Fifty Writers on Fifty Shades of Grey

by Lori Perkins

  As the series progresses, the control Christian exerts over Ana’s life becomes focused more on using his wealth as a weapon against her. When he feels threatened by Ana’s male boss, Christian simply buys the company she works for. When she objects and threatens to leave her job, he tells her that he’ll buy the next company as well. He learns her bank routing and account numbers and deposits large amounts of money into her account against her wishes, and reveals that he’s done a background check on her.

  Perhaps the most worrying of all the messages this series carries is that being completely dominated and controlled by a man is a natural part of a mature relationship. When Christian, finally confronted by Ana about her dislike of the BDSM aspect of their relationship, admits that she isn’t a good submissive, he wants her to continue in the lifestyle, anyway: “And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward.” He’s unwilling to pursue the relationship outside of his parameters. When Ana protests that deciphering when he wants her to challenge him as a romantic equal and when he wants her submissive comes as too much “personal cost,” saying, “I’m tied up in knots here,” his response is to joke about bondage and coax her into another sexual encounter, thus ending the conversation. He never bothers to address her needs, because they don’t fulfill his. Should she fail to meet his needs, however, he wants permission to physically punish her. Ana finds this unacceptable and breaks up with him at the conclusion of Fifty Shades of Grey, but at the beginning of Fifty Shades Darker she apologizes to Christian for not trying hard enough to fulfill his needs, going so far as to call herself “undeserving” of his affection. Though the physical punishments no longer involve whips and canes, they still persist, in the form of hickeys on her breasts when a wardrobe malfunction leaves her topless at the beach in Fifty Shades Freed.

  It’s not as though there aren’t clues throughout the novels that total control of Ana is the ultimate end goal for Christian. Though the master/slave element is toned down in Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed, he continually tells Ana she belongs to him, that he knows what is best for her, going so far as to order her meal for her when they dine at a restaurant in the beginning of the second novel. After they marry, Christian is angered when she chooses to keep her last name for professional reasons, telling her, “I want your world to begin and end with me.” Slowly, Ana begins to accept his total control, and this acceptance is portrayed as a positive progression in a normal and loving adult relationship.

  But is Fifty Shades of Grey actually “violence against women” as Dr. Drew proposed? It’s a fantasy—no one would want that relationship in reality, would they? The zeitgeist seems to believe otherwise. In her article for the Huffington Post, Jenny Isenman laments the ways in which her relationship with her husband pales in comparison to Ana and Christian’s. In an article on CafeMom online, Andrew Kardon advised husbands to buy Fifty Shades of Grey so they could add little touches from the book into their marriages. The line between what women like to fantasize about and the way we want to be treated in reality is blurred in countless media discussions.

  Fans of the books have reacted vehemently to criticism, going so far as to say the same troubling things about Fifty Shades of Grey as those young Twitter users said about Chris Brown. “I would let Christian Grey beat me!” is no less troubling a statement than the ones made about Brown, so where is a similar outcry?

  The first step in correcting the misconception that the relationship portrayed in the novels is a romantic ideal is for fans to admit that the book is problematic. It would be enough to say simply, “While there are issues with the relationship portrayed in the books, I found them an enjoyable fantasy.” Acknowledging that Christian Grey exhibits traits common to controlling, abusive men isn’t admitting that the reader would like to be controlled and abused in real life. Many people can enjoy slasher flicks without actually wanting to be murdered or murder someone else, so the same considerations should apply to works of an intensely sexual nature.

  Second, fans need to stop arguing that the relationship isn’t flawed. Admitting that there is a problem truly is the first step to solving it, and it solves nothing for fans of the book to run around offering excuses. “He only wants to hit her because he had a bad childhood!” isn’t a believable defense in real life, so it shouldn’t be a valid reason to defend Christian Grey at book club. Attempting to explain away the troubling themes in Fifty Shades of Grey insults victims of domestic violence, many of whom have endured the same experiences of control and domination to which Ana is subjected. To revisit the slasher flick analogy, it’s rare to find anyone who would defend the motives and actions of Freddy Krueger, and yet many people are capable of watching and enjoying A Nightmare on Elm Street.

