Friday, September 6, 2013

all the pages worth masturbating to in "fifty shades of grey."

your mom is such a fucking dirtbag. i ran into that broad in the female incontinence aisle at walgreens a couple weeks ago and was like, "what up, karen? you are looking HELLA RADIANT today." after shyly averting her gaze and blushing all the way down to her toes she whispered, "can i tell you a secret?" i nodded conspiratorially and led her over to the auto maintenance aisle because do motherfuckers really buy their motor oil at goddamn WALGREENS?! as i suspected: completely deserted. i pretended to inspect the air fresheners while she detailed, in hushed tones, how her glow wasn't the result of some new retinol serum made from unicorn tears or nighttime moisturizer derived from the blood of virgins. no, she had just finished reading FIFTY SHADES OF SLUTTY MOMS. "bitch, quit playing," i responded. "your cheeks aren't flushed that red due to some grocery store porn. HIP ME TO THAT NEW OIL OF OLAY, OKAY GAIL." but that bitch indeed was not playing with my ass. your mom spent her summer vacation with one hand on this walmart bargain book and the other hand shoved into the high-waisted full briefs she wears under those khaki linen pants she got on sale at chico's. "i really think you'd like it, sam," she gushed. "it's really wild." only moms say shit like "wild." i sighed, unconvinced that a book that doesn't have pictures of fat, juicy asses and big titties would do anything other than put this baby right to sleep. "fine then. wring out your copy when you're done with it then let me holler at that shit." she dropped it off for me last week and i started reading it on the toilet ten minutes later. CHECK HOW JAMMING MY SKIN LOOKS, WHAT.

page 11 "i sail, i fly, i indulge in various physical pursuits. i'm a very wealthy man, miss steele, and i have expensive and absorbing hobbies." A DUDE WITH HIS OWN HELICOPTER?! my vagina exploded immediately. i would let a man with his own plane dog walk my ass, real talk. poor people can't really fuck with rich people long term without somebody getting murdered, but would i have a tawdry affair with a dude who could whisk me away to his private island for months at a time? you bet your taco i would. also, i like the idea of a person with absorbing hobbies. i can't date anyone who is going to fuck up my tv-watching time or interrupt my listening to podcasts in the shower for hours on end. go shoot something, my dude. get out your hang glide. back up off me for a minute. when a motherfucker lives in a studio apartment with two members of his disco ska band or whatever there is no room to get away from him when he is being annoying. with a rich dude you could just chill in the servants' quarters for days at a time without his even knowing you're there. and that is the sex, when i'm peeing in the jacuzzi in the guest house eating all his fruit roll-ups and homeskillet is too far away to know any better.

page 30 "when i glance up at christian grey, he's watching us like a hawk, his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line." maybe i'm a motherfucking caveman, but i nothing would bring me more joy than two strapping meatbeasts brawling for my affection. a massive slab of brisket slamming himself into a burly pork loin to prove that he loves me the most? yes, please. it doesn't even have to be that serious; they could just, like, sit at the pancake house having a civilized debate over which of my three standard sex moves is the hottest (answer: none of them) and i would die from fucking swooning. oh, i know. jealousy is gross. but that's probably because you've never seen a dude pull out a bayonet or a basket-hilted sword on the other gentleman calling for your affections. HUBBA.

page 48 "he tugs the hand that he's holding so hard that i fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street." BITCHES LOVE GETTING RESCUED. not that we need it, because we are strong and powerful goddesses fully capable of running our corporations and raising our artificially inseminated offspring and basically not needing you dudes for shit, but if you 1 kill that mouse for me or 2 shout down that internet bully for me or 3 snatch me out of the jaws of the bear that is currently mauling me to death you can go on ahead and help yourself to every single part of my vagina. sometimes when i have a manfriend over i'll just start a grease fire in the kitchen and stand there helplessly waiting to see whether he can save me from it or if he'll run screaming from my apartment in his underwear like a bitch. i've almost died from smoke inhalation, like, seven motherfucking times. 

page 88 "he sits down beside me and buckles himself into his seat, then begins a protracted procedure of checking gauges and and flipping switches and buttons from the mind-boggling array of lights and switches in front of me." i like to watch people working with their hands. because i am a doughy creative, all i use my hands for are soft shit like putting condiments on hot dogs and taking bathroom pictures of my boobs. if someone ever built me a table (or put my ikea dresser properly together) my vagina would probably detonate. i'm talking all of my insides, ON THE OUTSIDE, if i walk into my apartment to find you've expertly installed my air conditioner. 

page 122 "he pulls out of me immediately and rolls onto his side of the bed. i pull my knees up to my chest, utterly spent, and immediately drift off or pass out into an exhausted sleep." BEST PART OF THE SEX. the rolling over and going to sleep part. bitches gotta be at work at 7 in the morning, shit.

page 137 "'anastasia, i'm going to come in your mouth,' his breathy tone is warning. 'if you don't want me to, stop now.' he thrusts his hips again, his eyes are wide, wary, and filled with salacious need." what a goddamned gentleman. nothing sexier. nothing is worse than some silent film star who doesn't let you know that he's about to ruin your afternoon by surprising you with a mouthful of briny dick snot. it's like when you're trying to swallow an unexpectedly bitter pill (prednisone especially, BARF) and that shit is on your tongue for half a second too long while you try to get your water or juice or whatever together and you start gagging because you weren't ready for it to taste so bad and now that nasty shit is in your tastebud memory for the rest of the goddamned day. i would never fart in your mouth without at least attempting to bat your head out of the way, why not do me a solid in return, homie?

