Shameless, by Pamela Madsen

I read this over the weekend. Someone tweeted it.

This is a story about a woman who started getting erotic massages.

Now, that was a new pitch for me, and the library had a copy, so, I figured, why not?  I kind of liked the idea.

The only downside is that you spend your entire reading experience really wishing someone would rub your shoulders.

Partway through the book, she finds her dream masseur–a hot, young, sarong-clad gay man named “Tiger.” He’s not just any erotic massage provider.

Oh, no.

He’s giving New Age hippie woo woo massages.  Insanely expensive woo woo massages.  ”Sexual healing.”

Damn it all.

She found something called “Sacred Intimacy.”  It’s yet another guru-based hippie system featuring numerous tantric-workshopped, life-coached healer guys, including one that jackhammered her g-spot until she cried.

I live in Northern California. This is, like, Ground Zero for New Age hippie woo-woo. I’ve heard it all. I can’t go anywhere socially out here without running into someone claiming to be an “energy worker.” You can pretty much charge people out the ass for anything.

So, there I am thinking, “Oh my, this woman accidentally joined a sex cult.”

Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

After sex blogging got her in trouble at work, she applied the model, joined a training pyramid of some sort, and started her very own sex cult. For 150 bucks she’ll talk to you for 50 minutes on Skype. For four grand, you can go to her retreat, where, presumably, you’ll spend a lot of time feeling various forms “energy.”

Always with the energy with these people.

Sin on Wheels

How can you not love that cover?

I’ve loved that cover for years.  I’ve used it for avatars, even, and I recently found out you can have the text for only a dollar.

A buck, y’all.

So, I had to buy it.

The Uncensored Confessions Of A Trailer Camp Tramp
Blurb from back: The trailer camp dwellers were always having fun–especially when they played strip poker, switch parties and other interesting games!

“Loren Beauchamp” is actually Robert Silverberg, who wrote at least 100 mid-century sci-fi pulp books.  ”Beauchamp’s” other titles include treasures like “Registered Nympho” and “Campus Sex Club.”

Sin on Wheels hit brown paper bags (I assume) in 1960.

The book itself is very, very late 50′s. It’s got strip poker, but it’s also got Deviant Predatory Lesbians, and Rapey Pete, and plentiful cocktail wieners.

For a dollar?

Not so bad.

Well, “Part One,” at least.

I don’t know if I can make it through three of these.

I’ve heard rumors that it gets worse.

But can it possibly be as bad as this photoshop extravaganza?

Later plot lines are reportedly about crazy submissive exes (of course,) and Anastasia curing Master Domlypants of his Domly Ways via the power of innocent and pure mucus membranes. And love.

True love.

So.

Since writing the first piece, I’ve run across at least two dozen other blog posts about these books.

Some are critical. Some gush. My favorite is the version that asks:

Oh, dear reader, who would you cast as the dashing and oh-so-domly Christian Gray in the upcoming film adaptation?

Ryan Gosling tends to be the top answer.

I say, no. Christian Gray is a baby-faced redhead, and Gosling would look goofy as hell with red hair.

Some of my suggestions:

That kid that played Weasley. Surely, he is out of work. Or… on Doctor Who? Maybe?

“Hey, girl! Would you like to be Dominated?!”

Kenneth from 30 Rock:

“Hey, there! I will totally dominate you, Miss Lemon!”

Or, Jesse Tyler Ferguson

“I will dominate… your boyfriend.”

The obvious choice is Robert Pattinson. Truth in art and whatnot. I’d like to think he’d commit honorable hari kari before he’d do it.

Anyway.

The second half of Fifty Shades.

One of the big deals in romance writing is that the stories have a plot. Plot makes them “Not Porn!!!111!” for most readers.

The plot is generally:

They meet.

They spark.

They cannot be together because: she is betrothed to the Evil Count, he has Daddy Issues, she is a Career Lady whut cannot be distracted, he is a Vampire, there is a killer on the loose, they already divorced once, he’s an arrogant prick, she’s a vapid little girl,  etc. Decent books in the genre have genuine ”conflicts.” One of the biggest cliches in romance is the plot that can be resolved with a simple conversation.

They continue to spark. They try to deny their spark. They have pensive moments contemplating the unrequitable spark.

It’s usually at this contemplative point that they touch each other, but don’t have sex. Now they’re really screwed, because they’re totally gonna do the deed, and we all totally know it. (“Not Porn!!!111!”)

