by Lori Perkins
But—and that is a big safeword in this scenario—BDSM is not generally considered completely unacceptable in the way that something truly harmful might be. Christian’s own list of hard limits could have been taken directly from a romance publisher: no puppies or kitties, no kids, no fire, no unmentionable acts. Such high moral standards from a man who has a special drawer filled with whipping canes of varying lengths and widths.
Christian is also a man who knows the value of a guilty pleasure. Is he proud of the fact that he gets off on flogging the ladies? Not really, as Dr. Flynn’s surely impressive therapy bill might suggest. But Christian isn’t truly hurting anyone. Therefore, that guilt doesn’t stop him from luxuriously kitting out an entire room for the discerning Dominant with taste and means, purely to indulge his, yes, guilty pleasure.
There’s guilt, and then there’s shame.
Shame can scare us off an action for life, or turn it into a hidden activity that can lead to obsession, which usually ends in remorse. Anyone who’s been made to feel ashamed about the natural exploration of sex as a child has hopefully undone the damage with his or her own version of Dr. Flynn.
Guilt, though, is a lesser emotion, on just on the right side of that fine border between pleasure and pain that Christian tells Ana about. The difference becomes clear in the way Ana feels about her exploration of Christian’s lifestyle. “Why does this feel so good?” she asks herself—usually right before asking for more.
In theory, being tied up and flogged by one’s lover shouldn’t feel good; in practice, however, it may. Even if it does, though, one generally doesn’t admit it, for fear of being judged. The social stigma against such acts keeps them behind closed doors, safe in Red Rooms. (And think about it: if BDSM were acceptable enough to be spoken about over bagels at brunch, would it be as much fun?)
What keeps women who swap their bracelets for handcuffs quiet about it is the thick skin required to withstand not just a good spanking, but the withering stare that follows such admissions. Conventional society’s judgment of anyone who likes painful games? They’re weird, crazy, depraved, sick, and setting feminism back to the Stone Age. That nondisclosure agreement isn’t the only thing that keeps Ana from telling her best friend, Kate, about what Ana and Christian do in private. Christian’s binding (pun unavoidable) contract notwithstanding, Ana still can’t bring herself to tell Kate, or anyone else, about what Christian wants to do to her … or why she wants him to do it.
Part of her silence may be due to embarrassment; Ana knows what people will think and is afraid of people talking her out of her own investigation. Another part may be the scandal that would ensue if word got out about what Christian, a well-known businessman and philanthropist, has going on in that Red Room of Pain.
Mostly, though, I like to think that Ana doesn’t talk about what she does with Christian, or, more to the point, what Christian does to her, because she likes having a secret. Yes, my boyfriend is a Dominant—and I think I like being his submissive. Not exactly a line heard at most dinner parties. If it is, chances are good that the ante will soon need to be upped, because pleasures that come easily and become commonplace also get dull fast.
A few months before my wedding, I went on a diet. High fiber, low calorie, no fat, zero fun. Caning had nothing on this regime.
When the wedding day finally came, I had my first piece of cake in months. This was the best cake I’d ever eaten. This cake was like mind-blowing drugs in IMAX, it was so good. Deprivation had done more than get me thin; I’d developed a taste for forbidden fruit. To a mind trained to diet, the cake was still technically verboten. A cheat.
After the wedding, with a renewed hunger for sweets and no big event to diet for, I ate sugar with abandon. Chocolate craving in the afternoon? Have some. Want dessert? You bet. But when I gave myself permission to eat what I wanted without thought of consequence, that treat wasn’t as good as when it was a cheat. The missing ingredient? The sweet taste of mild guilt, of doing something that I “wasn’t supposed to do,” and of having to hide my deed.
This is the problem with permissiveness; it’s just not that much fun. In high school, the most messed-up kids I knew were the ones whose parents smoked pot and drank with them. How can a kid engage in rebellion—necessary for growth—against that?
