then we have these kids to deal with, and when I do get my two days off they’re usually spent patching the roof or trying to revive the lawn. Hell, if I could afford to pay someone to DIY for me then there’d be plenty of time to indulge in some kinky fuckery. (In fact, if we get bunk beds for the kids we could free up a room and I can just pop down to Builder’s Warehouse and ask one of the uniformed flunkeys there to help me find the aisle with the “Red Room of Pain” kit.)
50 Shades of Grey has been dubbed “mommy-porn”, but I was curious to see if the book that has so many hands wandering beneath the sheets was spicy enough to get me off. Even though it was as painful as a Swarovski butt plug, I was determined, so I ploughed on, paging through the spanking, wrist cuffs, “HOLY MOSES’s” and BDSM. But it was no use. I just couldn’t do it. So I turned to my friend, The Internet, and Googled a solution.
Splitting the book in half, I then lined it with a facecloth that I’d folded in half, placed a latex glove at one end, with about an inch of the glove hanging out the end, and rolled everything up into a tight cylindrical tube. Taking the ends of the glove I then folded these back over the book and secured everything with elastic bands. All that was left was to squirt some hand cream down the orifice and then Red Tube my version of Christian Grey, Miss Sacha Grey.
Bad books? Screw ‘em!