e. I James, the British author of the erotic novel Fifty Shades of Gray and its litter of sequels, has sold an estimated 54 million books worldwide. his smashing success has only strengthened the sociologically murky idea that getting turned on by words rather than pictures is unmanly. visual porn certainly has its place, and that place is my computer screen at 10 p.m. Friday nights when my girlfriend is out of town. however, we as men give up valuable ground if we accept that the production and consumption of sexy books is simply not for us. the best way to seduce an intelligent woman? it’s surprisingly simple, really. read him.
There are plenty of genuinely sexy books written by women: Lisa Zeidner’s Scale, Josephine Hart’s Harm, Marguerite Duras’s Lover, but Fifty Shades of Gray isn’t one of them. as a work of art, the only way it could be worse is if it ended with “heil hitler”. The narrator of the novel is Anastasia Steele, a charmless fool who doesn’t like to dance, wear nice clothes, have sex, or say interesting things. During one of her first encounters with Christian Grey, the Pacific Northwest’s richest and most eligible bachelor, she vomits. however, gray gets along with her. “You’re a mystery, Miss Steele,” she tells him at the beginning of the book. sixty pages later: “I am in awe of you.” she’s not, and he shouldn’t be.
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reading the book of james on a recent flight from los angeles to detroit, i turned to sue, the extremely kind mother of four with whom i shared row 23. she, of course, had read all the gray books. “Come on,” I said. “what the hell would christian gray see in anastasia steele? it’s ridiculous!”
Sue, I realized, was hurt by this question. she fumbled in the attic of her mind for a moment before saying, “she’s the only one who doesn’t want her money.”
“she loves her money! she’s constantly impressed with all the helicopter rides!”
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sue stared at me, undaunted. “she_gets_it.”
Changing the subject, I pointed out two passages that particularly bothered me. passage one: “still kneeling, he grabs my foot and undoes my converse, removing my shoe and sock.”
“That”, I said, “is the least erotic phrase in the history of language.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Sue said.
passage two: ” ‘aargh!’ I cry as I feel a strange pinching sensation deep inside of me as he rips my virginity apart.”
“sue, listen to me. ‘aargh’ doesn’t belong in any novel, much less an erotic one.”
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“but the whole novel is about pain and pleasure.”
I decided to confront Sue with anthropological frankness. “So, Sue. You found this novel sexy. She turned you on.”
Sue looked away. “oh yeah.”
Sue’s husband, who I should point out was listening to all of this, began to nod. “She really did,” he said. had sue’s husband read it? “After my master’s degree,” she said, “I decided to stop reading books.”
Fair enough. That’s when I realized why women all over the Western world were turning on their vibrators at the thought of Christian Gray spanking jerk Anastasia Steele. history was the wand by which e. i james had transformed every scruffy mama cowboy in the kingdom into a beautifully raped princess. one could argue that we see the male equivalent of this dynamic all the time in sitcoms where the pudgy jerk cohabits with the curiously hot young wife. the crucial difference is that we don’t jerk off to sitcoms. not ideally, anyway.
Of course, there is absolutely nothing wrong with reading a trashy book once in a while before you masturbate and go to bed. but if you’re looking to master the fine art of cooperative erotic reading, junk books won’t do you any good. That is, unless bursting into embarrassed laughter counts as foreplay. prose need not suffer in the spell of body heat. here are five novels that prove it.
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