April 3, 2012 § 42 Comments
Sweet mother of all humanity, is everyone reading that book?
You know the one. Fifty Shades of Grey.
Apparently it’s about a dominant/submissive relationship between a 22-year-old virgin and some dude who wears a tie all the time. Or something. I don’t know. I haven’t read it, but I’ve had several excerpts sent to me. Thanks for that, by the way.
They’re calling it “mommy porn.” (Seriously. Google “mommy porn.” See?) But I gotta say, what I’ve seen so far isn’t doing it for me.
(To be clear, I don’t give a smack how anybody gets their jollies. Carry a cattle prod and wear a Batman mask for all I care. Whatever. But for lord’s sake, don’t make me read stuff like this:
“Confident, sexy, eyes blazing, and my heart begins to pound. My blood’s pumping around my body. Desire, thick and hot, pools in my belly. He stands in front of me, staring down into my eyes. He’s so freaking hot.”
OK, first off – that first thing is not a sentence. Second, the sensation of something thick pooling in my belly – that is exactly what I feel like right before I throw up. And third, if we’re going to say, “so freaking hot,” I feel like we need an “OMG” before it, don’t you?)
So anyway. I don’t think I’ll be buying the book. However, if anyone’s really looking for porn for moms, I’m on it. I’ve got 500 pages written as of this morning, and it’s H-O-T. Here are a few excerpts:
Chapter One: The Bedroom
He stands in the doorway, a godlike silhouette bathed in gleaming arrows of morning light. [Ed. note: It seems mixed metaphors are all the rage in porn, the mixier the better, used as often as possible. I totally have the hang of this.] The air is thick with the scent of the shaving cream he bought all by himself and used this morning, quietly, before wiping the sink clean of stubble and toothpaste blobs.
“I know how you like it,” he says.
“How do I like it?” she asks.
“With skim milk and an eighth of a teaspoon of raw sugar,” he answers, as he hands her the steaming mug of coffee.
She sits up against her pillow, fully rested, hair untangled, as always. “What time is it?” she asks.
“Oh, you know what time it is…” he says, eyes smoldering like oceans of coal.
He continues: “…time for you to turn on The Today Show, because I already got the kids up, fed, and out of the house for school. And now I’m going to straighten up downstairs before I leave for work.”
Chapter Six: The Meeting
As slide 42 of the PowerPoint presentation on the importance of proper school attire lights up the screen, he reaches a breaking point.
He stands to address the PTA president: “We get it! Knee socks are an important part of the uniform code. But it’s 10 p.m. – three hours is enough.”
Before he strides confidently out of the room like a proud snake, he turns back to point at a woman seated at the table: “And Jennifer, my wife knows damn well what the sugar policy is, so cool it with the ‘friendly reminder’ emails. She’d tell you herself, but she’s out having a margarita with her fun gay friends – by whom I am not the least bit intimidated – because I gave her the night off.”
Chapter Ten: The Trip
She’s almost to the door of the airplane lavatory when he taps her on the shoulder, his fingers drumming lightly on her skin like thunderous flames. He has followed her. She turns around.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I know you like to pack your own things a certain way, which I find positively adorable. But since I packed everything for you in order to surprise you with this trip to Antigua, I wasn’t sure what you’d need. So I took the liberty of assembling this little bag of travel-size products by Bobbi Brown. Blue Raspberry is your favorite lipstick, right?”
Chapter Fourteen: The Vintage Cocktail Making Class
“You’re right,” he says. “This is a fun and enjoyable way to spend some couple time. I love your ideas.”
“I know you do,” she says, as she eyes the communal bowl of ice set out on the table for all participants to use in their drinks.
He picks up an ice cube. “You know what I’d like to do with this?”
“What?” she asks breathlessly, her voice soft like a spring rain in October.
“I’d like to get fucking rid of it.” He hurls the ice to the floor, where it smashes like a thousand diamond sparks exploding from a surging rainbow of lightning, and turns to the bartender. “My wife deserves her OWN bowl of clean ice, and SHE SHALL HAVE IT.”
Chapter Twenty: The Volleyball Game
She watches them pounding the ball back and forth over the net from where she sits on her beach chair. She looks totally hot in her bikini, although no one can see it, because she’s wearing that ankle-length, UPF-50 wrap that keeps her skin looking like she’s 21. Everyone asks where she got it.
As he reaches his muscled arm toward the sky to prepare to spike the ball like an iron tsunami of masculine power, he freezes suddenly. He sets the ball gently down, causing absolutely no sand whatsoever to fly up into the wind and blow into her face.
“Was that the buzzer on the dryer I just heard?”
The others nod. They’re sure they heard it too. They want to help fold. All of them.
(And so on.)