  Third, we must stop buying into the media obsession with equating female fantasy with female fulfillment. Discussions of Fifty Shades of Grey often include sly suggestions that reading the book will revitalize your sex life, that it will tell women what they really want from their men, and men what women want from them. It can be a satisfying fantasy without being anything else. Fifty Shades of Grey and its sequels are not, and shouldn’t be touted as, nonfiction self-help books. Encouraging readers to emulate them is irresponsible in the extreme.

  Finally, readers have to accept that if they’re going to indulge in books with problematic themes, they will hear some criticism, and this criticism isn’t personal. Many women reading the Fifty Shades novels are reading them as their first experience with erotica. The tie (no pun intended) between the sexual content of the book and the sexual fantasies of the readers builds a minefield critics have to navigate cautiously. In the company of other ardent fans, readers are safe to lavish praise on the books and the characters without any attention paid to the undertones of abuse and control in the story. Faced with criticism, many fans of the series interpret it as a direct attack on themselves and their sexual desires. Then the cycle of excuses starts all over again: “Christian bought her that computer because he loves her! He spanks her because he had a bad childhood!” When this happens, the reader isn’t defending the series; they’re defending their right to be turned on, which shouldn’t be a part of the discussion. Or the fan resorts to ad hominem attacks on anyone who doesn’t like the books, calling detractors “prudes” and suggesting they don’t have satisfying sex lives. What was once a discussion about books is dragged into a quagmire of personal attacks.

  Ideally, we would live in a culture where abuse and romance weren’t so easy to confuse, where women could look at a man like Chris Brown or Christian Grey and see them for the predators they are. We would be able to draw a line between what women want in fiction and what they want in reality, and we would be able to draw a similar line between what we feel comfortable fantasizing about and our social consciences. To get there, we have to face some uncomfortable truths about ourselves and our culture.

  So, imagine your daughter. She can be real, or hypothetical. If you’re child-free, imagine your sister, or a friend. Imagine Fifty Shades of Grey never existed, and this woman you love has brought home her new boyfriend. He’s rich, he’s handsome, he’s charming, although you suspect his charm is carefully tailored. He emails and texts her often, demanding to know her whereabouts. He has her cell phone traced, so he can follow her against her wishes. He reacts with jealousy to her friends. He physically hurts her when she’s made him angry, but she assures you that she’s okay with that, she’s agreed to it and signed paperwork that makes it okay. Every time she talks about him, she’s vague and moody. She cries often. She believes she can change him.

  This is the deciding moment. Do you pick up the vibrator and fantasize about him, or do you pick up the phone and call the police?

  JENNIFER ARMINTROUT is a USA Today bestselling author of urban fantasy and paranormal romance. She also writes award-winning erotic romance under the pseudonym Abigail Barnette. She lives in Michigan with her
husband and two children.

  Intermission

  JUDITH REGAN

  Fifty Shades of Play

  A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up.

  —MAE WEST

  HE WAS THE UGLIEST MAN I’d seen in a while. Bad teeth. Fat. Bald. Not at all the image of what my friends imagined I’d find desirable. At first glance he repulsed me. As did his atrocious grammar, stunning narcissism, and cocky demeanor, which were laughable.

  But then something happened that turned my repulsion to attraction, my disgust to lust.

  I was seated beside him at a dinner when he suddenly, boldly and unexpectedly, grabbed and squeezed my leg under the table.

  His wife was seated across from us, which no doubt added to his thrill.

  Here I was, a fiercely independent woman who’d loved and lost and loved again. I’d built a dazzling company, had beautiful, bright, loving children, an array of scintillating friends worldwide, and a bank account with enough fuck-you money to last a lifetime.

  I had no time for romance, no interest in marriage, and a hot affair was the last thing on my mind.

