*Sigh*

Hi, my name is Ashley and I’m a hypocritical liarpants.

The other day I… I watched… 50 Shades of HolyShitCanIRewindLifeAndHavemyTimeBack

Now, hear me out. Because I’d started up a bootleg of it, paused because the quality was awful, saw the J-Simp photo shoot, had an intrigue-stiffy-deflation from that, decided not to watch, and then… finally… started seeing a shiz ton of other content makers who’d bravely sat through it in order to ridicule it properly. Like true professionals. God, I envy their intestinal fortitude. Because even though I ended up trying my best to watch the whole thing, toward the last half, I started to feel like the oxygen valve that leads from my face holes down through my throat and into my breathing organs was shutting off in an act of defiant retaliation. It was as if my brain had had enough, stopped trying to reason with me, and started addressing the peon meat parts of me responsible for my most basic life functions.

I’d punish it for its insubordination, but I’m short a – what’s it called? A whip?

Whatever.

So, I didn’t finish the whole thing. But I got the gist. And when I did finally try, I went into it with an aim that was a little different from some of my comical cohort group. Because mine was to intentionally watch this shitty bootleg instead of the good copy because everyone in the audience was obnoxiously responsive to everything that played out on screen. And I wanted to see how that went. You see, when people are in a darkened theater, lost in a cinematic narrative, and unaware their reactions are being filmed, these reactions are pretty authentic. It’s like one step above watching them watch it in their own home. So, in a way, my sickness is deeper than Mr. Grey’s. I’m a voyeur – perversely observing others observing perversion.

#50ShadesOfInception.

The first thing I noticed was the laughter.

Inappropriate and out of context – it was like the nervous giggle you’d do on a first date that says “I don’t know how I feel right now and I’m not calm enough to say anything meaningful, but I don’t hate you yet and I want to keep the energy up so let’s keep trying”. I assume some of the women I heard doing this had dragged their poor significant others to see this film, and the fact that I didn’t hear any male laughter matching theirs told me this was the “let’s keep trying to like this movie” equivalent of first date laughter. And the women were chuckling at stuff that was categorically unfunny (the main male character buying a rape kit from the store the female lead works at? Mmmyes. Right. Comedic gold) to try and convince their partners with their reactions to like this ridiculous flick along with them. Even though it wasn’t remotely funny.

So, I get that they were laughing to try and invite their dudes into enjoying it with them.

But why? I don’t force laughs at an actual standup gig, expecting others to believe the comedian’s entertaining.

So why here? So you don’t feel more alone about your perversion?

“Um… Okay, Drama…”

Now, that scene (above) was laughable, if you wanna laugh.

Because it happens about the first and a half-th time they see each other. After a coffee date. That lasted two seconds.

I mean, if you want to bond with the dude sitting next to you, why not later bond over your own bondage and now bond over something more honest like how bad it is? “Geez, babe. You were right. This is fcckng atrocious. Let’s wait till the first sex scene and if it sucks, we’ll leave ‘n go make our own.” (This advice brought to you by things I’ve actually said the time I dragged the boyfriend I lost my virginity to, to see a romcom with me) Like, really, how’s a goddamned movie about floggers and ballgag’s better than the actual penis sitting next to you? Exception: Obviously I would not be asking this question if Charlie Hunnam, Bradley Cooper, or Alexander Skaaaaarzgaaaaard (I hate spelling his name) had been the main role.

And that – the AnastGreySia sex scenes – are the other salient reactch list point.

In the movie, he effs her the second he learns she’s a virgin. Why not? If you’re a dominant, that’s like a blood ‘n spooge contract better than the literal one he’s trying to get her to sign – which is BTW the legit I-shitchyu-not entire crux of the movie – getting her to sign a sex contract. I had trouble getting past the unrealistic concept that somewhere, there exists a group of people who have canyon-esque holes in their daily itinerary of work obligations, shopping, and taking shits to fill with meetings about the parameters of violently porking a person with their permission.

But I tried my hardest to just accept that mythical facet of the film.

