Fifty Writers on Fifty Shades of Grey (14 page)

HEATHER GRAHAM

J
UST BEFORE I SAT DOWN to write this, I was speaking with a friend of mine. She’s a beautiful woman, always together, very professional in her manner and appearance (no double entendre on the word “professional”). We’re at a business con that deals with books and naturally the phenomenon of
Fifty Shades of Grey
came up. In a secluded corner with a few female authors, we joked and teased—and a few confessions came out: my very businesslike and together friend keeps her hair long because her husband enjoys schoolgirl braids, and yes, she has the schoolgirl uniform.

I was reminded of an occasion not that long ago when I was a guest at a Halloween event for a friend who has incredible sway in the “vampire” world, hosting parties across the globe. I attended with two friends, one whom I have often thought of as the contemporary equivalent to the moms in
The Partridge Family
and
The Brady Bunch
. She never wears provocative clothing; she’s usually in jeans and a T-shirt, middle America clothing that might even be considered frumpy at times. She’s a terrific
soccer mom, keeps a warm and beautiful home for her young sons, and is a designer who works from home to be with her kids. How much more apple pie can you be?

So, we’d dressed up ourselves in something akin to vampire attire for the party; let’s say we were in Victorian vampire mode. Around us, there was all manner of apparel being worn (and barely worn). As wickedly decadent costumes began to appear—and disappear—my apple pie friend was able to point out to my other friend and me exactly who was a submissive, what certain chains and binds meant, and something about the act going on at a long silver pole.

Go figure—still waters run deep! She went on to tell us about her life before marriage—the many S&M clubs she had joined and all the different roles she had played. She was still heavily into roleplaying; her husband not so much, but she’d been delighted when I’d asked her to this party because she still loved to observe.

In the past few decades the role of women in our culture has changed more drastically than in centuries before. Or let me say—the roles we show to the world have changed. Have our basic needs and desires changed on a purely carnal level? Probably not. Women with sexual prowess existed as far back as the days we lived in caves, but until relatively recently we didn’t accept the idea of the wicked, wanton female as every man’s wife.

Now, there’s actually a bit of a biologic—not even dynastic, but biologic—reason for the way things used to be. Our fine early human males were on a mission and that mission was—spread your seed! But early females had to be far more selective, back in those cave days when life was hard. They didn’t want just any old seed; they wanted the best seed out there, so that their offspring would survive the rigorous world. So—males run around everywhere; females seek out the best!

Then, of course, you get into the dynastic thing—property, who inherits what. The lord of the castle certainly didn’t want
his wife fooling around. I mean, really, should the groom’s son inherit the great wealth of the lord’s realm?

But we’ve now entered a world where our sexual roots aren’t as important. Sex is an instinct, but our sexual mores are based on the world we live in now. Of course, in
Fifty Shades of Grey
we’re going far beyond the simple concept of sex or promiscuity by either the male or the female of our species.
Fifty Shades of Grey
delves into areas of sexuality where many do not go—with any partner!

So, what is the huge draw? For some, it’s curiosity. I believe we’re voyeurs. “That’s not something I would do—but how interesting!”

For some, it’s because they find the book appalling. “I don’t get it—what is fun or enjoyable about pain?”

For others, it’s like a blessing. “Oh my God, I have always wanted to do that!”

Fifty Shades of Grey
is far from the first book out there that falls into the category of erotica. It’s just that, often, erotica is hidden deep in the cyberworld of the e-reader. In truth, authors have been writing erotica for as long as anyone can remember. And just as in any genre, there’s excellently written erotica and erotica that isn’t quite so well written. Why one story captures the popular imagination is often a mystery, but it’s certainly evident that
Fifty Shades of Grey
struck the right chord somewhere. It might just have been the excitement of reading a book that “everyone is reading.” I was watching a talk show last night that estimated there are 20 million copies of
Fifty Shades of Grey
being read worldwide. Other estimates have put that number even higher. To boot, the sales of merchandise in sex-toy shops has risen by well over 50 percent.

Maybe the reason the book is so popular is that it encourages freedom of expression. For some, like my friend who sometimes dresses up in a uniform and braids, it offers something of a blessing or a justification: our sexuality is something that
we’re free to explore and come to know. Most of my friends are not into being either dominant or submissive—but they are intrigued by the idea of climbing into costumes, roleplaying, and/or engaging in other little tricks to keep longtime marriages and/or relationships fun, new, sexy, and sensual.

Fifty Shades of Grey
—with its amazing growth and viral popularity—has allowed us all to explore not just the “grey” shades of our sexuality, but all of the colors that lie between.

MIDORI

“C
RAP!” we gasp. “I’m shocked! Truly appalled at the popularity of Christian and Anastasia’s shenanigans,” we scowl, appalled, clutching our collective pearls.

It’s no surprise that the guardians of morality and arbiters of good taste scorn the books’ popularity. It’s not news that media loves a good titillation disguised as responsible cultural reporting. The most aghast, however, may be the practitioners of real-life kinky sex, followed closely by the writers of erotic romance and kinky fiction.