Our hero and heroine then spend the middle of good romances doing two things: being ever more convinced that the big obstacle is insurmountable and growing, and having the sexual tension ratchet up repeatedly. Harlequins, in particular, tend to put the first sex scene right in the middle where the book club mailer is, so that women flipping through at the store can easily get right to the good part. (“Not Porn!!!111!”) Other imprints tend to stick to that formula, unless it’s Christian or Amish romance. (Beverly Lewis hit the jackpot; plus, she’s, like, the nicest lady on the internet.)

Now, Fifty Shades sort of mucks this up. It’s fan fic, and it shows. There’s no sexual tension–Bella and Edward get down to business right off the bat. This is fan service. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

So, having thrown the sexual tension bit (and really, it’s the best bit) out the window, James tries to build tension with a will he/won’t he about vanilla sex with Christian, and a will she/won’t she for Anastasia concerning BDSM.

While they’re angsty, Christian acts like exactly the sort of psychotic stalker you’d expect to see from someone that genuinely enjoyed the idea of boning Edward Cullen.

Basically, where other romances would have some action and adventure, or some zany madcaps, or some weepy hospital stays, Fifty Shades of Grey fills that time with the hero getting pissed off about everything the heroine does.

All of it.

I can’t count the number of times where he frozed and iced and glared and scowled and generally made a testy nuisance of himself.

You know. ‘Cause he’s a Dominant with a capital D.

So, Christian is being a controlling dick, but it’s sexy or something, because the author is totally turned on.  And, Anastasia is being a waffling wish washer that weally wants to wub him. They fuck a lot.

Many times. (“Not Porn!!!111!”)

And in the end, Anastasia’s curiosity gets the better of her. She asks for the ultimate punishment. She wants to know how bad it’s going to get. She frames BDSM in a way that makes it sound like domestic violence throughout the book, and this last scene is really where that becomes a point of discomfort. She doesn’t want Christian to hit her. Not spank. Not sexy punish. Not scene. Hit. She doesn’t want him to hit her. For the heroine, her boyfriend wants to control her, keep her from her friends, and hit her to keep her in line.

And, Lord Thunderfart, er, Christian, who is a Twue Dominate in the Old Style, with many years under his belt, who only ever dates in the scene, and is meticulous in all things? That guy? Who can meld with her mind and knows her better than she knows herself? Who is a genius billionaire that reads people easily?

Him?

He fucking does it.

Seriously. He wallops the shit out of her with a belt. She freaks out. She leaves. Fin.

I’ve spoilered the book for you, but I’m sure you don’t care.

I am going to tell you something: I like spankings. I’ve been spanked, and flogged, and cropped, and caned, because I have no actual angst about it. I enjoy it. I like the marks. I even like the crying part.

And, I would never ask for the full-on, hit me as hard as you can routine.

He’s bigger than I am. Considerably.

Something would end up broken. Possibly emergency room broken.

And, if I lost my mind and did ask for such a thing? He’d say no. Because he is not a psychotic, abusive, nutso douchebag.

So, I’ve got two possible take-aways in this scenario. Either Christian is a wimpy dude (perhaps his God-like body is the result of saline implants.  She’s not allowed to touch him.  It would explain a lot, actually.) or Christian is a shitty, abusive, horrible Dom.

I know, I know.

It’s fantasy.

That’s the excuse, right?

I guess, now, I am supposed to want to scuttle out and acquire Part Two, to see if Anastasia and Edward, er, Lord Thun–fuck–Christian stay together. And, they must stay together, for this is “romance” (“Not Porn!!!111!”) and that’s the pay off.

But I think I like the ending I got.

Run Anastasia, run. Run as far as you can.

And don’t ever return.

I won’t lie. I couldn’t finish Twilight. I got halfway through. Edward wasn’t going to drink Bella’s blood, then throw her corpse into Puget Sound. I just couldn’t hang.

So, knowing that Fifty Shades is actually Twilight fan fic, I had low expectations.

I will say that Anastasia Steele, though hilariously named, isn’t nearly as insufferable as Bella Swan (Also hilariously named.  When I make a zillion dollars on a book, my heroine shall be named Aurora Starborn Specialcakes, and she will have purple eyes and have no idea how beautiful she is.)

Newsweek is doing stories.  This is one of those books that is supposedly capturing the erotic imagination of Grown Assed Women nationwide.

Grown. Assed. Women.

Anastasia is a 21 year old virgin that never masturbates.

Let me repeat that:  this is a novel about a 21 year old virgin that has never masturbated.

What the hell is that?

I understand the mechanics of Twilight’s success. Bella is a Mary Sue, and she’s…. well, she’s pants. You put her on, like you put on pants, and you get to have creepy vampire Adonis fall in deepest lurve with you for no good reason. You get to be be super smart without having to know anything. You get to be beautiful, without having to be all those pretty chicks you hated in high school. I rationally understand the elements that cause the fandom.