And what made it easier was the fact that people were reacting so deeply to the more rapey sex scene following the gentle de-flowering one, that I had an epiphany. Actually it was more of a reminder of what I already knew. The audience reacted to Anastasia being blindfolded, bound, flipped over, and helplessly effed with a gasp. Now, that might seem natural to you, but that’s only because I’ve failed to describe it properly. It wasn’t the kind of gasp you’d hear the girl in the “Thriller” music video do while watching a werewolf flick. And it wasn’t the kinda gasp you’d see in those “Paranormal” hype commercials that are staged, either. It was more… hmmm… how can I describe it….It was more like you’d do in a restaurant when your food’s finally coming. That mixed with the sound you emit when you see that the chick from high school who was kindofa bitch to you put on a fcck ton of weight. It was this – this gasp of deviant delighted glee – that made me realize: much like pornography with a barely there storyline (“When did she call the plumber? And why when she’s on a deserted island in a hut made of straw that doesn’t even have a toilet? Wait – was he flown in? Does she get to go home after? Will Wilson be joining them?”) no one’s here for how realistic their outside life is. They just want the female translation of porn: unbridled desire from a male for me. A dude who’s so desirous of a female, that he’ll lurk her out and tie her down and show up at her graduation and work and beat up the only nice guy in her life.

Thing is, this only works when you’re like the female lead.

Spineless and closed in and waiting to be told what to do.

Which is probably why I spent the whole movie identifying with the Grey character instead and wondering why he’d choose this bish. Then, I have to remember – the character’s not meant to be seeking an “equal” to make up half’a power couple. He’s meant to be quasi-sociopathic. And like the most famously iconic psycho we all know once said, “Some people just have victim written all over their face – they’re basically asking to be victimized” (that may be a Bundy paraphrase, but work with me here), a power-hungry sadist seeks out the meek because they’re an easy target. They’ll allow you to believe you’re as powerful as god because they genuinely believe they’re so powerless themselves. It’s the same way a comedian’s not gonna tell potty jokes and do armpit farts at a high society gathering – they want their audience to submit laughter and work accordingly. I’ve even heard a comedian say this, “I can control the laughter” (#dominant) So, as I heard the last roll of laughter during the scene where Christian throws Ana over his shoulder and spanks her ass for not telling him ahead of time she was going out of town, something dawned on me. Unfortunately, it was only to be followed with more questions on what was transpiring in the minds of the viewers in this darkened theater that offered Spanish subtitles. The realization was that the laughter had gone from trying-to-convince-my-lover-this’s-funny to full on adoration of this emotionally carbonated diet abuse beverage they were now chugging. And you wanna know the sick thing? I almost wanted to, too by now. I wanted to be part of it – to identify with the audience’s fun and I suddenly even temporarily envisaged my own narrative like this “Let’s Make Love” meets “Kiss The Girls” trash I was mentally ingesting. That’s when I had to pause it, do the Dexter stress-sinus-squeeze, collect myself, and ask myself that same monosyllabic question: why? I mean, yes – we laugh at something that’s not funny when we identify with it or at the very least want to identify or associate with it.

And I asked that above. But even if the answer’s “Yes, like misery, perversion loves company”…

…still, like an annoying three year old, I ask again: why?

Do we feel like we deserve to be hurt?


(Him carrying her to bed like a heroic rescue from an assault. That he just caused. And she consented to.)

Or are we just so cover-up-your-tit-while-your-feeding-your-baby style ashamed of every aspect of sex, including the organs in times of non-coitus, that twisting sexuality into a quasi-non-consensual experience somehow makes it easier to swallow? (I’d say “pardon the pun”, but either that didn’t happen or it was in the part I fast forwarded.) Like, if we’re not agreeing to it – but it’s happening to us anyway – then we can have our cake and eat it too? Yet, I’d be lying if I said that was my biggest question here.

Really, more than anything, I still just wanna know how the fcck these people financially survive.

‘cause where I’m from, you hafta be born with a silver spoon to focus on forking all day long.

Can the next film warrior who braves this spiritual landfill please take notes and tell me your genuine reaction?