by Lori Perkins
Men also cope as best as they can. It’s not that they’re evil or hate women. Everyone’s simply coping, and the focus has shifted from substance to whatever-gets-me-through-the-night. Jolts of Snooki and Mob Wives, dashes of Kardashians, a blip of fake-forever love on a dating show followed by two minutes of a sex tape. In 2012, life is an endless stream of 1980s MTV sleazed down to limp meaning and jacked-up excess.
As men turn to porn and away from reality, women become sexually frustrated. The women feel unappreciated, unloved, unattractive even in their youthful prime, and almost sexless. For a porn-addicted man, a real woman can’t measure up, and increasingly, young girls and women find themselves with men who would rather have sex alone in the glow of a computer screen. For examples, just read any number of recent articles about the subject, such as, but certainly not limited to, Davy Rothbart and Alex Morris’ 2011 New York magazine articles.5
Early feminists considered porn as something evil leading to rape. Gloria Steinem, who famously exposed Playboy in 1963 as a sexist empire when she became a bunny, labeled sadomasochism as pornography. One of feminism’s earliest leaders, Steinem probably would have pegged Fifty Shades of Grey and the rest of the trilogy as porn. And she would have been right.
The difference is that Fifty Shades is female porn.
When men choose porn over their wives, why shouldn’t women choose their own forms of erotica? This is exactly what women are doing with Fifty Shades and similar books, all of which are topping publishing charts.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I was a fan of Steinem’s back in the day. An elder stateswoman of feminism, she led the charge for equality. She came along in the ’60s, a glamorous yet intelligent and strong female. But by the time I was a young woman in the late ’70s and early ’80s, many men equated feminism with “lesbians who hate men,” or so they told me in the office. They made it clear that, if I was a feminist, I could lose my job. I didn’t want to burn my bra. I didn’t hate men. In fact, I rather liked men. Given that I worked for engineering companies where I was the only female professional in a sea of men, it was best for me to tell the truth, that I was working for the same reasons the men worked: I needed the money.
At first, I wanted a college education because I wanted to be a geneticist. I’d been a straight-A student in school. But my family had humble resources and told me that girls didn’t need college. I should become a secretary, a teacher, or a nurse.
I didn’t know anything about feminism or women’s equality, but I did know that I was incredibly bored. Starting at seventeen and earning minimum wages, I wrote medical newsletters, technical manuals, and a book about poverty, and I also programmed in a variety of languages and studied engineering and circuitry. I somehow got lucky and had a couple of terrific bosses who promoted me into management. They only cared that I did a good job; my gender wasn’t an issue. They liked the fact that I needed the money and had to support my family, that I had no choice. It meant that I worked all the time and did my very best for them. But being the only woman, I knew I was lucky.
In the late ’70s and ’80s, female professionals were supposed to dress like men. Shoulder pads in blazers hanging below our thighs, tentlike skirts hanging to our mid-calves, short spiky hair. Women’s magazines told us to climb career ladders and break glass ceilings.
But I liked being a girl.
No shoulder pads for me. No drooping blazers and tent skirts. I didn’t care about career ladders and glass ceilings. I was working to take care of my child, and I preferred intellectual stimulation to boredom. I remembered Gloria Steinem, who retained her femininity while projecting strength and intelligence, and I had no other role models. I forged my own path and made my own rules. I wore pants, simple button-down shirts, and loafers. I kept a casual blazer—short, without shoulder pads—on hand for meetings.
But after twelve to fifteen hours at work when I finally came home to my husband, I just wanted to be a girl. A physical entity, pure female, and with my brain switched off.
In those days, being a major breadwinner in pants could jeopardize a woman’s relationship with her man. What if he stopped seeing her as a sexual object? What if he turned his back on her and fell in lust with Playboy centerfolds? My God, what if he became addicted to porn? Worse, what if she had to make do at a minimum-wage job with no benefits while raising three kids on her own?
Oh, wait. These are today’s problems, only they’re widespread and much worse.
