Monday, June 4, 2012

Fifty Shades of Stupid

For the last two months all of my friends have been telling me that I have to read the book 50 Shades of Grey.  I’m an avid reader and always willing to jump on the NY Times Bestseller List bandwagon (especially when the book involves sex), so I fired up my trusty Kindle, ordered myself a digital copy and settled in with a glass of wine for a titillating evening.  Unfortunately, what my friends failed to tell me is that while the book may have hot sex scenes, the writing is atrocious.  We’re talking so bad that my eight-year-old niece could’ve written something better (minus the bondage, of course).  Not wanting to be as uncool as I know I really am, I made a valiant attempt to wade through this amateur-hour porn, but I just couldn’t do it.  The thing is, when my brain is busy rewriting the awkward dialogue and inane plot, it’s basically impossible for me to enjoy the sex.  Which is exactly the problem I used to encounter when I was dating. 

I suppose I should be thankful that I’m intelligent, well-read, and have an impressive vocabulary, but these are not traits that worked well for me when my pool of dating candidates included actors, stand-up comedians, and guys who didn’t seem to have any job other than hanging out at The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.  Before I moved to Los Angeles I dated a lot of freaks, but none of them were actually dumb.  Sure, one of my exes liked to call me “Mommy” in bed, but the guy had an MBA from Harvard, so other than his truly disturbing Oedipal issues, he was a great catch. 

My first (and only) foray into the world of sex with a really dumb guy left quite an impression on me; and not in a good way.  At first, I was really charmed by Derek.  He had seen me driving in my neighborhood, thought I was cute, and proceeded to spend several hours driving around until he found my car parked on the street, wherein he proceeded to leave a note on my windshield asking me out.  In hindsight, I probably should’ve been creeped out by the fact the guy was clearly a stalker in training, but I was so flattered that he’d taken time out of his busy day to find me that all thoughts of Sleeping With the Enemy went out of my head.  I called him right away and we made plans to meet for a drink.  I had no idea what to expect, but I figured if the guy was a total troll I could at least get drunk on someone else’s dollar and then go home and watch a Lifetime movie while I cried.  To my relief, Derek was hot.  Really, really, REALLY hot.  When he came over and introduced himself and proceeded to tell me how he had been so taken with my beauty he had to find me, I almost fainted and fell off my bar stool.  I couldn’t believe this guy, who looked like he belonged in a Versace ad, was into me.  I figured I should probably seal the deal before Derek realized either a.) I was a complete and total dork unused to sleeping with attractive men or b.) I hadn’t washed my hair in several days and was therefore a dirty and disgusting woman more fit for a commune in Ojai than a fancy bar in Hollywood.  I downed my Belvedere martini, invited Derek back to my place, and hightailed it out of there before we’d had a chance to find out anything more about each other than our names and whether we had theatrical representation. 

When we got back to my very glamorous, un-air conditioned studio apartment, I turned the lights down very low (the better to disguise my greasy hairdo), mixed a couple of drinks, and proceeded to get to know Derek better in the Biblical sense.  I practically devoured this poor guy.  I’m ripping off his clothes, falling over myself trying to get my own pants off, and pretty much wrestling him into my bed.  I was so hot for this guy I could barely contain myself.  Derek kept telling me I was beautiful and sexy and he was doing everything right and then I told him that I’d never in my life been filled with such wanton lust.  All of a sudden, Derek stopped what he was doing, looked at me with confusion, and said, “What do you mean?”  “You don’t know what wanton means?” I asked.  “Well, I always order wonton soup at Chinese restaurants, but I don’t get why you would talk about that now.”  And that, dear reader, was when I knew I could never go through with sleeping a guy who had no idea that wanton and wonton were two very different words.  It’s not that I minded so much that my burning desire had been confused with my favorite hangover cure from Szechuan Palace; it was more that my vagina dried up like the Sahara at noon on Tuesday once I realized Derek didn’t understand this simple word.  I could no longer see the beautiful face and perfect body without also picturing him scoring only 200 on his English SAT. 

Poor Derek didn’t know what hit him when I practically threw him out of my apartment.  He tried calling me a couple times in the weeks that followed, but I avoided his calls; I just couldn’t face telling the guy that he wasn’t smart enough for me.  When it comes down to it, I’m a nerd at heart.  I need physical as well as mental stimulation.  So while I may be one of the only people too obsessed with good writing and big words to enjoy 50 Shades of Grey, I comfort myself with the fact that I found a guy who’s very happy to discuss Nietzsche with me after we do the nasty.  

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