My parents weren’t terribly permissive, but there were some disappointingly easygoing moments. Every week I’d get together with my biological father, who my mother divorced when I was young. On one such visit, I remember finding Story of O in his bookshelf. (It wasn’t even hidden.) He’s an artist, so the version of O my father had was illustrated—what would now be called a graphic novel—by Guido Crepax. My father had a tendency to treat me, his teenage daughter, like an adult in matters of culture, so he didn’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed to look at a graphic novel about graphic sex. Graphic, sadomasochistic sex.
Well, I was thrilled. Not only was I being treated like an adult, I was being given free rein to look at penises and sex—very artistically rendered, of course. Fantastic! And yet … there was something missing from this transaction: everything that had been so fun the day Elizabeth and I found her mother’s Playgirls. The sweetness of doing something naughty, the mild guilt of harboring this secret from authority figures, like my parents—hell, one of my parents had very nonchalantly given me permission to read it. Sure, I was going to look, but some of the thrill was gone before I even opened the book.
We love rules and boundaries. They keep order, but they also keep forbidden fruit sweet.
Women have a rich history of cheating on diets, starting with Eve. There was only one thing she couldn’t have, and that was the only thing she wanted. I like to think of her in exile, wearing her fig leaf minidress, and saying to Adam, “Yeah, but it was sooooo gooooood. If I find more of that stuff, I’m making an entire pie out of it.”
Pandora also had a craving. Only one thing she wasn’t supposed to do. Only one thing she wanted to do. Cue the sound of a box being opened—consequences, shmonsequences. Which was more alluring for these women: the taste of the apple and the satisfaction of knowing what was inside that box, or doing these things despite the thou shalt not? There’s something so bright and shiny about the thing you can’t have or shouldn’t do.
The recipe for a delicious guilty pleasure, then, is:
Naughtiness. For a guilty pleasure to work, it must have a piquant hint of being taboo. Remember, though, the guilty pleasure must be only slightly forbidden and not outright harmful. Anything that would harm you or another being is not a guilty pleasure, but something destined to bring on true pain. Conversely, if a relatively harmless action brings on too much internal agony, then an appointment with Dr. Flynn is in order.
Secrecy. Telling everyone about a guilty pleasure nullifies the guilt. The people who love you will say there’s nothing to feel guilty about. Some people may admit that they do the same thing, in which case you’re no longer the heroine of your own story; if everybody’s doing it, what makes you special?
Yet what makes a guilty pleasure even better is telling someone what you’ve done. You need some sort of accomplice, even if it’s only a diary. For Ana, that accomplice is Christian, who is deep inside his lifestyle, yet is brought outside of it by Ana’s questions of how he became this way.
Long before Fifty Shades of Grey was discussed on the Today Show, my friend Donna said, “Have you heard about this book? All the girls in my office are whispering about it.” Whispering. Not discussing it openly, but speaking in hushed tones so the boss didn’t hear them talking about how sexy a book about bondage could be. They knew how to keep a guilty pleasure good.
Recently, I was on the train and saw a woman who exuded an air of permissive entitlement. She was a person of size, possibly because she ate what she wanted, weight be damned. She defied societal norms by letting her hair go gray. Under her somber charcoal business jacket, she wore vibrant batik patterns. She was fierce.
The woman was readin
g Fifty Shades of Grey. I knew this because she had a paper copy instead of an ereader in her hand, and she wasn’t even attempting to hide the cover. A man was watching her read; he’d clearly heard the hype, knew what the book was about, and couldn’t help a tiny Tee-hee, you’re reading lady porn smirk from forming on his face.
The woman shot him a defiant look. She was going to read her erotica in broad fluorescent trainlight, and to hell with anyone who tried to imply that she couldn’t.
Of course she could. But I felt like taking her aside as my friend Elizabeth had done with me many years ago and whispering an important bit of information: Madame, you’re missing the point. I’m reading Fifty in public, too—but on my iPad, so no one can tell. Not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s more fun this way. There’s nothing more delicious than a guilty pleasure. The sauce, my dear, is in the naughty secret.