  He pursued me with a vengeance. He was powerful, too, and had his aides deliver a seemingly never-ending array of gifts: thousands of long-stemmed red roses, endless lingerie, and a life-sized stuffed lion with a motion detector that groaned and roared in his voice when I walked by. He even sent an Audi in my favorite color and a laptop fully loaded with erotic photos of a stunning twelve-inch cock attached to a hand masturbating it.

  With each gesture I was repulsed and shocked and more and more titillated. It had been years since I felt so pursued. And despite all of his negatives, his allure was electric. He wanted to possess me, to own me, to make me his. For weeks he’d call at 1:00 A.M. and in his lowest, deepest voice he’d speak of the one thing every woman loves to hear: his desire for me.

  I loved it. I wanted it. I fully imagined each and every cruel thing he said he wanted to do to me. He would make me beg for his cock, make me watch while other women prepped it for me. He would teach me to worship it, to run for it, to kill for it. He would handcuff me while he placed the large fat tip in my mouth and force me to sit still while he masturbated and poured his come down my throat, he would force me to put two fat dildos in my cunt while he pumped his throbbing meat into my ass. He would instruct me to lick the dicks of all of his friends under a table while they played cards, after which they would gangbang me.

  I was his, and I would be his whore. When he called I would run. I would do as told. He would have me open my blouse while driving and expose my tits. I would have implants to make them huge for his pleasure. I would bring him women as toys, and I would hold their tits up for his sucking pleasure. I would lick them to prepare their juicy cunts for his hot cock. And if I pleased him, he would reward me with Take 3, his code word for one in each hole. In these late-night calls he reminded me again and again that I was his, that he would possess and control and own me, and that if I ever tried to leave him, he would kill me.

  I started to believe him.

  And as any forty-six-year-old woman with years of experience and a log full of memories of men would do, I agreed to meet him.

  In a hotel room. Of his choosing. At his expense.

  We set the time. One of his aides would arrive in advance and deliver the key to me after checking us in under an anonymous name. He was famous and didn’t want to get caught.

  The suite was huge. I was to arrive thirty minutes before him. He was military precise in his plans and maneuvers. Everything down to the second.

  I was waxed and buffed and polished with new pearly white veneers, freshly covered grays, highlights, lowlights, brows shaped, seven pounds lighter, firmed up, semi-permanent lashes, stunning mouthwash, seven-inch Christian Louboutins, a black lace push-up bra peeking through my hot pink satin blouse and a desire that burned inside me in a way I’d never known.

  After setting out my toys and gadgets (he’d had one of his aides hand-deliver the list) I sat on the plush, teal velvet couch in this massive suite, my leg bobbing nervously, freshly doused in Déclaration, his favorite Cartier perfume.

  I was nervous, thrilled, excited, and ready. Loaded, cocked, and ready.

  Thirty minutes passed. Then forty-five. Fifty. Sixty. For a man with a fierce dedication to detail, this was another surprise. I called his cell. No answer. I called his cell again. No answer. I called his cell a third time. It was off.

  Was this to show me that he owned me? That my time was his? That I would wait? That he could keep me waiting? With each passing minute I grew more anxious. Should I leave? Had something happened to him?

  He arrived eighty-two minutes late. He announced it as he came in, tore off his clothes, and jumped in the shower.

  “I ran into Anna Kournikova at the airport. Her driver was late so I gave her a ride into the city. She invited me in. I didn’t have time to call you,” he said as he walked out of the bathroom soaking wet.

  I was to wait. I was to submit. To accept. To take his crumbs. To honor his every move. Every word. I was to stroke his ego, to open myself up to any and all of his desires. I was to sit at his feet awaiting his next order, ready to serve, and be thrilled for the asking.

  He pulled a whip and handcuffs out of his bag and threw me on the bed.

  He placed the handcuffs beside me.

  I told him I was nervous. I needed a drink to relax. I asked his permission. I begged him to join me in a toast to his cock.

  I poured the champagne. We clicked. Sipped. Then gulped.

