Fifty shades of red

I have a confession to make.

Fifty Shades of Grey found its way into my personal library. Will Jane Austen ever forgive me?

I came to the book late in the trend. I kept hearing about it on television shows and internet sites. But it was a radio show that piqued my interest after I heard a male DJ refer to the book as “mommy porn.” That made me angry.  Apparently, because I’ve had children, I am now somehow categorized as sexually deprived and desperate? Thanks, caveman.

First, the term “mommy porn” is just gross. Look, I am open-minded and not one for censorship, but the concept of sexually frustrated childbearing women requiring pornography to cure our so-called angst was, frankly, insulting. Dark chocolate and a warm glass of merlot can fix that.

After working all day, making dinner, doing homework, driving to sports practices, sorting laundry and packing lunches for morning, I know the Carpenter and I are just as randy as black bears in the depth of hibernation. No angst here.

Secondly, why is a book about a woman delving into dark sexual experiences somehow dubbed naughty content for mommies? He might as well have called us housewives. Despite efforts for equality, there is still a notion that a woman who expresses sexual desire must be shameful and dirty. Grow up. Even his mother had a sex drive.

The subject matter is dark, the writing lacks polish, the language is crude and the scenes are explicit. But look, after 12 years of Dr. Seuss and child psychology books on temper tantrums, I’d read a fishing magazine for pleasure. This is a lot more fun than fish.

This fool clearly misunderstands what us mommies consider kinky. I believe I can safely speak for the majority of moms when I say, the sexiest thing a lover can say is, “Relax, I’ll take care of it.”

Forget the sex issue, boys, just finish the drywall. Put the trim all the way around the room, even if the couch is hiding it. We are so much easier to please than you know. I’m a little hot just thinking about it.

If you want to turn the mother of your children on, wash the dishes. Tell her she is beautiful when she’s a mess. You want to sex-text? Here’s a good one: “I will bring home dinner” (growl). Better yet, take the children away for the weekend and leave her chocolate and a bottle of wine and don’t bother to call to check in. She’ll be busy reading a book (blush).

Someone once teased me that the only way to survive as a writer would be to write erotica. Sadly, they were right. I bet E.L. James is laughing all the way to the bank and I applaud her. Fifty Shades is like watching a Jim Carey movie. You know it’s stupid but you’re still going to laugh, so why not just enjoy it.

I think this best-selling author has hit the mark (blush) reminding women it’s okay to feel desire, to be sexy, powerful and, brace yourself, own it. Ask the husbands whose wives have read it (giggle).

The Carpenter won’t tell you a thing. He signed a non-disclosure agreement. He is afraid of my inner dominatrix who wants the dishes washed. Now. Embracing the inner goddess is hot. Austen would agree.


Kelly Waterhouse