Don’t tell my husband I told you this… re: 50 Shades of Grey

Photo credit: Carlo Mendoza

I read dirty books. And I like them…

OK. I admit it,  I read 50 Shades of Grey and I loved it.


I said it — I feel so free!

My husband also enjoyed it, but you probably already knew that from his grey tie and the big smile on his face.

I have a few friends who haven’t and won’t read the smut that is (apparently) defining my generation of women — and their brains are probably better for it. Their sex lives… well, I don’t know. Maybe they don’t need 50 Shades to spice things up. I’m just sayin’ if you needed something to add some sizzle, look no further.

I know I shouldn’t feel guilty for reading naughty, badly written books. But I do. Blame that guilt on my being raised Catholic, or on my generalized anxiety disorder if you will. I mean, I am predisposed to feeling guilty about everything but I do feel like reading (and re-reading) the 50 Shades trilogy has pickled my brain a smidge. No one is saying E.L. James is the next Shakespeare, but as a writer, I feel like a little more is expected of my literary choices. Especially by my smarter, hipper, more urban friends. But hey, I didn’t even take English in university, who am I  to say what’s well written vs badly written? I’m no critic.

And really, who says one’s use of metaphor, simile and other literary tools are the measure by which a books inherent ‘greatness’ should be rated? Shouldn’t its appeal also count? According to the New York Times bestsellers list, I’m not the only one who read this book. Quite a few people out there are reading it, and based on conversations at a few recent Girl’s Nights Out, my husband isn’t the only man reaping the rewards.

But can I tell you a secret? (BTW this is the part you’re not allowed to tell my husband I told you!) I’ve been reading raunchy books for a LONG time. And, as dirty goes, there are way dirtier ones out there, that are better written and better at turning me on — mostly because I’m not rolling my eyes about Anastasia shattering into a thousand pieces, again. I mean, couldn’t E.L. think of another phrase?

Truthfully, antidepressants coupled with three little kids and no lock on my bedroom door, have wrecked havoc on my libido for the past few years. I have to work at getting in the mood. Because even though I’m 36, apparently my sexual peak, someone forgot to tell Cymbalta and Wellbutrin!

I don’t know if that’s TMI. And frankly, since this is my blog and I don’t get paid for it, I don’t really care if you’re grossed out right now. I’m just sayin’ how revolutionary is a little smut anyway? The Kama Sutra is hundreds of years old, apparently couples have been looking for a little somethin’ somethin’ for a while. And since everyone and her mother has now read, or is reading, 50 Shades of Grey, chances are, I’m not the only one.

My theory is that the internet has made porn more mainstream. Sex is on every TV channel and all over the radio. Why not embrace it at the book store too? Especially if you have an e-reader and can download your dirty little books in seconds, from the comfort of your own bed?

I’m so glad we had this little talk.

By the way. I’m totally blushing right now.

Now, for your listening pleasure, here’s the soundtrack to 50 Shades of Grey. It’s quite nice, and very good to write to.