Filthy Shades of Grey

In the end, I couldn't finish it.
For the past two weeks, I've tried -- in the interest of blog journalism -- to slog through Filthy Shades of Grey. At one point, I thought there was something wrong with me. Perhaps it was time to get my hormones checked.
Fact is, I didn't find anything remotely erotic about the damned book.
It's like E.L. James went to the library and checked out Letters to Penthouse and cribbed the worst parts. There was nothing titillating about the descriptions. It was just stupid.
And mildly alarming.
This kind of sexual guidance is likely to get a girl raped. Or worse.
What kind of young woman would ever fall for a guy like this, trust him before knowing him, allow him to do all manner of shit to her and beg for more?
No woman I have ever met.
Police arrest guys like this.
The suits in Hollywood made a television show.
It was called Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.
It's puzzling to me why women read this drivel. I only read it because of my interest in anthropology. Are women somehow yearning to be hog-tied to beds and smacked on the arse? Do they really want a man to tell them how to dress, what to say and what to eat?
Women have gone to prison for shooting guys like that.
Mr. Christian Grey, you are one sick motherfucker.
Anastasia Steele, your mother would be ashamed.
And E.L. James, you needs a psychiatrist.