Hypable’s Richard tries to offer a male perspective on the erotic novel Fifty Shades of Grey, or at least, attempts to get through the book without scorching his eyes.

I’m not quite sure how this article is going to turn out; I’m not even sure if it’s going to be “(Not) Safe For Work.” I mean, it may be? It’s hard to tell if the forthcoming expletives are complaints from me or actually verbatim from the story itself. I’m not even sure how mentally malnourished we’re going to end up by the time we reach the end of this piffle. Let’s hope for the best and I’ll see you at the other side, for better or for worse.

I have never read an erotic novel before. I like fantasy, adventure, space, action, explosions and not vampires. Nor pretend vampires. Nor former vampires turned humans. Nor bad writing. Because of these insurmountable literary roadblocks, it is of little surprise that I never enjoyed the Twilight series. I think I sacrificed, I mean, “spent” approximately 2 hours of my life reading the first half of Twilight before I gave up and moved on to something less painful, like ironing my testicles. Attempting to read Fifty Shades of Grey, former Twilight fan-fiction-turned-erotica, is therefore a valiant nudge towards heroic masochism.

Well I loved it!

Only joking.

I haven’t read it all and I don’t think I will. I’ve maybe skimmed about fifty percent and I feel like I have grasped as much of the “plot” that one is able to grasp. I’ll Wikipedia the rest to uncover the book’s climax – no no! Gah! Wrong choice of word. The book’s “ending.”

From what I’ve been able to consume, Anastasia is the focal point of the story; a college student who becomes ashamedly horny when around a non-sparkly version of Edward Cullen, named Christian Grey. He’s apparently very wealthy and he’s aged. I don’t mean he’s old, just that he presumably has an age. I don’t know what it is. I probably missed that bit. Oh, and by the way, Christian really loves BDSM.

… I can’t believe I’m actually typing this… Let’s plough on.

For the record, I actually had plans to turn this piece into an outsider’s look into the world of feminine escapism within a literary epithet, proposing that both Fifty Shades (and to a lesser extent, Twilight) offers a release that a modern-day conservative society quietly suppresses. Now THAT would have made for an interesting article. That is not what I’m writing. I’m too infused with a combination of shock and bemusement with various passages to write that article. Here are some examples:

“Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive,” he says dryly.

Well, that’s good news. It’s a thorough relief to know that in a world where sex is enhanced by the use of ropes, chains and leather belts, Grey has a sense of moral duty to at least ensure the woman is awake during the humiliating pain.

“Come, I want to show you my playroom.” My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so… hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified. “You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs, loudly. “No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.”

Pity. Believe it or not, poor Anastasia not only had to sign a non-disclosure contract before she got to second base, but he tempted her with some potential Call of Duty as well. What a dick.

Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor. Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. Holy cow…

“Holy cow”? Deviating from the narrative briefly, what part of the image of a cow with holes in it is conducive towards erotica? Where are the holes? How many? Was the cow shot? Poor cow… More worrying, why does Anastasia enjoy this mental image? Christian may not have a passion for necrophilia, but it seems Ana is not adverse to beastiality. I digress.

“You are mine,” he whispers. “Only mine. Don’t forget it.” His voice is intoxicating, his words heady, seductive. I feel his growing erection against my thigh. His long fingers reach round to gently massage my clitoris, circling slowly.

MY… EYES….

Although Anastasia seems to be having a good time, I can’t help but think that Mr. Grey is a bit of a ponce. Telling someone that they’re theirs requires a kind of arrogance that borders on elitism. He might as well wear a shirt that says “I’m brilliant and everyone else is an arse.”

The book goes on, but I refuse to quote any more of it. I feel significantly unclean as it is, plus there’s a chance that my mother might read this article. Worse still, this article might inspire my mother to buy the book.

Let me try and rope together (pun intended) some form of conclusion to this post. Fifty Shades of Grey is probably disappointingly dull when you compare it to the cacophony of pornography available on the Internet. The problem lies not with its content or its genre but the medium on which it is produced: it’s a book. You don’t compare the characterisation, the themes, the motifs, or the setting of some piece of adult video that you found online. You certainly don’t write critical analyses of them. You do, however, do just that with books, and however crude or ridiculous Fifty Shades is, it is a book nonetheless. Yet, if you want to try and extract anything meaningful from this particular book, don’t. Doing so is about as irritable and uncomfortable as that annoying piece of underwear that you wear which chafes uncontrollably every time you walk.