Luckily, today’s woman can do more than cry all night. If her man’s grooving to porn in a dump somewhere, she can sit in her own dump and groove to Fifty Shades. She can stock up on all forms of erotica and download whatever-gets-her-through-the-night fantasies. If she wants, she can fantasize about a very rich bad boy who lusts after her, who finds her sexually attractive—one who has his hang-ups, all of which she’s able to overcome, winning his heart. This is the potency of classic romance.
Anastasia Steele feels appreciated, desired, attractive. She has multiple orgasms. Her guy is consumed by angst. She must help him. It’s classic.
And yet we live in the age of porn, and so modern romance novels come in all forms—cowboys, aliens, threesomes, paranormals, kinky, kinkier, and kinkiest. If yesterday, a woman got turned on by one subgenre—say, paranormals—today she might lust for other kinks. She might lust for a rich bad boy who’s into BDSM and who ultimately finds himself and falls in love with her.
There’s really nothing new here. It’s traditional female sex fantasy, except hamburgers will no longer do. Today’s woman demands a triple bacon cheeseburger with extra sauce.
LOIS GRESH is the New York Times bestselling author (six times), Publishers Weekly bestselling paperback author, and Publishers Weekly bestselling paperback children’s author of twenty-seven books and fifty short stories. Her books have been published in approximately twenty languages. Current books are dark short story collection Eldritch Evolutions, Dark Fusions, and The Hunger Games Companion. Lois has received the Bram Stoker Award, Nebula Award, Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award, and International Horror Guild Award nominations for her work.
RAKESH SATYAL
Crass Is in Session
FOR MOST TEENAGERS, high school is one long science class: the Petri dish, the litmus test, and the sludge test rolled all into one. It is a time of hypotheses tied to self-doubt and self-examination (and, if Christian Grey had his way, self-flagellation). High school students waver and hesitate and consider a whole plethora of possibilities before deciding—or, more often than not, not deciding—what their next steps will be.
This indecision was likely a primary impetus behind Stephenie Meyer’s choice of teenaged Bella as the central figure in the Twilight Saga. She needed someone who could be both a clean slate and a messy blackboard, someone who was not yet realized as a sexual individual until presented with the most extreme of sexual partners and, later, equals. The teasing-out of her fledgling romantic impulses and the eventual fulfillment and satisfaction of them are what make her such an effective protagonist. We need our heroines to face conflict and be conflicted so that we can witness their evolution and realization. In the final tome of the series, Breaking Dawn, when Bella and Edward quite literally break the bed due to their passion, we see that Edward’s influence on her has both introduced her to new physical worlds and brought to fruition her nascent, inherent longings.
Anastasia Steele, to be sure, is no pillar of confidence when Fifty Shades of Grey begins. She is the very definition of a wilting flower, with all of the connotations sexual and otherwise that such a term evokes. Most enthusiasts of the series know by now that the primary inspiration for Ana was the equally fraught Bella Swan. But Ana’s main differentiating factor is that she is a college student; she has graduated beyond the lab test of high school and is ready for the sort of education that we do not readily attribute to those au lycée. It is a compelling decision on the part of E. L. James to choose this fulcrum on which to rest her story—compelling and fit
ting.
Whatever my other opinions about the trilogy may be, I find the verboten collegiate relationship that the author establishes in the first installment particularly sound. The student/teacher relationship is one that has appeared in art from time immemorial (paging Socrates!), but in pitting Ana as a finals-studying coed against the willful, dangerous, punitive power of business magnate Christian Grey, James makes explicit the steamy pedagogy that piques the fantasies of many a fledgling academic, while avoiding the creep factor that would define a similar relationship written about a high school student and educator.
After all, college is the real sexual awakening for many people. I spent my undergrad years at Princeton, with its simultaneously gorgeous and lugubrious Gothic arches (networked in the famed ivy of yore), its atmosphere of reverence and academe, and, yes, its frequent bursts of bacchanalian delight. Here was at once a maddening intellectual paradise and a social playground, a gathering of similarly ambitious, often physically stellar, and sexually ravenous young men and women who fell into a frequent collegiate dichotomy: they either paired off and became entirely monogamous or trafficked in the kind of copious hooking-up that could be best compared to rabbit coitus. Naturally, as an awkward, dorky, if gregarious, student, I found all of this alternately thrilling and terrifying.
