I finally saw Fifty Shades of Grey. Not that I’m late to the party or anything. Not me.
Before you take away my Fet cred, I only watched it because I have to write about it for work. Why are you looking at me like that? It’s true. I’m a purist. I only watch sexy BDSM movies like The Piano Teacher and Nymphomaniac. I didn’t enjoy Fifty Shades one little bit. Not for a second.
SpanishRed (halfway through Fifty Shades)
Don’t tell a soul but I’m enjoying this movie.
I’m totes renting a sky writer to tell everyone you like this movie.
Okay, fine, I said that, but that’s because the movie fooled me into thinking something hot was going to happen so I got carried away by the suspense. How could I not with that playroom in the picture? Did something hot happen? Nope. There was not a single hot scene. Not even one.
SpanishRed (while the credits roll)
One hot scene and then she leaves. After an hour and a half of consent crap.
Hearing you say consent crap cracks me up.
I didn’t fucking write that message. The Fet fairies added it to this post. It’s a new kind of site glitch.
Okay, fine, I wrote that. Don’t take away my SJW badge, but the entire movie was a bunch of posturing over a stupid fucking contract. Christian Grey wasn’t even good looking.
Succeeding at heartbreak is easy. As easy as walking on Saturn’s rings. When he arrives home at 4 am smelling of Chanel Number Five, remember you still have as much value as last year’s expiration date.
Succeeding at heartbreak is easy. All you have to do is step on every bluebottle on the way to the ocean and then swim underwater from Ottawa to Cape Town without an oxygen tank. All you have to do is forget that he’s beautiful and remember what you were before you met him. Thousands have done it before you.
Succeeding at heartbreak is easy. One day you realise it’s 6 am and you haven’t thought of him yet today. That gives you hope; hope that you might reach noon without receiving a Dalai Lama quotation via text from the friend who let you sleep on her couch last night. When you reach that day, celebrate by opening your third bottle of wine after sunset instead of before.
Erotica should always include the negotiation of a scene, the outlining of safe words, and the signing of contracts. Oh, and also STD screens and the exchange of laboratory papers, just like all those consent activists say. Why? Well, this metaphor should prove my point.
Dear Recipe Book Writer
I would like to lay a formal complaint about your recipe book. Your banana loaf was fucking awful.
I heated the butter on the stovetop but could not get it off the hotplate after it had melted. I tried soaking it up with a towel, but I don’t think I got all five teaspoons off the stovetop. Seriously? Would it have been that hard to tell me to use a saucepan?
I cracked the eggs into the bowl and tried to whisk until “completely combined”, but the shells wouldn’t disappear into the mixture. I suggest you change the wording of your recipe to “almost completely combined”.
You’ll straddle the cusp of kink for several years. You will be disinterested, uninspired by what you’ve found there, but then you’ll meet the dominant who pushes you over the edge. You will realise that all your decades of sex weren’t as good as you thought they were. He will call you a slut. You’ll like it even though you find the word reprehensible.
You will find yourself being submissive even though you find the word reprehensible.
You will wonder if you’re insane.
“This is abuse” you’ll think. But it won’t feel like abuse, so you’ll spend some weeks wondering what it does feel like. You won’t find an answer.
“Take it as it comes,” he’ll say. So you will, not because he told you to but because you have no alternative.
“I don’t understand why my sex drive has gone into overdrive.”
You’ll decide that your hormones are out of whack. You’ll decide that you’re a sex addict. You’ll decide that you’re in your sexual prime. You’ll decide that you’ve found true love.
There will never be enough time in the day for you and him. Him in the studio. Him in the restaurant bathroom. Him in the kitchen. Him in the garden against the rundown shed.
You will wake up wanting him, but then you’ll lose him on a Tuesday morning over coffee in the rain. You will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ve lost the only good sex you’ll ever have.
So you wanted to get into my panties and decided that you needed to manipulate me to do so. You faked platonic interest because you thought it would fool me into giving you the time of day, get you more face time, and trick me into meeting you. Here’s the thing: Your technique is transparent. I can spot it from the other side of the city because yours is about as common a method as stupid pickup lines.
Sure, there are men who are interested in fucking me who start out platonically. Just about every man I’ve been involved with began by bothering with friendship. The difference between them and you is that they had a real interest in spending time getting to know me. You? I can smell your boredom all the way through my monitor. You have no actual interest in spending platonic time with me. To you, talking to me is like doing time in prison. You see it as the necessary evil that needs to be tolerated if you’re to get laid.
I remember as a seven-year-old trying to see the top of the twin towers from a yellow cab. Even as a tiny girl with my head all the way down on the seat, they stood too high to fit into my field of vision.
Every September 11, I think of the World Trade Centre, all the way from my South African corner of the globe. Like most people, I remember where I was when the first plane hit. It was morning when I saw the CNN report.
It’s a hoax.
Of course it’s a hoax.
I needed the repetitive footage to convince me that it had happened. I was stunned. I was terrified—a close friend was in her New York apartment at the time, and I didn’t hear from her for four days after the attacks. But that wasn’t the only reason for my dread. The event carried a kind of symbolism that was designed to shock. It was a horror story of epic proportions.
South African papers were flooded with reports about that day for over a month. For more than 30 days we forgot about the 30 000 murders a year that happened in our country. We forgot about the 4 000 rapes committed here daily. We forgot that more people die as crime victims here than in almost every other country in the world because African lives were expendable to us.
We demonstrate how much African lives matter to us every day: More people are killed in terrorist attacks in Nigeria each year than in most other countries in the world, but we rarely put those attacks in our papers for long because African lives are expendable to us. It’s only when foreigners become victims of crime that we put them in our newspapers. African lives don’t matter. It’s only when foreign continents become victims of terrorism that we pay attention. African lives don’t matter.
Not one September 11 has passed me by without my remembering the horror the day represents. Just as the US stood beside us in spirit on the day we lost Nelson Mandela, we stood beside you and do so every year.
But in Africa, we never stand together in remembrance of the tens of thousands we lose to crime and terrorism each day the way we stand in remembrance of the lives lost in The World Trade Centre in 2001. The number of deaths from violence each year are too many to fit into our fields of vision, but we don’t bother thinking about them too often–not in the way we remember the lives lost in the USA 14 years ago.I remember where I was when I saw the first plane hit The World Trade Centre but I don’t remember where I was the day I heard that my friend’s baby had been murdered because African lives don’t matter.
Suicidal ideation tells you that your future will be as bleak as your present, that there is nothing left of your days, that you will never achieve anything of value again. It tells you that you will be alone for the rest of your life if you manage to overcome the desire to die.
Suicide and hope cannot coexist. If I’d had the power to scrape even a tiny sliver of it from the walls of my days, I would have chosen to live. Suicide is not an option that we choose because it looks attractive. We choose it because the alternative seems unbearable.
I hunted for hope as hard as I hunted for ways to die, but the latter were far easier to come upon. There are a hundred ways to kill yourself, but not even one way to drum up enough hope to outlast the month. If I’d had a window into the future in those days, though, I would have found enough hope to outlast a century. A few years after I survived, I found happiness—the kind that touches every cell of your being.
During the weeks before my suicide attempt, I had given up on my dream. A simple person like me would never have a book accepted for publication. That only happened to other people. Not me.
I was wrong.
Being asked to do readings, being published alongside writers I had idolised for years paled in comparison to the simple act of working with an editor and paging through a book that had my name on it. Opening a newspaper to read a review of my own work felt like falling in love. It was every bit as magical as I’d imagined it would be.