“Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?” my friend Aileen was leaning in, her voice lowered conspiratorially.
Her eyeballs moved in their sockets extreme left and right; a strand of hair was in her cappuccino. I wondered if we were being followed.
“No,” I breathed.
“Get it. It’s basically porn. Huge in the States. Fabulous.”
In the weeks that have passed since our conversation, E L James’ trilogy, an erotic tale set in America of two lovers, has become a chart-topping phenomenon.
I know – I’m behind the times. Fifty Shades has spread like wildfire, igniting the nether regions of women all over the world.
My excuse? Getting married then honeymooning in Italy for most of May, where I read the classics. Silly me.
My reasoning for buying the first in the series upon return, was manifold. Well it would be. I’m British and female – I can’t just gleefully rub my knees and tell you with husky voice that I want to read about sex.
I was also intrigued as to how something that is “basically porn” could achieve this mainstream success, knocking mighty The Hunger Games off the top spot after a 16-week reign in the U.S.
As a novelist who is toiling with the writing of sex scenes in her second book – having already had a few juicy episodes published in my first (Scandalous, published by Penguin) – my interest was piqued…. read more