This contains spoilers, if you haven’t read the books don’t read this.

And don’t be all, I’ll read it anyways because I have no intention of reading the stupid books, because you’re a liar and you will.  Eventually.

So, soooo, many of you have recommended I read the Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy by E.L. James, and I have promptly ignored you, because who has time to read? I’m a mom, I have three kids and dinner to put on the table OMG DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BUSY I AM WITH MY DVR RIGHT NOW!?

But, with my recent travel obligations and desire to forget the fact that I’m in an airplane, suddenly a steamy trilogy didn’t seem so bad.

I read book one in about 24 hours. Despite the fact that it is, to date, one of the more poorly written and edited books I have ever read, in fact, I feel dirty even having paid money for it.

Also it’s lady porn.

No exaggeration.

I read lady porn at gate G6 at the Madison airport for two hours next to this guy…

Oh. My.

He was probably curing AIDS on his laptop, and I was blushy and shifting in my seat, reading about sex, in my Spanx.

In true EVERY BOOK BEING WRITTEN RIGHT NOW THAT MILEY CYRUS’ BOYFRIEND COULD POTENTIALLY STAR IN THE MOVIE VERSION OF fashion, Fifty Shades of Grey features a lovely young woman with a overly dramatic name, that goes from tolerable to face punch in about five chapters.

You know, the old awkward virgin meets poorly described hot bajillionaire with an Audi who, through a series of erotic run ins and lip biting, goes on to make a series of melodramatic and WTF!? decisions story.

Speaking of WTF, um…I’m not entirely convinced that E.L. James isn’t a pen name for a one, Jim Bob Duggar, because for 372 pages, I was shouting VAGINA, WE CALL IT A VAGINA. Not her “sex” or her “there,” the word is vagina.

I don’t love saying it out loud either, but I also don’t write porn for a living, mostly because it’d read something like “hey, let’s do that thing where my pee pee tingles.”

By the time I boarded my plane, I was completely entranced by the lewd sex acts of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey. Often giggling for no apparent reason, and touching my wrists, disappointed they didn’t hurt from being tied together.  I would have moments of complete paranoia about the lady sitting next to me and I’d be all, I’m just a girl, sitting on an airplane, asking you to stop looking at my Kindle, because I’m totally just reading about Afghanistan, and not reading about bondage at all.

I loved the emails exchanges, hated the trite oh my’s and aloof college girl antics.  My 2 year old has an iPod and asks for her gummy vitamin everyday, how Anastasia made it to her twenties without owning or knowing how to use a laptop, or grasping the concept of taking a birth control pill everyday is beyond me.

My biggest struggle is picturing the characters, which, I assume, will be something left entirely to my imagination, because there is positively no way these books could ever be made into a movie that would at all do it justice, without being a straight up porno. Plus I heard Octavia Spencer doesn’t do BDSM.

Fifty Shades of Grey gave me what Twilight and Hunger Games didn’t. Hot sex. Not vague or obtuse vampire honeymoon sex. The dirty kind of sex real people have.

Except for the whole period thing.  Nobody’s that excited about period sex.

On to book 2.

Want to talk more trashy books? Find my Hunger Games reviews here!

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