Fifty Shades of Grey is the first book of what I to my horror discovered is a trilogy, the horror ceasing only when I, in disaccord with the book slapped myself, reminding me that no one can force me into reading the next two.
The story of the unnerving relationship between the too-good-looking-for-his-own-and-everybody-else’s good industry magnate Christian Grey and the hopelessly Grey-struck literature graduate Anastasia Steele, is so far sold in 40 mill copies worldwide, allegedly being on the love longing lips of an incredible amount of desperate housewives.
What all the fuss is about beats me, although not like the main character beats his girlfriend in the BDSM (bondage, discipline, sadism, masochism) part of their relationship. Actually, and sexually, the book is so totally off beat as to wean me off rather than turn me on… That love hurts is sometimes true, but in this book it smarts in more than one sense; One of the book’s critics describes it as a real pageturner, and I couldn’t agree more; It made me turn the pages as fast as I possibly could in order to escape the agony. Not the agony of the bewildered Ms. Steele or the haunted Mr. Grey, but my own.