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.
Dear Agenda-Carrying Radical.
Thank you for applying for a spot in my thread to park your agenda. I currently have no room available for your opinion of the week. All slots have been fully booked for people who want to stay on topic. You will need to find another journal to put your soapbox. May I suggest a handy little feature called
Your Own Fetlife Journal.
You didn’t know about it? Dayamn. It’s a pretty great feature. I use it all the time.
What’s that? This is not my personal journal so you can dis me however you like? Well, jeez. I had no idea. Sorry about that. In that case, please go ahead and type out your agenda in my thread.
You’re back again? What now? Oh, right, yes, I deleted your comment. Why? Because this is not your personal journal so I can dis you however I like. It just so happens that I decided to use the ‘delete’ button to do so.
Thanks for reapplying for a spot in my journal to park your agenda. I’m not currently renting out room for off-topic comments. What did you say? This is not my personal journal? Shit. I forgot about that. Sorry.
Back again? Yep, you’re right. Your third comment appears to have disappeared from the thread as well. Why? Well, it obviously couldn’t have been me who deleted it because this is not my personal journal.
Hugs and kisses
The person to whom this journal does not belong.
When I was a teen, being accused of antisocial behaviour was an insult. These days, people don’t appear to have any shame about it because this is the internet. You have no face. You can throw a hate bomb and then disappear into the ether before going out for lunch. And when you do, odds are good you’re not telling your friends,
“I like the idea of her slinking back here periodically, reading and wincing.”
“You make me want to violate consent…With an icepick…In your eyeball…Pluck it out…Fill it with acid…Fuck it multi-directionally with rusty rebar…Cut your fingers off and stuff them in the gaping maw…”
I very much doubt that hate group members treat people in the real world the way they do online. That would require integrity and courage.
Newspapers and websites like The Observer have started to require members to register their real names before they’re allowed to post. They say there are far fewer expressions of hate on sites like Facebook because there is less anonymity, so they’re removing their commenters’ ability to hide in the hope they will behave like grownups. In other words, haters are cowards. Which is not all that much news—by the time I’d turned seven, I’d already been taught that about bullies.
Facebook is a favourite among harassers, though. Here’s another theory: harassers are literally losers. Researchers put men in front of a PC game and found that those who made positive comments while they played had the most skill. Those who were negative sucked. The study specifically looked at sexism, and it found that “Female-directed hostility primarily originates from low status.”
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.