“If u think Twilight mania was ridic, jus wait til the 50 Shades movie comes out…seeing all those screamin horny moms *shudders*,” said Twitter user @JheanBunni, obviously a noted philosopher and pop culture anthropologist.
With the announcement of Charlie Hunnam and Dakota Johnson stepping into the lead roles for the upcoming “Fifty Shades of Grey” movie adaptation, the same old complaints about the books have come back in full force. And frankly, I’m bored.
From what I’ve seen, most of the backlash toward “Fifty Shades” has come from people appalled and disgusted by the “horny mom” demographic that seems to make up a large part of the book’s fanbase.
The world loves silver foxes — the Daniel Craigs of the world who keep stripping down to their underwear and strutting around with 20-something arm candy even as they enter their 40s, 50s and beyond. The 52-year-old George Clooney could be wearing a Life Alert necklace with his Armani suit, and People Magazine would still give him top-hunk billing.
But for the majority of women, once you reach a certain age, nobody wants you to even appear to have a sex life. Why is it that one of the most proclaimed male sex symbols qualifies for AARP, but older women have to pretend to be celibate?
Let horny moms be horny moms. Your mom has had sex at least once, so you’d might as well get over it, kiddo.
So how about we spend less time shaming women for expressing and enjoying sexuality and instead focus on the real problem? Namely, that the books are unforgivably, hideously, nauseatingly terrible.
Setting aside the books’ promotion of an abusive relationship as something that readers should root for — “Twilight” did that years ago, and considering “Fifty Shades” started out as “Twilight” fanfiction, it’s not surprising — the writing makes me wish I could unlearn how to read.
Here’s an actual quote, in case you haven’t read any of the series:
“My inner goddess is beside herself, hopping from foot to foot. Anticipation hangs heavy over my head like a dark tropical storm cloud. Butterflies flood my belly — as well as a darker, carnal, captivating ache as I try to imagine what he will do to me.”
Yeah. It’s that bad.
The whole series is full of this kind of flowery, obnoxious, over-indulgent prose. The narrator is a tedious and unrealistically naive drip who can’t ever bring herself to call any part of the sexual anatomy by its actual name. It’s okay, you can say it: penis. See? Just a word. It’s not so bad. Here it is in newsprint, and the world hasn’t ended. Congrats, E. L. James, you’ve written explicit erotica that’s still somehow afraid of the word “penis.”
Surely, we as a species have better taste than this.
If you want to read porn, I say go for it. That’s great. In fact, it’s actually pretty cool that a worldwide bestseller has come along and opened up so much conversation about sex, especially among women. But if people are going to pay to read porn, it should be good porn.
“Fifty Shades of Grey” is not good porn. And let’s be honest here — we all know there is better stuff than this on the Internet for free.
I know it’s not kosher to encourage Internet piracy, but the fact remains that there are plenty of ways to get any of the “Fifty Shades” books at no cost. There’s no need to waste your hard-earned cash on bad, softcore BDSM porn. If you absolutely have to read it, find a PDF online or borrow it from a friend who makes worse life decisions than you do. Just don’t pay for it.
Trust me, I’m just as tired of “Fifty Shades” as the rest of the critics. But let’s keep the criticism in the realm of what’s actually relevant. Hate the series because that kind of drivel should never have gotten a publishing deal, not because you feel awkward about your aunt having them on her Kindle.