I got given a book as a gift recently. This book is gaining a certain notoriety in the media as a, erm, saucy read. You may have heard of it? Fifty Shades of Grey? Y’know? Ahem.
Yet I am no stranger to saucy reads. I KNOW. Close your astonished mouths. I have a saucy book, which I bought from a charity shop years ago. It was written in the Victorian times so, ACTUALLY, that makes it LITERATURE. Literature with rampant sex, primitive-sounding diaphragms and some random incest. AHEM.
For the record, I do not find the Victorian book shmexy. I bought it for a dare, and yeah, read it (giggled the whole way through) and somehow it has stayed on my bookshelf ever since. Like a badge of honour. Like I’m saying, ‘Yeah. Look at me. Look at me and my shmexy book. Yeah, you’re right – I am a KINK’. And now, I have Fifty Shades of Grey on my bookshelf too. Like I’m an uber-kink.
I have not read the Grey book yet, which is written by E.L. James, and is the first in a trilogy, apparently. Gawd help us. The plot – and I am paraphrasing from the blurb on the back cover – is thus: female virgin-type meets experienced older man who is ‘tormented by inner demons’. Jeezus aren’t they all? And so, they embark on a passionate love affair. And have sex. Lots and lots and LOTS of sex.
Sex that kind of goes like this: ‘He flicks the crop and it hits my sweet spot with a sharp slap, and I come, gloriously, shouting my release’. Ye gods! She is fantasising about him SWIPING AT HER CLITORIS with a farking riding crop. So this demon-tormented man has kinks, and further quick page-flicking confirms this. Major kinks. Kinks that are way kinkier than my kinks. In fact, I am now revising my whole notion of what a kink is. I’ve a suspicion I have actually been rather tame with my non-kinky kink of having a dodgy erotic fiction collection of two. I have, haven’t I? MAN ALIVE, am I what proper kinks call VANILLA?
Well, fark it. Probably am vanilla. Still, a nice vanilla with bits of vanilla pods in it. And a chocolate coating. I don’t even know what that means. Anyway, I could be a kink. Only without some kinky bits. I must admit, I’m not sure I understand the whole pleasure/pain thing. If anyone tried to slap my clitoris with a riding crop I would farking kick off. I would actually end them, using giant lasers, serrated daggers and arsenic. Whilst holding a bag of frozen peas to my stinging lady zone.
Other kinks? What kinks are there? Shit, I am so vanilla, I don’t even know what other farking kinks there are. There are many shmexy things I am just going to say NO to, which, really, confirms my vanilla flavour, innit. But now I’m wondering: is this so surprising? Not everyone is a kink… are they?
Or do I need to discover my inner kink? C’mon, if you’re brave enough – confess your kinks. And maybe I’ll try them out. And then blog about it.
But if you’re holding a riding crop, step away from my clitoris.