As you would likely surmise, nothing has more tormented me lately than the film adaptation of E.L. James’ magisterial fiction debut. Literature’s cognoscenti have hailed this achievement since its arrival. It first appearing gratis on a fan fiction cobwebsite about some lovelorn teenage vampirette and her weredog boyfriend, or some such. Regardless though of what characters and story lines were microwaved in its alchemy, there can be no question of the magical result.
Almost certainly the more literate of you have consumed the work in repetition, though if not your tender-fleshed partners have. And for those whose wives have sought furtive refuge in the reading, I must advise that’s not an exfoliator buzzing in her boudoir. I am skeptical that even the Bodhisattva’s most attentive ministrations could excite such musky delirium.
So I was determined to secure a first seating at the innercineplex of my coastal immigrant catch basin. Though doing so did require a bit of unseemly assertiveness as I, and several hundred other teens, were forced by racial oppression to bum-rush the theater after brawling in the parking lot. You may not endorse these actions, but can at least concede the priority of their intent.
At any rate, after the obgligatory bout of property destruction was concluded, and the last echos of “Wuuuurrrrl Staaaaar!” faded forty minutes in, the audience finally settled to rapt attention. We may as well have defenistrated more chairs from the food court. The movie was abominable.
It was poor in a raft of ways. Not the least of which being the shared discomfort of watching alongside poor Sonny Crocket, who I believe was sitting three rows behind me. This desolate former vice cop had to endure watching his own daughter engaged in wooden bondage badinage before being harpooned while in shackles for an hour onscreen. Tubbs himself wouldn’t have felt worse.
But the primary failure was manifest: the novel’s inspired prose suffered attenuation passing through the conduit of film. The actors were simply not capable vessels for the rich cargo assigned to their care. Let me give you some examples from the book, if you can quiet the inclination to quiver.
His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something.
And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: He’s here to see you.
I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto.
“Suck me baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue and my mouth closes around him sucking wildly. Holy fuck. This is wrong, but holy hell is it erotic.
Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin.
He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string… what! And… a gently pulls my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all… Jeez.
Argon? It rings a distant bell from chemistry class—an element, I think.
I sit up and reach for the orange juice, drinking it down too quickly. It’s delicious, ice cold, and it makes my mouth a much better place.
My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the uneven bars, and abruptly my mouth is dry.
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet and falling head first into the office. Double crap—me and my two left feet!
I am all gushing and breathy—like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the state of Washington.
Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?’ Holy shit! Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly. ‘No, Anastasia, it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard.’
My anxiety level has shot up several magnitudes on the Richter scale.
My intoxication level has shot up several magnitudes on the Richter scale while reading these quotes, though I won’t continue humiliating you all beneath their bright lights. This mastery of the craft is why Shakespeare is immortal and the pseudonymous James is now wealthy enough to dine with a guy who used to be a governor eight years ago–that’s how rich she has become.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t covetous of that wealth. Of the lifestyle it would enable. In moments of selfish reverie I imagine myself as a GOP big money bundler, genuflecting along with my band of brothers before Mr. Adelson himself. Commingling his money with mine(!), in search of the most unctuous and pliable politicians for comprehensive immigration reform.
So I’ve begun conjuring my own ideas for a novel. The title may sound a bit derivative, but it’s leveraging a successful brand. It will be a completely fictional story about the smoldering relationship between a senile war-lusting senator from some southwestern state and his homosexual valet, who happens to also be a senator (maybe from…I don’t know…South Carolina?). Anyway I’m working on a few lines inspired by Ms. James. We’ll see if the project finds purchase.
I stared into those rheumy recessed eyes within his craggy swollen face–misshapen under wisps of white hair and thought, Holy Fuck…or something. My head began to buzz…like a buzzard. I could feel the semi-erection through his trousers. It was not hard, like the floor of the senate when on all fours. But rather spongy…like gelatin. Viagra? It rang a distant bell. My inner fairy danced…like a dancer.
And from the other’s perspective…
I knew it was as wrong as averting nuclear war, but I was mesmerized. I felt like a man who sees something he has to have…and wants it. From some tiny underused part of my brain–probably the frontal lobe–comes the thought: “this prancing queer is hotter than a train full of Aztecs in August.” Desire–and urine–pools dark and deadly in my depends undergarment. I feel as though my face is turning the color of a baboon’s ass. I’m breathy, like a child, not a man who was in congress before Frankie Goes to Hollywood said to RELAX. Holy hell, I better listen to that song again…with my ears.
I know it’s not James quality. But a man has to start one shade at a time.