A central unspoken issue propelling the Fifty Shades controversy is about how women are using the books. It’s not just escapist fantasy. Well-to-do women are turning to these books to advise one another on sexual information, better orgasms, and erotic agency. Women whisper to one another about how life changing this book was. With the money, education, and resources they posses, why turn to poorly written erotic romance as the source for advice? That the well-educated would be naturally better informed on the matters of sex and sexuality
is a classist assumption; sadly, it isn’t true. Privilege does not equal sexual fulfillment and relationship happiness. Frustration, sexual misinformation, and emotional discontent cross all socioeconomic strata. Enter
Fifty Shades of Grey
, sold in a pretty package or dressed in the anonymity of e-book, validated by the tacit media approval and thus accessible to this group of women.

This book has brought the notion of sex toys, whips, bondage, and erotic roleplay into mainstream discourse. Those who already practice toy-filled and kinky sex should be thrilled. But they’re not. Far from it.

Many of my kinky pals just roll their eyes and rant about these books. And they assume that, as a sexual adventurer and educator who often travels among the realms of sexual subcultures, I hold the same disdain. So they tell me how they truly feel. They lament the onslaught of what they perceive as “kink-curious tourists” invading their realm. They snark bitterly about incorrect technique or criticize unrealistic play depictions. They belittle the questions and assumptions people bring from reading the book. They tell me proudly that they’re above such drivel.

That’s just snotty and condescending. It’s particularly offensive coming from people who espouse sex positivity and promote self-actualization through the examination of arbitrary sexual taboos imposed on us by society.

Where did each of us find our first sparks of naughty adventuring? I doubt any of us had highbrow sources with cultural approval. Where do kinky people come from? They aren’t brought up in some secret society of pervery. Ordinary people find inspiration in common places: stolen porn or dirty books, mischievous suggestions by a lover, something glimpsed on cable TV or late night in the back alleys of the internet. We all start wanting, curious, nervous, wrestling with unnamed desires.

I remember one night in Tokyo, many moons ago, when I was at the cusp of puberty. That night I was able to sneak some late-night TV viewing without my parents’ knowledge. There
I came across a French movie with Japanese subtitles. It was about a French diplomat’s wife in Bangkok. Shot in a dreamy and overly gauzy style, the wife looked steamy and exotic in every little gesture. Alone, she boarded a train car full of young football players. I remember how they all looked at her lustfully. The film cut to black. In the next scene all the men were strewn about the floor and seats, spent and sweaty. Some appeared to be passed out. At the time I didn’t exactly know why they were all so exhausted, but I knew she had some amazing and mysterious power of womanhood. She sat glowing, victorious, and powerful. I didn’t realize until I was an adult that the explicit sex scenes were edited out. That didn’t matter, really. I was hooked on the story of desire, power, lust, and drama. I stared, aroused and shocked, at
Emmanuelle
. Perhaps that was my introduction.

Many years later at Berkeley, I was helping my college beau move. As I waited for him to return with the moving van I came across his stash of
Penthouse Variations
. I sat on the cardboard boxes devouring each dirty story from a magazine I would not have had the nerve to buy, much less actively shop for at an adult bookstore where such things were sold.

I was that nervous, hopeful “tourist” of my own awakening to power and desire. From there I began my exploration of adulthood and its sexual expression, tentatively at first, learning my own appetites and misadventures. Sometimes they were good, sometimes they were comically terrible, but all gave me insight into the complexity of my humanity.

If these books, or any other source, provoke people to examine their own desires and limits, to seek fulfillment, joy, and actualization, it’s a good thing. Are the readers of
Fifty Shades of Grey
the new face of kink? Will this define a new generation like some sort of Summer of Love? Probably not—but maybe a little bit of unproductive sexual shame will fall away for some. What they devour and thrill to now may or may not be what they ultimately find sexual or personal pleasure in. We grow and evolve—this is the joy of a life well lived.

But I understand the kinksters’ grief, their loss of the sense of uniqueness, or their woe at losing status as wild cultural rebels. It’s okay to be sad or to feel misunderstood. It’s not okay to be subcultural elitists and disparage others’ erotic journey and discoveries.

As for my writer friends, they’re groaning as well at the Fifty Shades hoopla. While they’re thrilled at the attention the genre is getting, they also wish it had been them to hit the jackpot. That’s entirely understandable. I feel the same way as I furtively tap away on my stories. The publishing industry is a fickle mistress. She is far more cruel and capricious than Christian Grey ever could be. Which among the many writers will earn her favors and the public’s attention? So often that’s a game of timing, perseverance, coincidence, and connection, at times entirely unrelated to actual talent. Many of my friends are brilliant writers creating masterpieces in the much-maligned genre of erotica. They contain brilliant fantasies just waiting to be acted out in bedrooms across the world. Their work deserves attention by media and masturbators alike.

Let the curmudgeonly kinksters continue to gripe and society gasp in indignation—because good women and men will continue to search for better sex, mind stroking, and erotic liberation one way or another.