SUZAN COLÓN is the former senior editor for O, The Oprah Magazine. She is the author of the inspirational memoir Cherries in Winter: My Family’s Recipe for Hope in Hard Times (Random House); three young adult novels based on the hit TV series Smallville; Catwoman: The Life and Times of a Feline Fatale; and What Would Wonder Woman Do? An Amazon’s Guide to the Working World. She has written for O, Jane, Details, Harper’s Bazaar, and many other magazines. Her essays have been featured in three O, the Oprah Magazine anthologies: O’s Big Book of Happiness, Dream Big!, and Love Your Life! Suzan’s novel Beach Glass will be published by BelleBridge in spring 2014.
Visit her at www.suzancolon.net.
DR. HILDA HUTCHERSON
Fifty Ways of Looking at Sex in Fifty Shades
FIFTY SHADES OF GREY is an important book. It has single-handedly given millions of women permission to explore erotica, get in touch with their inner sexpot, and try new ways to heat up the bedroom with their partners. No longer is it embarrassing to read adult fiction on the plane, train, or in the checkout line of the local grocery store—where I recently saw a woman in her seventies eagerly devouring every word as she waited to pay. I can only imagine what the rest of her evening was like!
Women are reading it in book clubs. Friends are sharing stories about their sex lives. One woman told me that Fifty Shades saved her marriage. Women are using the book to learn new techniques and to begin a dialogue with their partners about sex.
Fifty Shades of Grey is a work of fiction based on fantasy and, as such, can take artistic license when describing almost anything. However, when it is read by millions of women—and men—around the world, from ages sixteen to ninety, one would hope that the fantasy is based somewhat on reality.
Fifty Shades also has a darker side that has led to my love-hate relationship with the book. Let’s begin with Mr. Christian Grey. The man is a jerk. Pure and simple. As he himself said, “I am fifty shades of fucked up.” He is not a jerk because he enjoys domination and submission or kinky sex. BDSM is an accepted way for consenting adults to express themselves sexually. Those that practice BDSM are not mentally ill, victims of child sexual or physical abuse, or just-plain-old-weirdo freaks. They don’t need to be fixed. Many people enjoy the sensations that are created during this form of sex play. The motto in the BSDM community is “Safe, sane, and consensual,” meaning that any activity must be safe and performed only between consenting adults who are fully aware of what they are doing. Trust and respect are key elements in BDSM play between consenting adults.
I can’t imagine why any woman would want to be with this man. He is handsome, rich, and well endowed. But that’s where it ends. He is selfish, a stalker, possessive, and controlling. He arranged her OB/GYN appointment, told her how to take her birth control pills, and didn’t want her to masturbate, for example. He has a temper, mood swings, and doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t make love, withholds affection, and doesn’t want to cuddle after sex or spend the night. He is simply emotionally abusive. Who would put up with that? Think of the young men reading this book who will get the wrong idea about sexual relationships.
All that said, the man knows his way around a woman’s body! He tells Ana that she has a beautiful body, that she should not be ashamed or embarrassed, and that he derives pleasure from the sight of her naked body. How many of us have ever felt embarrassed while naked? Since most of us are having sex under the covers, in the dark, I would say that the number is large. Mr. Grey kisses her entire body, including her feet. He appreciates the scent of a woman. Running his nose up between her thighs, he murmurs, “You smell so good.” Men of America, listen up! Many women fear that their natural scent is somehow offensive. Mr. Grey just helped millions of women exhale. He loves the taste of a woman: “‘Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty fine,’ he breathes.” After fingering Ana, not only does he enjoy the taste of her secretions, he offers his thumb for her to taste and appreciate her own flavor. Bravo, Mr. Grey!
Every woman should look at her vulva and vagina, appreciate her scent, and taste her secretions. Learning to love your body completely frees you and allows you to enjoy sex fully. Mr. Grey understands that the clitoris is powerful and needs lots of attention. He massages, circling slowly. He swirls his tongue around and around, taking his time. He massages her G-spot while he continues his gentle assault on her clitoris. He even appreciates her pubic hair. What a man!
Mr. Grey is responsible and practices safer sex, unwrapping a gold foil–wrapped condom—extra large Magnum, no doubt—every time they have intercourse. He has instant firm erections, is capable of having sex multiple times without rest, is never in a hurry, never boring, and never comes before his partner. Wow!
