Don’t be fooled by the cover, this is not a book about the many gradations of the color gray — Fifty Shades of Grey is all about sex, more searing sex, an enigmatic alpha male with a dark and twisted side (Christian Grey) and the naiveté of the young (Anastasia Steele). Yes, it’s erotica — don’t go all Rush Limbaugh on me — this book is silently sweeping over suburbia with its use of sex, questionable emails and floggers (I had to Wikipedia that one too, it’s a leather whip, FYI).
Anyhoo, the British novel is so incandescent, steamy and torrid that I’m quite surprised it hasn’t spontaneously combusted on my nightstand by now.
I heard rumblings about Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James from a few fellow mommy friends and we’re now currently reading it in my book club. Sure the writing is somewhat sterile, but Grey’s extremely controlling ways and proclivity for submissive sex is not only steamy but laugh-out-loud funny at the same time. That’s no small feat in the writing world. Pinky swear.
The even better news? This book is a trilogy (followed by Fifty Shades of Darker and Fifty Shades of Freed) so prepare for a trio of tantalizing tales — just don’t recommend it to your mom or mother-in-law…she’ll think you’re a freak. That is, if she doesn’t already feel that way about you by now.