50 Shades
I gave in to the social pressure. I read it. I had to – just to be able to join in conversations again. What hype there has been. If claims are to be believed it’s set sales of sex toys soaring, ordinary women are investing in extravagant pieces of lingerie, it’s even caused a baby boom. Not since Harry Potter has a man with props caused such excitement. Facebook statuses and tweets across class divides and generation gaps seem to concur that this book is something very new and something very exciting. So much so that within weeks of publication just calling the book by the first two words of its full title was enough to raise a wink or a cheeky smile between women. On public transport, around hotel pools, in staff rooms, women everywhere carry their copies, wearing them as a badge of honour. I suggest that they see it as their two fingers up to their husband/boss/father/miscellaneous male, a way of saying ‘We’re in a secret sexy women-only club that you can’t join. Nah nah nah nah nah’. So I’m taking a risk in what I’m about to say now, risking the fact that I won’t be allowed to join this Club, potentially alienating myself from the rest of womankind, but here goes: I don’t get it. It didn’t excite me. It bored me. And here’s why.
In order to be turned on by what two characters get up to in the bedroom (or as is the case with this book, the ‘Red Room’) I the reader need to fall a little bit in love with the both of them. I don’t even LIKE these two. I’m assuming ‘Grey’ and ‘Steel’ were intended to make us think of hard, shiny, phallic things – gun metal maybe, or money and excess. Unfortunately their specific brand of greyness is, for me, more the type associated with bland old underwear or cheap prison porridge. Our female protagonist is traditionally a better version of ourselves, someone we can relate to or aspire to become. This one is a wet (no pun intended) blanket with no ideas or opinions of her own, no spunk(!) if you like, who cries continually and constantly forgets to eat lunch! What sort of woman forgets to eat lunch? How can I relate to THAT?!!! And him?! I was expecting to read a character who re-defined masculinity, stretched the boundaries of our imaginations, made all of us women want to hold out for a better, newer version of what it is to be male. Instead, he’s a grumpy, selfish, ginger, 26 year old bully with long thing fingers. And he’s a pianist! Was there ever a less sexy instrument for our fantasy man – our ‘Mantasy’ if you will- to play? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not magically immune to ‘the musician thing’. So a guitarist is apparently good with his hands, a drummer has excellent rhythm and brass players are rumoured to be clever with their mouths. I get it. But a pianist?! It just makes me think of Art Garfunkel or Barry Manilow – privileged, sensitive types who were bullied at school so their wealthy parents paid for lots of extra-curriculur lessons for fear that otherwise THEY should have to spend time with their odd little son.
And as for his penchant for sadism, I have no issue with consenting adults indulging in dominant/submissive role-play. But let's not pretend its NEW. What's new about a man who will dominate a weak-willed woman? It's been happening since time began. So he's got a dark room with lots of gadgets in it? His 'Red Room of Pain' just conjures up images of the average teenaged boy's bedroom for me. Step inside one of those and you'll find things a hundred times scarier than a pair of love eggs and a leather flogger. As for the way the mild sado-madochism makes our 'leading' (as if) lady feel, she's degraded, confused, she's emotionally at his beck and call – and this is sexually liberating for women?! How? Far from doing something new, he's actually a bit behind the times with his props too. He doesn't need a whip to make her feel degraded. Just a few ignored texts and unanswered calls will do that.
I feel genuinely sorry for the generation of girls growing up after ours. We gave them the ‘Twilight Saga’ first, which taught them to abstain from their sexual desires for fear that, should they succumb, they A) would have the blood sucked out of them by a vampire and thus become bloodsucking murderers themselves or B) be mauled to death by a wolf (albeit a wolf with waxed pecs). And now, we’ve given these young women Christian Grey: a controlling half-arsed-pervert whose only defence is the Jeremy Kyle justification – that he had a messed up childhood. Uh…it’s 2012. If something dysfunctional DIDN’T happen in your childhood then you haven’t lived. The book suggests to these post-Twilight girls that if they hang on in there and just bite the pillow during the odd bit of abuse then they might just get rewarded with everlasting love. They might, in fact, just be the one that this man changes for. Oh dear God.
Now I know that there is a recession on. I can see the appeal of a man with money. As a girl who has suffered on public transport for years, the thought of being taken everywhere on a private jet is quite nice. Plus, I like to make an entrance. But my issue is, he didn’t MAKE this money. It was handed to him on a silver platter at about the same time that his new Mummy shoved the silver spoon into his miserable little mouth. Yes, success can be sexy, money can be moreish, power can be well, powerful. But a little rich boy that didn’t work for a penny of his money, success or power? Hmmm, not so much. And let’s say he was to spoil you with his Mummy’s money – if he took you out for a posh meal, for example, you couldn’t choose what you wanted from the menu. He’d do that for you. How crap is that?!
Perhaps the one element of his portrayal that I agree is appealing is this: he constantly keeps in touch with her. The older generation would say that he ‘chases’ her. In the age of the passive aggressive male trying desperately hard to claw back some semblance of control over women by ignoring their texts and phone calls, playing boring, predictable mind games and dragging their feet over commitment, I can see the attraction of a man who constantly calls, emails and follows you around in his helicopter. But let’s get real here. He’s contacting you to get you to sign a contract. A contract. Form filling is mind-numbingly boring at the best of times but in the beginning of a relationship?! He’s like an annoying, overbearing estate agent – not a lover.
To be fair to the lad I can understand why he wants to cause her pain. If I had to cope with her constant simpering and blushing and unfathomable indifference to food, not to mention her inability to understand what a SUBconscious is despite being an English Graduate, I’d want to whip her into next week as well. I’m guessing that the reason he wants her to eat all the time is because she can’t harp on about her inner goddess when her mouth is full.
Just to be clear I’m not trying to be mean to E L James, she obviously understands a great deal more about female sexuality than I do. Hats off to her success. And I’m not judging ANY woman who enjoyed reading it. I’m just sad that the book that finally made it ok for women to openly talk about their desires and fantasies is this one. A story where our main man laughs at our leading lady instead of listens to her, dreams of causing her pain instead of pleasure, wants to gag her instead of hearing her speak, and wants to blindfold her rather than showing her the world – a story where the man wants to keep her tied up rather than setting her free.
Copyright Kelly Rickard September 3rd 2012
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