For reasons that are now obscure to me, I read the first couple of chapters of Fifty Shades of Grey at that terrible moment in time when it seemed that everyone else on the planet was intrigued/turned on and moaning its sexiness.
Oh. God. Help. Me.
I don’t know if it’s only me, (it feels like it’s only me), but this is possibly the unsexiest piece of claptrap I have ever read. What is more disturbing, (oh and I don’t know WHY I am soooo surprised), it is popular beyond all belief. So popular in fact, not only did Hollywood knock out a movie, but three pieces of nonsense to substantiate its supposed hotness. Groan!
So, the final film (please dear God, let it be the last film), Fifty Shades Freed is now out and about and all I can say is: I hope it is the end of an not-so-erotic era, where blatancy is deemed hot, and where the subtle art of suggestion is overlooked. Why do we need to be branded with a red hot poker to feel anything?
As for me, I’m settling down with a little Neruda. Pop your handcuffs in the cupboard, put away your washboard abs and impossible lingerie. Pablo does it for me, baby. “I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.” ~ Pablo Neruda