Spoilers...50 Shades of....

[Rowan]

So, I'm really annoyed that C and A do all sorts of "crazy" sex things yet she won't let him watch her pee? That is just so odd to me.

And really...sex multiple times a day? I know it's erotica but put some realism into it. There were points where she was nearly killed but horny.

Again, I know I read them all but disappointed in myself that I did. Does that make sense?

[Spudd]

Well, in my younger days I had sex several times a day when I was in new relationships. So depending on how it's written that could be realistic. I also think the bashfulness about the bathroom could be realistic. DH and I have sex (obviously) but we don't really let each other see us peeing. (That sentence was hard to construct but hopefully you see what I mean.)

I totally know what you mean about having read them but being disappointed in yourself for doing it. That's called a guilty pleasure! Like when I watched multiple episodes of "Mike & Molly" on the plane. I could have read my perfectly good book, but I decided to spend my time watching a badly written sitcom with lots of fat jokes and an obnoxious laugh track. Woo. My apologies if we have any Mike & Molly fans in the house! It had a certain charm (I love the actress who plays Molly) but really it was bad.

[Anna]

I do semi kinky sex things and I let no one in the bathroom with me. Eric has never been in the bathroom when I was using it and vice versa. I also sometimes have sex a few times a day, although not often.

I love Mike and Molly . I like 2 broke girls more, that is a guilty pleasure.

[Rowan]

Ok then...maybe just me on the peeing thing. We're a pretty much open door bathroom kind of family. TMI but whatever.

[Bugsy]

Not alone, Rowan. We've been open-door with each other since super early in our relationship.

[mellenhead]

Yeah, we are pretty much open door too.

Rowan, I'm disappointed in myself that I even have it on my hold list. And it depresses me that there are like 1,200 holds on it in my library system.

[Blush]

I just read this today; cracked me up. It's written by Scott Feschuk, a columnist at Macleans.

http://www2.macleans.ca/2012/06/24/forb ... oliteness/

Fifty Shades of Eh
The Fifty Shades of Grey book series, about a young woman who signs a contract to enter into a submissive sexual relationship with a manipulative billionaire, has been described by critics as good news for publishing and bad news for words. It’s spawned its own line of lingerie, bedding and S&M-themed accessories. The thing is such a gold mine that scoundrels are cranking out quick knock-offs—a reprehensible act, in that it may cut into the sales of my own.

Luckily, my work occupies a very specific niche. Welcome to an excerpt from my highly erotic—and profoundly Canadian—new novel, Fifty Shades of Eh.

•••

He pulls the leather strap tight against my left wrist. I wince.

“Sorry,” Christian says. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll loosen it a bit.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

“Honestly, it’ll just take a minute.”

“It’s fine, Christian.”

I gaze upon him with my intrepid eyes. My mouth, which is also intrepid, curls into a sly smile. “Did you remember the clamps?” I ask.

“Canadian Tire was closed. But I found a bunch of clothespins in the garage.”

I swoon. My breathing quickens. My heart beats a frantic tattoo as I surrender myself to the anticipation of languid erotic pleasures and several hours of splinter removal. Why, oh why have I fallen for someone so Canadian—so okay looking, so gainfully employed, so . . . nice?

“I need you to fill out some paperwork before we go any further.” His face impassive, Christian hands me a single shiny sheet. He draws close—so tantalizingly near that I can sense his energy, his essence, his Head & Shoulders—and whispers: “No more than three toppings, or they charge extra.”

He hums a few bars of Nickelback and I’m helpless, trussed up and pressed into his brother’s old futon from university. Christian sighs.

“I’m damaged, Ana. You just don’t get it. I was born to a successful pediatrician . . .”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so—”

“. . . in Winnipeg.”

“Oh. Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry.”

There is a pause.

“Sorry,” I say.

My intrepid eyes cast around Christian’s Rec Room of Pain and across his many instruments of torture: the ball gag, the whip, the black gadget that with the press of a single button turns on the cruelest device of all: the television. Sportsnet, TSN . . . Oh Christian, stop teasing and turn it to CBC for the Leafs game! The chronic incompetence . . . the annual ritual of false hope . . . such delicious pain!

My tongue tentatively prods his and they join together in a slow, erotic dance. A tongue dance.

Blissful moments pass. Are they minutes? Hours? A dollop of something cold lands along the intrepid curve of my hip—splash!—and I am alert again. My body is electric, pulse pounding, skin alive with sensation. Desire. This is what desire feels like. “Sorry, spilled my beer.” The sensual gyrations of our relationship, all bump and grind and dancing tongue, continue.

Christian frowns at me.

“Why are you frowning?”

“Sorry,” he says. Now he’s smiling. The Earth shifts on its axis, tectonic plates slide into a new position, volcanoes erupt, trains speed into tunnels and other suggestive images. My inner goddess yearns to be touched by this tragic figure with the jaw of a lumberjack and the clothes also of a lumberjack.

“Do you like my beaver?”

“Sure, but it looks a little small next to the stuffed caribou,” I say.

“Damn rodent put up a hell of a fight. I still say it was worth losing my leg.”

He picks up a riding crop and limps over. I can feel a stirring deep within me, somewhere beneath my snow pants. This feels so different than the last time, so vital, so carnal, so . . . wait, is that the “Coach’s Corner” theme?

Suddenly, Christian is on top of me. He forces something into my mouth. It’s firm, so very hard. I curl my tongue around it and instantly recognize its elegant contours.

Timbit. Chocolate glazed.

“I only had enough cash on me for day olds. Sorry.”

I surrender myself to the sweet agony, and chew.