I have made a vicious mistake this weekend. I have allowed my thinner half to make me try reading first book from the 50 shades trilogy. As open as I am towards new experiences (I have tried reading novels written by and for women before to please my ex girlfriends), I’ve thought this might even be a worthy ride. Yeah, so the book is probably written for women so much, that someone with less tolerance could wish to murder somebody after reading it, but I can deal with it. I’m mentally strong and all that. At least I can get through that experience totally indifferent at worse.
So, yeah, I’ve picked it up. Started reading it.
Honestly? It doesn’t start off that bad at all. It’s a girly novel, that much is obvious. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be so much of a best-seller among women readers. But it flows easily, you sweep from page to page without much frustration, light humor of the novel even makes it an interesting (though hardly ecstatic) read.
For those who girlfriends or wives made to watch “Pretty little liars”, first third of the “50 shades of Grey” is similar experience. It’s not something that occupies your mind and interests you whole a lot, but it’s an easy ride and you get to have a peek at that girly-pinkish-oh-so-fluffy world.
So you run through one female-romance-novel-stereotype after the other. You might, as I did, find it unpleasantly amusing, or you might find it simply irritating. But somehow, it’s all contained within the limits of bearable experience. It’s like eating a fruit cake if you don’t like fruits much: it’s borderline gross because of the fruity taste, but on the other hand it borders with perfection because it is a friggin’ cake. Similar happens with this novel – girly romance/porn is wasted on you, but it’s so far a fluid novel which just flows on you.
But then book falls into, and I’m being totally fair and objective here, total and unrecovering mediocrity. Shit hits the fan when Grey saves Anastasia from that guy which every girl has in her life – stalky you’ve-always-suspected-he-finds-you-hot friend-slash-potential-rapist. It’s one of those “don’t go there” typical pitfalls into which many female romantic novels fall.
But ok, you survive that. You even survive how he dragged to his hotel room totally wasted girl, took her clothes off and left her to sleep in his bed. Because men do that, all the time.
But ok, in the end it is a fantasy novel. Don’t be too harsh on it, I think to myself.
But hell breaks loose shortly after.
You guess. The following evening newly-formed almost-couple spends kind of the romantic evening which ends in the wild love-making scene, although Christian, as I remember from the previous point in the book “doesn’t make love; he just fucks”.
But no, finding out Anastasia is still a virgin, he decides for one time in his life to “make love” to the woman. Then he fucks her wildly so she achieves orgasm 3 times in a row and then falls asleep.
As if that description wasn’t bad enough on it’s own (literally: I almost fell asleep reading those pages describing actual sex; the previous part of the novel was more interesting than that; while at the same time I started feeling tremendous irritation caused by this book), the horror continues.
Anastasia, freshly out of virgin-league, wakes up in the middle of the night. In a manner of an untouched butterfly powerpuff girl she jumps out of Grey’s bed just to find him sitting naked by the piano playing some music. Oh no, he’s not naked, we find out in the following paragraphs, he has his pyjama shorts on. Thank God, I was afraid James-girl slashed Monty Python’s Flying Circus with her BDSM romantic novel.
They spend minutes talking, and then he takes her back to bed. Anastasia, who got her cherry picked just hours before then remembers what happened that night. You are guessing – she remembers not before she saw her own blood on the sheets.
Aaaaand that’s the point where this book was too much for me. I’ve turned off the Kindle and went to calm down. No man of straight sexual providence could survive experience of reading through this whole book. I’ve had to switch to Oscar Wilde classics for a while to get my inner-man back in shape. And when you start feeling like a man again while reading Oscar Wilde, just imagine how degrading experience for anyone’s manhood first third of the “50 shades of Grey” was.
I have to end this review by shattering the dreams of every 22-year-old or older virgin girl who might have bumped on my blog searching for “50 shades” reviews: no, Virginia, there is no Christian Grey out there. And even if there was, if he has read this book, he became a girly gay man.
Yes, Virginia. I am serious.