But, it doesn’t work for me.

And, so now we’ve got Grown Assed Women trying on new “pants.”

Anastasia is pretty but doesn’t know it (like Bella.) She’s got multiple dudes pursuing her (like Bella.) So far as I can tell, her only flaw is that she’s slightly clumsy (guess what that’s also like?!  I know!  Bella.)  She’s hardworking, plucky, and smart. And, she’s virginal.  She’s never even held hands with a boy. She’s never so much as been attracted to a boy.

Until, DUN DUN DUN, she meets Our Hero.

And, then, despite knowing nothing about sex, or her own body, or men’s bodies, she’s a multiorgasmic champion cocksucker. And, he loves her just because she is… her. All innocent and useless and pure and plucky.

What the hell is this?

I don’t understand.

This is fantasy sex for the modern Grown Assed Woman in 2012?

Really?

No, I mean…. Really, really?

I can’t really even parse out how depressing that is. I can’t. I try. I sputter.

When Kathleen Woodiwiss published The Flame and the Flower in 1972, she found an audience of women that were basically from Betty Drapers’ generation. My grandmothers, really.

If you’re not familiar with the history of romance publishing:

The Flame and the Flower was revolutionary, featuring an epic historical romance with a strong heroine and actual sex scenes. This novel, published in 1972, sold over 2.3 million copies in its first four years of publication and is credited with spawning the modern romance genre, becoming the first romance novel “to [follow] the principals into the bedroom.”

It’s the original “bodice ripper” that launched a million heaving bosoms, including the career of Rosemary Rogers (who sold everything as both “sweet” and “savage.” As in Native American heroes. Savages. Get it? You can throw up later.) Like Fifty Shades, Flame had the super virginal heroine who’s sexual appetite is passive. 40 years ago, romance novels basically had to get the main characters to the penetrative zenith via rape, ravishment, and “being swept away.”

That was the industry buzz phrase in the 70′s.  ”Swept away.”

It’s not her idea, see? She’s not a whore.  She’s overcome, overpowered, like a tidal wave has pulled her out into the deep dick sea.

The “swept away” mandate dominated romance novels into the mid 80′s. “Swept away” justified a million lady tingles.

And, that is what happens in Fifty Shades of Grey. Anastasia is “swept away.” At least so far. I’m only a third through. She’s not a born dirty pervert with deviant desires, see? (Hell, neither is beastly Mr. Grey, actually. It’s Yet Another BDSM Title where the main character is traumatized, abused, and all fucked up. The world’s tiniest violin will now play a jaunty tune of surprise.) She wants love and vanilla sex. But! She’s not out looking for sex. Because she’s a good girl. She’ll let him lead her into kinkery, but only because of love, see?

The same way Grandma Draper could only enjoy unmarried sex in a romance novel if it was just-this-side of rape. Or, just plain rape. Because then she didn’t want it. It was just something that happened to her.

What do women want? That’s the cliche, right?

Do we want to be virgins? Forever virgins? With no self-awareness? Loved to the point of creepy stalking and exacting control by freakishly attractive men who are mysteriously captivated solely by our appearance and personal tics? And, maybe the healing power of our vaginas will fix him a little? Really?

This can’t be right, can it?

Please. Someone tell me it can’t be right.

“Souvenirs.” via CleanMoralPolite, 2012

The photo is of and by cleanmoralpolite.  Go forth and follow/subscribe.

So, I’m reading Mary Roach’s Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, because The Foster Kid’s review made it sound worthwhile.  It is, but boy-howdy I’ve read a lot of information about pig orgasm now.

According to research, when you’re sexually excited your pain threshold goes up. Way up. People achieve pretty impressive and cringe-worthy feats when hopped up on sex hormones. Doctors have stories. Fetlife has pictures.

I’ve seen things, y’all.

The first time I attempted this sex blogging thing, I posted a picture of myself, specifically of my breasts, rather bruised. I got very concerned messages. Very concerned.

And I get it. I do. I think, there is an element of wanting to save the damsel in distress when you send that sort of missive through the tubes, but really, I believe them. It looks like it hurts. It does hurt. I’ve been pretty marked up. There’s that little voice, on say… day three?  When the purple maxes out? That voice wonders, ‘Jesus, you perv, what the fuck? This is okay with you? Issues much?’

That little voice goes pretty much silent when you’re actually getting the bruises, though. You are busy, just then. Preoccupied.

I had jury duty this morning, and I took this with me.

There is something a little strange about sitting in a packed courtroom, reading about “erotic melancholia” and lesbian Christ figures quivering in death orgasm.