I shall emphasize the latter, for I was gay, though damn if I would confess it (lest I be damned). For however much I adored Princeton—and I still do to this day, in myriad ways—it was often a place that gave off the air of homoeroticism while still conveying a certain level of homophobia. Countless rituals played on the inherent sensuality of shirtless, athletic, lithe young men “roughhousing” and streaking, but when it came down to it, being actually queer mimicked that other dichotomy: you were either fully out and proud or you bore your identity quietly, moving as your other silent brothers and sisters did like so many dark satellites in the evening.
I remember when I applied to take a seminar on the history of human sexuality taught by a world-famous feminist scholar; I joked to my best friend that the fifteen of us who had actually gotten into the class after applying were the most sexually frustrated people on campus. And, indeed, even though many of us would eventually come out as queer later, only one or two of the students in the course publicly identified as such at the time. Meanwhile, I wore my L.L.Bean turtlenecks and drank vanilla lattes and thought insanely that I was a Sphinx of sexual discretion.
And even though, senior year, a few of us gay guys moved into a dorm called Foulke Hall and rechristened it “Queer as Foulke,” we still kept a low profile in terms of our sexuality, opting for closed-door encounters that led to a rumor here, a possible confirmation there—a whole world of confusion and mussed sheets and hair. In college, we were playing at being gay the way people were playing at being adults: we were back in the Petri dish, just with more germs.
I lament the missed sexual opportunity that college presented to me. Too scared to come out fully, I slept through the kind of sexual examination that brings an entire universe of feeling to many people. Yes, it is a universe with as many perils as pearls, but I do envy those who had the chance to benefit from this romantic panorama and rejigger its contours to fit their own preferences. I felt a swell of pride when I recently visited Princeton for my tenth reunion and saw that the queer community was flourishing, with more students openly discussing their sexuality, a bona fide LGBT center founded on campus, and even a queer dance party scheduled the Saturday evening of the annual Reunions weekend. It felt like progress, like that naughty class that had eluded many of us was finally in session.
Perhaps this is why I find Ana and Christian’s relationship enticing. Oh, to be the kind of college student who could find herself the unwitting, and then witting, accomplice of such sexual exploration. When Christian speaks at Ana’s college graduation, he not only, as a literal motivational speaker, represents the culmination of Ana’s awakening as a BDSM protégée, but also is an emotional lynchpin: he is the jolt that upends her otherwise staid romantic approach. Although I don’t think a secret dungeon of toys would have been advisable during my Ivy League epoch, I do think that a similar guide might have jumpstarted my own exploration and quickened my sexual self-acceptance. Again and again, E. L. James reminds us that Ana is undergoing an academic transformation as well as a corporeal one, and the connection between the two becomes more and more pronounced—as well it should be. James seems to be telling us that the most important lessons in college are not found in leather-bound books but in leather-bound … well, I’ll duly submit to whatever wording that you choose to finish that sentence.
I do think that this is why so many readers have connected with this story: it represents to them either their own sexual educations or, more likely, the kind of sexual education that they wish they’d had. Reading Fifty Shades of Grey, for them, maybe for me, maybe for you, is like hearing about someone’s Rhodes Scholarship when you just passed an AP exam. Oh, how I’d like to study for that final.
RAKESH SATYAL is the author of the novel Blue Boy, winner of the Lambda Literary Award and the 2009 Award in Prose/Poetry from the Association of Asian American Studies. A former book editor at Random House and HarperCollins, he has edited such prominent queer voices as Armistead Maupin, Paul Rudnick, Terry Castle, and Vestal McIntyre. He also sings a popular cabaret show that has been featured widely in the press, from DailyCandy to Page Six to the New York Observer.
SELINA FIRE
Sexual Empowerment at the Water Cooler
FIFTY SHADES OF GREY is a book about a woman’s sexual self-discovery. It dares to explore the forbidden territory of sexual pleasure and desire, and it does so in a way that allows the average woman entry.
