In my consternation I dropped the book on the floor and ran after Norma. Unfortunately she told me to sleep in the living room, bitterness in those cruel blue eyes.
Despairingly, I chided myself. Who is this Christian Grey? What is he? Why has he usurped my place? I logged on.
My fingers raced almost as fast as my mind whirring commands out at 5 words a minute like spiders weaving a web. But the more I learnt the less I knew. This is the conundrum of Grey.
Intellect, Power, Strength, Sex. The man has it all.
I can see the reflection of my old philosophy teacher in phrases like: “Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese?”
He is a family man. “Sh–! It’s my mother,” he cries after one vigorous romp. At times he is romantic: “I’ve never had vanilla sex before. There’s a lot to be said for it. But then, maybe it’s because it’s with you.” At times a gentle-man: “Miss Steele, you are not just a pretty face. You’ve had six orgasms so far and all of them belong to me.”
“Wow,” I whispered to myself.
Christian is Dionysius Aloysius all rolled into one. The very epitome of macho. The man I could have been.
“Meee,” I wailed to myself in despair.
But this was not the end of my curiosity. My feverish fingers looked for more information. Soon I found an intellectual’s forum for well-read women to talk to others of equal intelligence. I joined it under the pseudonym Norma (God forgive me).
“If Mr Grey and Miss Steele only have happy ends, then great, as women we now expect more, so step it up guys, one happy ending isn’t enough, we like multiples now!” said Ffiona.
Jackie countered any objections to the book with the simple, yet emotional plea:
“If this book is so bad why has it sold so many copies?”
And then came the final stage of my self-discovery. I needed to know who was this EL James? Who was this man who could capture the innate sexuality of the masculine sex so perfectly.
How wrong I was. For I learnt that EL James was a woman! This inflamed me even more. Groping into the internight I sought out a photo of this woman. Who was this enchantress that could write like this. My inner God flew higher than he ever had. I trembled like a blade of grass in the Arctic wind. My popsicle shook like a Jew’s harp. Perhaps we were meant to be together.
Her photo. O my word.