  Within minutes he was drowsy and barely able to move. The drug worked quickly as promised. He collapsed on the bed and I quickly handcuffed him to the bedposts.

  He was having a hard time comprehending what was happening but I lifted his knees to his chest, strapped a double dick strap-on to my waist, and told him to beg for more as I penetrated his eager ass.

  He didn’t know what he was saying, but I fed him line after line.

  SAY IT!

  I worship your dick.

  Fuck my ass.

  Rape my ass.

  I am a cock lover.

  I want to be fucked.

  I am your cock slave.

  Finally, I shoved a large, thick, black glass dildo into his mouth, two in his ass, and said, “TAKE 3, MOTHERFUCKER.”

  He passed out after that. I collected my things, including the hidden camera I’d installed in the room, turned on the iPod player on which I had downloaded our tape-recorded phone conversations, and pumped up the volume. I wanted him to hear it as his wake-up call.

  Mae West said it best: “A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up.”

  JUDITH REGAN is a publisher, talk-show host, and producer. She hosts The Judith Regan Show on the SiriusXM Stars Channel.

  Fifty

  Shades of

  Sex

  SUZAN COLÓN

  Forbidden Fruit Is the Sweetest

  WHEN I WAS ABOUT seven years old, I was at my very best friend Elizabeth’s house when she took me aside and told me a secret: her mother had a stash of Playgirl magazines hidden somewhere in the house. “There are pictures of naked men in them!” she whispered.

  When her mother said she was going to the supermarket and would be back in half an hour, we promised we’d be good. The moment the door closed behind her, the hunt was on: we ransacked that place like federal agents acting on a hot tip. And we found the magazines! Oh, the mysterious male anatomy, finally revealed … I think we even sneaked one of her mom’s cigarettes to double the decadence.

  We had only a limited time to fill our eyes and imaginations before Elizabeth’s mother was due back, and almost as good as the discovery we’d made was covering it up. We ran around, giggling with nervous hysteria, as we tried to put the magazines back as we’d found them, then opened the window and fanned out the cigarette smoke. We might have gotten away with it all if we hadn’t been standing stiffly in the living room, sid
e by side, like two good little soldiers, when Elizabeth’s mother returned.

  That was my first sample of the unique and luscious flavor of a guilty pleasure, and understanding the ingredients—harmless naughtiness, mixed with a hint of secrecy—that went into one. I’ve been addicted to guilty pleasures ever since.

  I’d read erotica before Fifty Shades of Grey, and each time I remembered the lessons I learned that day with Elizabeth: pleasure is fun, but a pleasure that gently tests the conscience and remains covert is even better. So I kept erotica, which sometimes overflows into mainstream popularity, as a hidden indulgence, one for me to enjoy in private. Especially when partaking of erotica that was rough.

  Erotica has always been present in books and films, just out of view of the public eye. But every few decades, BDSM comes out of the dungeon (or, in this case, the Red Room of Pain) and has its moment in the mass market sun. Regular folks whose preference for whipping items usually extends only as far as a whisk for cream will line up to see Kim Basinger handcuffed in 9½ Weeks, or to buy brutal and sexual versions of fairy tales by Anne Rice, writing as A.N. Roquelaure. And now everyone and my godmother have read Fifty Shades of Grey.

  Why does BDSM have that mass moment? Maybe because we reach a saturation point with vanilla sex, as Christian Grey would call it, and we want a little … more (though not the “more” Anastasia asks Christian for, meaning a real relationship). If our society perceives sex as being naughty, and it does, then BDSM is the naughtiest of the naughty. BDSM is more than sex; it is potentially dangerous, not just physically, but emotionally. BDSM is sex with paddles and floggers, with handcuffs and clamps, and what truly makes traditional sex pale vanilla in comparison is the understanding that one person holds the flogger and the other is being flogged. In BDSM, sex is secondary to the true game of seduction: power and trust. The submissive must trust the Dominant to employ bondage, to administer corporal punishment, and, most important, to play by the rules: when the safeword is uttered, the submissive must have faith the play will stop.