We read Fifty Shades of Grey ahead of the film's release on Friday so you don't have to. And to be frank, we don't know how anyone can masturbate to this stuff with a straight face. Here is a selection of the most tortured prose from the first in the Fifty Shades trilogy.
If this guy is over thirty, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.
I welcome the cool, refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium.
I think my mouth has popped open and I can’t locate my voice anymore.
His voice is warm and husky like dark melted caramel… or something.
And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells - comes the thought: he's here to see you.
Try to be cool Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string - what?! - and gently takes my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet.
He’s finally asked me an easy question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it were a life raft, and I go for honesty.
I must be the colour of the Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
"Please, Anastasia." His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic… Hurriedly I place his purchases in a plastic bag.
Stop! Stop now! My subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in frustration. Get in the car, go home, do you studying. Forget about him... now!
He’s too gloriously good looking… I have a vision of myself as Icarus flying too close to the sun and crashing and burning as a result.
It will take an eternity to expunge the feel of his arms around me and his wonderful fragrance from my brain.
My vision has being affected and I’m really seeing double of everything, like in old reruns of Tom and Jerry cartoons.
Stalker, my subconscious whispers at me through the cloud of tequila that’s still floating in my brain, but somehow because it’s him I don’t mind.
My subconscious is figuratively tutting and glaring at me over her half-moon specs.
The last thing I hear before I pass out in Christian Grey’s arms is his harsh epithet. “F**k!”
Christian Grey’s sweat: the notion does odd things to me.
My heartbeat has picked up, my medulla oblongata has neglected to fire any synapses to make me breathe.
“Like Eve you’re so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge,” he smirks.
I eye Christian’s toothbrush. It would be like having him in my mouth. Hmmm… I feel the bristles on the toothbrush. They are damp. He must have used it already. Glancing it quickly, I squirt toothpaste on it and brush my teeth in double time. I feel so naughty. It’s such a thrill..
The walls and ceiling are a deep, dark burgundy, giving a womb-like effect to the spacious room.
Two orgasms… coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine, wow.
He gently tugs at my pubic hair...
Finally, my medulla oblongata recalls its purpose. I breathe.
Picking up a spear of asparagus I gaze at him and bite my lip. Then very slowly put the tip of my cold asparagus in my mouth and suck it.
I gasp, and I’m Eve in the Garden of Eden and he’s the serpent and I cannot resist.
My inner goddess is panting.
My subconscious peeks out from behind the couch still registering shock on her harpy face.
"You beguile me, Christian. Completely overwhelm me. I feel like Icarus flying too close to the sun."
Anticipation hangs heavy and portentous over my head like a dark tropical storm cloud.
My inner goddess is spinning like a world class ballerina, pirouette after pirouette.
I am mesmerised... watching him like one would a dangerous predator, waiting for him to strike.