Now, I would never pretend that my life is that of the average woman—whatever that is. In my private life I am surrounded by a very experienced, sex-positive cultural milieu in which orgies are common, BDSM isn’t an acronym for evil, and people are polyamorous and polysexual. Nakedness is no shame: it’s celebrated. All body types and sexualities are welcome, and people are respected and treated with kindness and grace. I choose to be partnered but nonmonogamous. I don’t think it’s fair to ask my partner to pledge sexual fidelity to me, nor do I wish that for myself.
To me, Christian Grey’s proclivities for using rope, the flogger, or the riding crop simply express the desire to experience and provide intense sensation. The point of BDSM play is that you can experiment with sensations of pain and pleasure, and the roles of dominance and submission, without really hurting yourself or others. I’ve played with pain and pleasure. I’ve been flogged and spanked, and given such sensations to other consenting, requesting adults. I’ve done fire play, had my boots worshipped, and been rope suspended. I’ve done medical play. In short, I’ve even done things from Christian Grey’s contract on his “no” list in Appendix 2.
My sexual self-expression is abundant, joyous, and adventurous. I believe that sexual pleasure is something wonderful, empowering, transformative. But conditions in America have not been such that I would feel comfortable talking about my sexual beliefs or practices around the water cooler at work. We are very comfortable with discussions of actual harmful violence. We freely talk about stories of dismemberment, the acts of psycho-killers, things blowing up, and hand-to-hand combat. I don’t know why we are uncomfortable talking about bodies coming together in pleasure and joy instead of being torn apart in anger and hatred. Apparently, to the mainstream world, sex is unhealthy and dangerous on its face. Why else would Facebook ban the word “pleasure” from their list of acceptable page names? And if you try typing “sex” into Google you’ll find no suggestions provided by their “auto-complete” function. It took me a long time to figure out one could change that by going into “Search settings” and resetting their automatic anti-sex filter.
In our daily lives, frank discussions or portrayals of pleasurable sex are virtually absent, unless you seek out illicit “adult” fare. The media is replete w
ith stories of sexual abuse and misconduct, but there is virtually nothing about sexual pleasure, thus we rarely discuss it in polite conversation.
It wasn’t always this way. In the ’60s and ’70s there was a cultural movement toward sexual exploration and openness. Yes, it was flawed, because it was often shaped by men, and certainly sexual behavior was frequently reckless and overindulgent, but its aim was self-exploration and liberation. The advent of AIDS, the general conservative political backlash, “abstinence only” education, and the bizarre coalition of the Christian right and anti-porn feminists caused the national dialogue about sexual pleasure and exploration to be shut down. Americans were left with warnings: don’t explore, sex is dangerous, don’t even think about the nuts and bolts of it—or should I say the sticky, sweaty, mind-blowing truth of it: that sexual pleasure is key to so much of our personal happiness.
Like most people, I live and work in places where I hardly ever give people even an inkling of my beliefs about sex and sexuality. In those rare moments when I drop little tidbits of information, people are generally shocked, and they think my championing of sexual pleasure is very outré.
This popular novel, Fifty Shades of Grey, exposes the general public, and especially women, to the deep and liberating exploration of sexual desire and experience. Through the experience of reading this book, women are given permission to have fantasies, get kinky, enjoy sex, experience pleasure, communicate equally, be strong, be adventurous, be fearless, be hungry and sensuous and celebratory and emotional and demanding, and—at the same time—be received, accepted, and seen as beautiful, loved, and appreciated.
Anastasia Steele is in essence an everywoman, “average.” Through her, the book clearly exposes the truth that although our culture wishes to define women via the age-old patriarchal gaze, “average” women are not simply virgin, whore, nurturer, or seductress. Inside Anastasia Steele we find intellect, curiosity, fear, courage, anger, shame, love, passion, excitement, and joy. She is complex, intelligent, and sexy. She is not a cardboard cutout. She is not one-dimensional. She is a whole person. She is conflicted, pleasure seeking, and full of life. She is a fully sexual being who is being aroused and erotically awakened by this man, Christian Grey.