I’ve come to the conclusion that there are as many shades of 50 Shades’ readers as there are shades of Christian himself. Nowhere was this more evident than at my country club’s Memorial Day festivities this year.
Let me preface by establishing the fact that this club is the quintessential, old line, pain-in-the-neck, Lily Pulizer-wearing, bastion of conservatism that you see parodied in sit coms. Yes folks, there are still places where young men are proud to carry on their family’s nauseating legacy of plaid madras shorts and penny loafers–no socks–as they sport their military-like, sheared hair cuts and Kennedyesque bleached dental work. “Christian Alert” people, we’ve moved out of the 1950’s. Please burn those ear-shatteringly loud kelly green pants for heaven’s sake. Christian’s crisp, white linen shirts and faded jeans are doing more to grease your ladies’ groins than your old dusty threads. No offense Ralph, but your iconic pony has been deflowered by the likes of Christian Grey.
Needless to say, despite the perineal plethora of LL Bean monogrammed swim totes, there was a slightly different tilt to the pool scene this year. Yes, they may look like they’re needle pointing a belt for their husbands (with images of birds they can’t wait to blast into smithereens when hunting season hits) when in fact, they’re discussing how entry from behind leads to much deeper penetration. It is a very smooth and sophisticated group you see, with the exterior image of a model nuclear family, honed to a tee–everyone smiling, physician husband, beautiful tennis wife, handsome intellectual son and fairy-tale looking daughter. There’s one caveat here….that beautiful wife has sweated profusely all afternoon, not from the heat, but from the “sex on legs” she’s spent the afternoon fantasizing about. Who knew the 1%er’s were so sexually frustrated. Perhaps if we’d known this from the start, we could have avoided a lot of havoc on Wall Street. One hour with Christian in the shower and I would bet far fewer women would be protesting tax increases.
In the spirit of the holiday, there were those brave few, and I mean FEW, who chose to read the book, cover exposed. Now depending on your point of view this is either courageous or mind-splinteringly stupid. It’s one thing for everyone at the pool to know you’re reading some sexually charged literature and quite another for them to unequivocally deduce that you’ve become so turned on that between your book and the lemon martini’s you’ve been ordering for the past two hours, you’re now requesting handcuffs from the 20-something server instead of your usual chicken Caesar.
Other’s decided to read electronically so they could deny affiliation with the book and further claim at Sunday school next week how fundamentally offended they are by this smut. There are in fact those that assert that while everyone else has succumbed to Christian’s “kinky f**kery”, they’ve opted instead to walk in Jesus’s path. All I can say to this is, you’re going to have to do more than just throw on your Tory Burch ensemble to cover up your desire for nipple clamps. The brand names can only do so much ladies.
In fact, as the afternoon wore on, had there been a shred of doubt in anyone’s mind what the majority of women seated around the pool were reading, with each martini consumed, the picture became clearer and clearer.
Let’s just suffice it to say Fifty Shades, martini’s, and country club decorum don’t all blend together seamlessly. Poor Lily Pullitizer would have turned fifty shades of hot pink if she could have seen what these inhabiters of her Palm Beach prints were doing. Yes, their D.A.R. memberships may have had professional genealogical research to back them up, but by God, to hell with the Revolution, when the urge for “death by orgasm” calls, a woman must respond, Memorial Day or not.
And respond these women did. It was a tad sobering when one woman, having just completed book one and realizing her family was nowhere near ready to depart for the day, decided to take a dip in the pool. Unfortunately for the toddlers, the strongest jet she could find was in the baby pool. Legs splayed and head thrown back, she found her release. The poor babies, however, thought a groaning sea monster had invaded their waters.
This was nothing, however, compared to the 50-year old grandmother who, only half way through book two, decided she had to have a schlong, sooner rather than later, proceeded to climb the life guard chair, peel her knee-length skirted one-piece to the side and gleefully attempt to mount the only male life guard on the premise. “Hail to the Chief!”
Other readers I know, however, have had an array of 50 Shades mishaps shall we say and were not able to make it to the pool at all to celebrate our troops. My friend whose poor husband wasted away from the hour plus Hustler store tutorial, has now injured herself from a combination of the compulsory angle in which she has held her neck for the last three days, trying to get through book two and further complicated by the big-rabbit vibrator she bought, (hoping to “detonate” as Ana did), which apparently had such powerful capability, she experienced a “healing cathartic orgasm”, (and unfortunately, one that left her in a neck brace). Rumor has it though, another of our friends wound up in the ER on Memorial Eve, unable to retrieve the butt plugs she forced her husband to insert despite his protests. I’m thinking that fine line between pleasure and pain became too much for her to bare….
All in all, it was a Memorial Day to remember. Though it may not have appeared as if the root of the holiday was at the forefront of everyone’s mind, I think we could argue they did their best. “Onward Christian Soldiers…”