page 219 "i reach across and pick up my first-ever oyster. i squirt some lemon juice on it and tip it up. it slips down my throat, all sea water, salt, the sharp tang of citrus, and fleshiness...ooh." i want to get the shellfish tower at maude's sometime soon. that shit looks amazing. every time i walk past people who've ordered one i have a mini hate seizure because i am too poor to pay $165 for a succulent tower of fruits de mer. in addition to all those gin smashes and lyonnaise salads i like. so i guess what i'm really trying to say is what are you guys up to this weekend? IS ANYONE FREE TO TAKE ME OUT AND ALSO PAY. get at me.

page 259 "he shows me the list. my subconscious runs, screaming, and hides behind the couch. spanking, whipping, biting, genital clamps, hot wax, paddling, caning, nipple clamps, ice, other types/methods of pain." fuck most of the shit on this list for real. one time a dude i now hate decided to spice up his oral sex game by sucking on an ice cube and drooling freezing water into my sex hole. i'll let you guys draw your own conclusions on how the rest of that night went down. there was about to be some smoke in the city, especially since that fool caught me off guard. and what kind of dumb ox wants to chill the orifice into which he is about to insert his penis? DUDE'S TESTICLES SHRIVELED UP LIKE CRAISINS. i almost sprinkled them on my salad, for real.

page 311 "christian is sitting on the living room couch reading the sunday papers." fuck, i love a dude who reads the newspaper. there is nothing hotter than that for real, especially if his lips don't move while he's reading.

page 375 "she likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs." now this is some goddamned romance. i hate remembering what i like to eat for breakfast.

page 414 "i am on my second cosmopolitan. my mother is on her third." so i'm not drinking right now, because i'm sick and trying to avoid alcohol due to its inflammatory properties because when you have a killer autoimmune disease you will try anything to feel better even if it includes abstaining from booze or mainlining aloe vera juice or eating a can of salmon a day, and all i want to do is watch people drink. because drunk people are hilarious. and sometimes sexy. your mom and i got korean chicken wings last night and she drank two whole bottles of wine and that was better than any movie i've seen in the last six months. sidenote: did you know she can fit her whole fist in her mouth? you didn't?! WELL NOW YOU DO. (ps, your mom rules.)

pages 430 "he reaches between my legs and pulls out the blue string and gently takes my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. holy fuck...and then he's inside me...i grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself back on him, feeling him inside me." if i wrote erotica, it would be 500 pages of period sex bookended by a prologue and epilogue solely consisting of bitches eating cheeseburgers and yelling at the tv. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD DO I DELIGHT IN PERIOD SEX. i read twilight, because duh, and even though i am officially team jacob (shut up) all i could think when edward and bella got to the sex part was, "please lord let this bitch get her motherfucking period." because vampire period sex has to be next level, right? all vicious teeth gnashing and rapturous guttural moans?! OH MAN. i am about to step up my fanfic game, homie. as soon as i work this cramp out of my fingering hand.

page 472 "the sex is amazing, he's wealthy, he's beautiful, but this is all meaningless without his love, and the real heart-fail is that i don't know if he's capable of love." this right here. all of this. i know this is just some dumb book that some soccer mom wrote because her husband doesn't fuck her or whatever but THIS IS THE THING RIGHT HERE. i'm at that age, friends. that age where i need to know that the dude pouring hot wax on my anus and trussing me to his bedposts like a chicken fucking loves me at least a little bit. or maybe a lot, whatever. i only want to have sex with people who love me. i'm getting sensitive in my early-onset old age, i guess. that anonymous "maybe i'll call you tomorrow" meaningless sex shit is a motherfucking drag and i am decidedly too old for it. grumble grumble fall in love with me or get off my fucking lawn grumble.

page 513 "he stops, and the anguish in his expression is palpable, his gray eyes burning. 'i don't want you to go,' he murmurs, his voice full of longing." no one has ever begged me not to leave them other than my dumb slutty friends who are salty that i'm trying to leave the club and it's not even eleven o'clock yet. there's always that one broad drunk on vodka sodas hugging your ankles as you're trying to wave down a cab, crying for you not to go home because she hasn't found a dude to go home with yet. that shit is gross and secondhand embarrassing. but this 50 shades of begging i totally fucking live for: some hot gorilla standing across the room, lips quivering, tear/snot mixture dripping from the tip of his nose, pleading with me not to leave? WHY IS THAT NOT MY REAL LIFE. i once got thrown out of an apartment by a dude who waited until i got to the front door to call out and ask me to come back and change the television channel because i had broken the remote, his voice full of longing not to watch the food network anymore. i hate my life so fucking much.

i don't need you bitches passing judgment on me on the goddamned bus. I SEE YOU, cutting your eyes at my luminous skin while i'm trying to get my kindergarten erotica on during my infernal morning commute. to hell with you jerks. i'm reading the next one on my goddamned kindle.

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