Anastasia Steele is just as problematic. She is a virgin who has never touched herself, yet she has easy orgasms, three her very first time having sex. Her first orgasm was through nipple stimulation alone. She comes easily with penetrative sex alone, even when he slams into her, and she has multiple orgasms every time. Her unrealistic responsiveness is annoying. Almost as annoying as her “inner goddess.” She really got on my last nerve. Ana deep throats and swallows sperm her very first time providing oral pleasure. Whose fantasy is this anyway?
Anastasia comes on demand. Christian has only to command that she come for him—“Come for me”—and she explodes into a million pieces. Really? And the kicker: Anastasia Steele explodes into a massive orgasm when he flicks her clitoris over and over with a riding crop! I am expecting to see more than one bruised clitoris in my office in the coming months, as this is far from reality for almost every woman.
Since more than 75 percent of women do not experience orgasm through intercourse alone, many worry that something is wrong with them when they can’t come within five minutes or have multiple glorious orgasms. And is this the message we want men to hear? They have already been telling women for years that they are defective when they don’t come the moment their nipples are sucked or their vaginas assaulted by a stiff penis. It all makes me want to scream!
Anastasia allows Christian to abuse her emotionally and physically. She does not give consent to the spankings that she receives, so this is not BSDM play, but abuse. She allows herself to be treated poorly by this man simply because she doesn’t want to lose him. What a poor message to send to young female readers.
I do applaud the book’s instructional value when it comes to anal sex, woman-on-top positional sex, hand jobs, fellatio, cunnilingus, masturbation, Ben Wa balls, sex toys, ice play, erotic massage, safer sex discussion, and condom instructions. It encourages women to explore sexual pleasure without shame or guilt. And that is a good thing. I just don’t think it makes up for the toxic relationship between Mr. Grey and Anastasia Steele.
DR. HILDA HUTCHERSON is a native of Tuskegee, Alabama. A graduate of Stanford University and Harvard Medical School, she is presently a Clinical Professor of Obstetrics and Gynecology and Director of the Center for Sexual Health at Columbia University Medical Center. Her commitment to women’s health is evidenced by her monthly women’s health column in Redbook, where she is also a contributing editor. She is a
frequent contributor to Essence, where she had a monthly column for eight years. She is the former sexual health columnist for Glamour magazine and has been quoted in Health, Allure, Seventeen, Self, Cosmopolitan, More, and O Magazine. She is a frequent invited speaker on women’s health and sexuality. Dr. Hutcherson is the author of three books: Having Your Baby: A Guide for African American Women, What Your Mother Never Told You about Sex, and Pleasure: A Woman’s Guide to Getting the Sex You Want, Need and Deserve.
LOIS GRESH
The McDonald’s of Lust
E. L. JAMES’ Fifty Shades trilogy is a by-product of feminism and women’s equality. It’s porn for women, and that’s why it’s so popular.
Porn and its softer cousin, erotic romance, are like the Dollar Menu at McDonald’s. They’re addictive, and what satisfies a craving one day just won’t cut it the next. If you buy a hamburger today, then tomorrow you’ll need a double bacon cheeseburger with large fries and a supersized Coke.
If male porn addiction arises from dopamine-oxycontin releases during orgasm, then the same is true for female porn addiction. In the best of times, repeated orgasms with the same person leads to bonding. Repeated orgasms based on porn or erotic romance means bonding with the fantasies. Male or female, the brain becomes neurologically hooked.
Today’s women are overburdened. Single mothers struggle to earn a living while raising children alone, managing the home, paying the bills, and hoping they can cover college tuitions that cost more than houses. The workplace is infected by outsourcing, minimum wages, and no benefits. Despite so-called feminism and women’s equality, single mothers are still in cages.
In the meantime, many stay-at-home mothers with college degrees don’t know what they want or how to cope. They feel guilty if they leave their children at day care, feel guilty if they pursue careers or if they don’t pursue careers. They worry that their husbands will leave them, because after all, the divorce rate just keeps skyrocketing, doesn’t it?