First, my confession: I read a lot of smut. This five-year-old proclivity could be a symptom of mid-life crisis, a needed fantasy to replace what my life lacks, or a newly found disregard over what a lady such as I am supposed to read. Only The Shadow knows. But, since the arrival of the Kindle and, with it, the absence of scantily clad pulchritudinous lovers on romance novel covers, I read more than my share of pulsing loin bodice rippers.

Which brings me to “Fifty Shades of Grey” by EL James. I read about it in the New York Times of all things. Apparently, the gray lady likes smut, too. Or readers. Or advertising dollars; definitely advertising dollars. It’s the story of Christian Grey, a damaged, controlling, and handsome billionaire and Anastasia Steele, an intelligent and sexually inexperienced graduate. The usual clichés run rampant, she talks back to him and stands up for herself in his presence while most people, especially women, bow to him (sometimes literally). She cares not for his wealth and he wants to buy her things. He needs to run the world but finds himself unable to run Anastasia. Oh, and did I mention the gratuitous S&M, complete with a toy-filled fantasy playroom, a NDA, and a multi-page dominant/submissive contract? One must set their hard limits after all. No caning, no anal fisting. Way to limit the “kinky fuckery”, Anastasia.

It’s early “Funny Girl” meets “9 ½ weeks” meets “Twilight” meets “Tess of the D-Ubervilles”. And, yes, courtesy of Mr. Amazon and the magic of instant bank charges/electronic downloads, I read the entire trilogy. I enjoyed the first book. In contrast to most smut, the writing, though no means Pulitzer-worthy, was not dumbed down to a 3^rd grade reading level. The author threw in some erudition in the form of art and cultural references. The plot was predictable but enjoyable; the suspense was lame but necessary. The second and third books, however, were not worthy of the first. The novelty of nipple clamps and floggers had worn off like old bruises and the situations became as trite as the first half of this sentence. I found myself slogging through to the rosy end and rolling my eyes enough to deserve Christian’s punishment and then some.

For its genre, “Fifty Shades of Grey” is a step-up from the formulaic. It is escapism with kink and heart designed to make you forget, if only for a few hours, that you’ve had routine sex in front of television and that your passion has taken a back seat to bill-paying and childcare. So read it.

By the way, Amazon also sells sex toys, including floggers. You’re welcome.