“Fifty Shades of Grey” is making it big... very, very big!
Apparently, it isn’t very good. Some critics go so far as to suggest that it really isn’t very good at all. I haven’t read it and I don’t plan to... At least, I didn’t plan to. I might have to revise my position on that.
I’ve been having sex for a long time. That doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone, I’m sure, after all
a) you all know that I’ve known the husband for 30 years, and
b) you also know I have two daughters.
You don’t want me to talk about sex, though, do you, not really? It’s a bit weird when people you don’t really know start discussing a subject we all think we’re experts on, particularly when it’s out of context, particularly when it’s a middle-aged, middle class, middle-English, white woman. What could I possibly know, right?
Then I had a conversation with the husband, and I decided that it might be fun to write about sex. It might be fun to write a book for a marketplace that clearly wants sex. It might be fun to have a look at the other end of the spectrum.
“Naming Names” is a book about sex of the worst, most damaging kind. It was very tough to write, but I’m confident that I injected it with the sort of brutal reality and utter acceptance that the subject matter required.
I wonder whether I can do something similar with the fun stuff. I wonder whether I can raise a smile and then an eyebrow. I wonder whether I can conjure a tingle and then a shockwave. I wonder whether I can make an audience’s giggle turn into a throaty laugh. I wonder whether I can get down and dirty with the sweat and tears, with the grinding and moaning, with the flesh and the filth and the fantasies.
Right here, right now... I’m almost tempted to try.