It’s become a big deal these days for people to engage in being naughty. The Fifty Shades of naughty bondage, and this evening Magic Matthew McConaughey comes to theatres. Everyone seems to have an opinion on all the hubbub.

The first time I heard of Fifty Shades of Grey, it was on some Facebook status from one of those people who are on your Facebook because you know you knew them in high school but you just can’t place them and you accepted them because you didn’t want to be a bitch…

One of those.

And then I heard about it again on some talk show. Then my message board lady friends mentioned it. So I looked into it. I read it.

And here is my confession: it was entertaining. 

It was not as pornographic as I had been led to believe…but no big deal. I know where the porn button is on my computer (what – you don’t have one?). I’ve had sex before. I was not shocked at wrist tying or vagina balls or spanking. The writing was not exceptional, but not so repulsive as to drive me away (and what do I know, anyway? Who has the gojillion-selling book? Not I.).

So I read it and that was that. I was comfortable that I could have an opinion on pop culture and its latest craze.

Then it started – all the blog posts. All the Facebook and Twitter sharing of the blog posts. People were upset. People were offended.

Why, they said, should it be okay for church going, God-fearing women to be reading this overtly sexual book (and admitting it!), when they themselves frown upon their husbands having anything to do with pornography? THINK OF THE CHILDREN! God and Jesus and Lazarus risen!

I was amused at first, then the more I thought about this position…the less I understood it.

What’s the big deal? Read a smutty book. It doesn’t mean you cheated on your husband. Just like (here it comes, ladies) a little bit of man-panting after Kate Upton’s Hardees commercial doesn’t mean your husband is off banging his groupies.

It bothers me that we are, as a society and culture, so simultaneously obsessed and uncomfortable with sexuality.

I have kids. This means I have had sex. In most cases, that is the way things go. And I find it hard to swallow (wink wink) when Pastor Slickhair with his seventeen children tries to tell me that my sexuality is something I should never acknowledge.

Sex is just sex. It is human, fallible, biological, and primal.

Just like the person who eats nothing but McDonald’s and Twinkies is probably gross and unhealthy, so is the person who exists on nothing but hormones and lust. However, the person who eats leafy greens and soluble fiber? They deserve dessert now and then, right? Even more so when you have someone to enjoy the Twinkies with as opposed to having to sneak around.

I would much rather know that there’s porn stashed safely away for the taking than to worry that it’s being secreted behind my back. I’d rather be able to read a book about Anastasia whoever and her freaked out jillionaire sadist and have my husband poke fun at my “girl porn” than have to hide it and feel guilty.

Maybe that’s just me.

As for Magic Mike, I have no desire to go see it…mostly due to the visual attack of the movie patrons. Maybe I’ll catch it on DVD.

No related posts.