Arousal Dysfunction.

Forgetting she'd already asked me five times previously, a colleague asked again if I'd yet read Fifty Shades of Grey. When I told her no, she said (with what I would call undisguised disapproval), "Oh, of course not. You're too pure." I laughed, because I was trying to imagine anyone I know thinking that word about me. But she explained. She meant that my taste in writing is too refined to enjoy reading amateurish prose. While this isn't necessarily true (OK, I think maybe it is), I do kind of take pleasure in knowing that others think of me this way. Literary snobbishness seems like a desirable quality to have.

The conversation carried on, with her and another women insisting that I could get past the inadequacies in style because I would thoroughly enjoy all the sex. That I could agree with, so I accepted the rumpled, roughed-up, sweat-upon, broken-spined volume that was being shoved in my hands. Seriously, this is the shape it was in when it was lent to me:

Its condition actually gave me hope, and I looked forward to a good fire stoking (so to speak).

Today, I finally decided to give it a try. But within the first sentences, I realized I was reading nothing more than the poorly formed thoughts of a dull adolescent girl. I threw the book down. Angry. I picked it back up and paged through until I found a combination of words that indicated there was some congress about to happen. :sigh: Still, nothing. Total trash. Sadly, not the good kind.

P.S. Considering that I can be a bit intolerant at times, I thought I'd just see if anyone on Amazon agreed with me. Oh, only about 5,411 people.