A Little Fiction; Fifty Shades of Grey

Fifty Shades

…Just to put this little melange into some kind of context, I have just stumbled upon a review for a recent novel by E L James (‘The Mister’) her first not to feature Christian Gray. It is, apparently, toe-curlingly bad, and yet I feel certain that it has probably still sold by the shed-load. It got me thinking. I realise that the Fifty Shades horse has not only bolted, but also sired, betimes, a million dotard offspring. However, I am painfully aware that Ms. James has, in the time that I have sold precisely nothing, managed to shift an Albert Hall-full of paperbacks employing a strange (and slightly disturbing, if I’m honest) admixture of coy titillation and baby-talk that, to my ears, sounds like a Sun leader on the lurid sex exploits of the inhabitants of Toytown. Now, bearing in mind that I am part of a demographic that these novels were clearly pointed away from and told to run as fast as they could – not to mention the fact that even my very best effort to read them took me only as far as page six before sleep overtook me and I fell into dreams of birds and bees and ironmongery – I still thought that I owed it to myself to add a little something of my own to the genre. I did, honestly, intend to pay due diligence to Ms. James’ opus before writing this piece but, frankly, life is too short. I have, however, followed her template (man = libidinous decathlete, woman = willing victim) and, like the good lady herself, I’ve avoided all naughty words and anatomical descriptions and, should any of my characters get carried away with it all, I have made note of fifty different ways to describe fireworks going off.

So here it is. You must excuse the fact that my imagination only stretches so far and my knowledge even less so. Never the less, this may get racy. I hope it doesn’t get you too inflamed.

…He stared at her across the room. It was a crowded room and their eyes did not meet – so that particular cliché was neatly side-stepped. She had more areas of natural beauty than the National Trust could shake a stick at. She was impeccably elegant: aloof, yet with an air of obtainability for a man with patience and his own bicycle clips – like the slightly dog-eared birthday cake in the baker’s window that no-one has yet collected. The noblest thought that crossed his mind when he saw her for the first time was far too ignoble for these pages. He actually made himself blush – and he had lived with himself right through puberty. This was a thought that would make Lady Chatterley flush down to the soles of her chamois thong and have Oliver Mellors booking an early appointment at the osteopath’s.

She had the kind of body that you could write a book about (probably a pop-up) and she oozed sexuality like an-over-filled éclair oozes cream, but he was not afraid of her. He was not daunted by her all-over leather cladding. After all, when he was a child, his mother had a pouffé just like it, and he always found that quietly reassuring. Besides, like everybody else of his age, he had read The Joy of Sex so many times that he thought of Alex Comfort as a personal friend. In his teens, he had grown a beard in preparation for the experiences that the pencil drawings hinted at – although he had shaved it off when it became clear that he wasn’t going to have them any time soon, and, by the time he grew it back, it was grey and his arches had fallen along with his chest which by then occupied a space just above his trouser waistband.

Never-the-less, he did have experience of sorts. He had been reading books by mature, worldly-wise lady writers and had, consequently dropped the Milk Tray from his weekly shop in favour of nipple-clamps. He felt ready to face the exotic object of his desires. Give him a box of dominoes and a small bottle of Wincarnis* and he would give her the night of her life. If she wanted steamy, he would give her steamy. He was prepared to crank the TOG of his quilt so high that she wouldn’t even need bedsocks.

He knew how to please a woman – well, his mother, at least,  was always thrilled with a hot cup of tea and a Garibaldi – and he was ready for the moment when their winceyettes first enmeshed. He knew that with the right stimulation (whatever that might be) she would bloom like a rose in the summer – although he wasn’t at all certain of how he felt about that, as he was a martyr to his hay fever. He might be able to keep her awake all night but, to be honest, that rather depended on her ability to sleep through his nocturnal toilet visits and his thunderous snoring after a couple of sweet stouts.

However, he had to admit that he was running away with himself a little bit here. She hadn’t actually even spoke to him yet, except to ask whether he’d finished with the ketchup. And her husband didn’t appear to be the accommodating type. Jealous sort, by the look of him. Obviously didn’t understand a woman’s needs. Didn’t understand a man’s desperation. Didn’t understand the principle of sharing. Obviously couldn’t even be bothered to get her some tomato sauce of her own. He would buy her sauce – Heinz – in one of those big squeezy bottles. He would buy her hake if she wanted it. He would make sure she had one of those polystyrene trays to eat it from and one of those titchy little wooden forks so that she didn’t end up with greasy fingers and sauce on her chin. And when she caught the bus home to her husband late at night, he would wonder why she didn’t fancy the frozen crinkle-cuts he’d got ready for her, nor why she fell asleep before the end of Casualty

I hereby solemnly swear that this will definitely NOT be continued. Colin

People think that I hate sex. I don’t. I just don’t like things that stop you seeing the television properly. Victoria Wood

*Wincarnis, for those sub demi-centurions amongst you, was a ‘tonic’ wine – sold for its ‘restorative’ properties.