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Someone in a tube carriage last week with three people reading the paperback and God knows how many reading it on their Kindles tweeted, "isn't it a bit early for that sort of thing? After lunch? When the sun goes down? It seemed a bit random, yet I can see why he'd query the wisdom of summoning a sustained erotic vignette on one's way into work.
But what do I know? I work at home. Maybe people do that all the time.
Consider, furthermore, the way high culture and low culture have collided. Because erotica is niche to start with, this revolution took longer to reach it, and only now have we loosened up a bit. No, there is more to it than that.
First, the reason sex scenes are so difficult to write is the gear change, rather than the sex itself. It is extremely difficult to write a regular story spliced with sex, just as it would be difficult to tell a story interspersed with explicit sexual detail.
That's why the Bad Sex Award exists, and is so easy to bestow.
In the very act of describing sex as an incidental, you create an excruciating sex scene. EL James.
Photograph: Michael Lionstar James's sex scenes are not incidental, they are the meat of the plot, the crux of the conflict, the key to at least one of and possibly both the central characters. It is a sex book. It is not a book with sex in it. The French author Catherine Millet wrote: "For me, a pornographic book is functional, written to help you to get excited. If you want to speak about sex in a novel or any "ambitious" writing, today, in the 21st century, you must be explicit.
You cannot be metaphorical any longer. They're not looking at it from the masochist's point of view — it's in their job description not to. If the Marquis de Sade thinks any garden— variety submissive is going to get a kick out of having their back broken on a cartwheel, he's dreaming. So that's the popularity of volume one. The second volume is a bald and rushed go at monetising the brand.
The deviant stuff is largely excised, and the move towards mainstream sexual endeavour seems to bore the author.
Her fantasies turn instead to what presents she'd like if she fetched up with a billionaire an iPad. An Audi. No, a Saab!
Nope, I feel cheap. Now we're looking at a book you'd be embarrassed to be caught reading on the tube. Small habits begin to grate: the way everybody always seethes, scolds, smirks or whispers and nobody ever just says; the way his eyes are constantly blazing, and she is constantly biting her lip.
The link between volumes is so clumsy that you have to look away "He thinks he doesn't deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way?
Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a deep breath.
It doesn't begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that's been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle I shut the door on that thought immediately. Don't think about him. Of course, I can afford a car - a nice, new car.
I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as blank as possible. I can't think about him. I don't want to start crying again -.
The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there's noise to fill the vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I don't listen or watch.
I sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?
The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and take it upstairs.
The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card. I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian probably had very little to do with it. It's too painful to think about. I examine the roses - they are beautiful, and I can't bring myself to throw them in the trash. And so a pattern develops: Well, try to sleep.
I can't even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me. And the music I am careful to avoid it at all costs.
Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder. I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don't have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that's me.
I can interact impersonally at work, but that's it. I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it's the first thing I've eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet Coke.
It's the caffeine that keeps me going, but it's making me anxious. Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me personal questions. What does he want? I'm polite, but I need to keep him at arm's length.
I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I'm pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see who it's from. I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend's show, and I'm sure you've not had time to download a car, and it's a long drive.