It didn't take me long to read it...about four nights with it by bedside. I plowed through it not because of love of the characters or being spellbound by the exceptional writing of E.L. James; it was moreso, after horror after horror unveiled itself through a grotesque assassination of the English language, because of morbid fascination.
It was really, really bad.
Let's start with Christian Grey and his cock, shall we? I start there because his cock is to him what Anastasia's inner-goddess was to her. Case in point some of the following passages:
- "Lifting my hips, I grab my cock. “I want you to become well acquainted, on first-name terms, if you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my body. I’m very attached to this.”
- I have never slept with a woman. I’ve fucked many, but to wake up beside an alluring young woman is a new and stimulating experience. My cock agrees.
- Her face is no longer blotchy and puffy, she looks radiant. My cock agrees, and stiffens in greeting.
Ludicrous passages are not just limited to Christian Grey's cock, however. James manages to stun through the book.
- I strip off all my clothes and from a drawer pull out my favorite jeans. My DJs. Dom jeans.
- I ask, “Are you hungry?” “Not for food,” she teases. Whoa. She might as well be addressing my groin.
- People like me like inflicting pain ... I am used to making women cry – it’s what I do.
And, despite the rampant silliness, I managed to get out of it (believe it or not) some reminders of why I like the things I like with L. Those four or five nights I read the book were all followed by sessions with L, and perhaps (if you ask her) a little rougher than they normally are.
And perhaps...just perhaps...the book made my cock twitch a couple of times.
Even though it was confined inside of my Dom jeans.