It was a late summer afternoon. My girlfriend Mary and her two friends were sitting on the deck in her back yard. All were reading a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.
I read the first chapter online and didn’t buy the relationship, but obviously it didn’t bother the gazillion women reading it. So what do I know?
The other night I asked Mary to tell me about the kinky sex purported to be in the book. She claimed she hadn’t gotten to those parts yet, but she did read a more pedestrian passage. It could easily have been lifted from the pages of Penthouse with one exception: the writer kept referring to breasts being gently caressed etc. In real porn girls have tits and boobs; guys, dicks and rods.
“Maybe you’d learn something from reading it,” Mary told me.
“I doubt it. I’d rather read the new Richard Ford.”
“It’s a huge seller,” she said. “I thought the whole point was to make money.”
“Yes, I want to make a living,” I said, “but I didn’t get into this to be that sort.”
“What sort?” she asked. “The type that makes money.”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” I sniped back.
Mary reads quality fiction, but some reason she wouldn’t let this go. “You’re always saying you don’t have enough money to pay the bills. Why don’t you write something like this and then write what you want?”
I sighed deeply. I bit my lip. I wanted to jump off a bridge.