I recently went to a novelty party, which is like a Tupperware party, but with sex toys. A bunch of women get together in somebody's living room, drink enough wine to float the Titanic off its iceberg, and watch a sales rep -- one of the moms from the carpool line -- hawk the latest in 'pleasure accessories.'
When I saw this excerpt all over Facebook recently, I had to cry foul. I knew it was fake. As bad a writer as E.L. James is, this isn't her special kind of bad. This is different. It's just a shade more grotesque. And while Christian Grey is lots of things -- none of them interesting -- he doesn't mewl. Maybe the book would have been better if he had.