50 Shades trilogy does not meet expectations

First comes Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, Masochism (BDSM) then comes marriage then comes the baby in the multi-million dollar mansion. Okay, so it’s not exactly the playground song that we all remember, but it does sum up the Fifty Shades trilogy.

After hearing the buzz around the trilogy and considering the sensation it has caused for women everywhere, I decided that these books must be worth a read. They are not.

Save yourself $15.95, because Fifty Shades is not worth reading past page 50.

Despite the fact that this trilogy was supposed to be similar to Twilight fan fiction, the book bares little to no resemblance to the vampire saga.

Nonetheless, Fifty Shades uses the overplayed plotline rich, handsome billionaire falls for a virginal plain Jane, who is unaware of her own beauty.

In this case, these two worn out literary archetypes go by the names of Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele, who fortuitously meet when Ana is sent to interview Christian for their college paper.

Shortly after, the two become enamored with one another, but Ana soon discovers that Christian has a secret fetish for BDSM, and the only way they can be together is through a dominatrix-submissive relationship. What begins as a sexual contract between Grey and Steele escalates into one of the most epic, sexy romances—all within the course of about one week.

Fifty Shades seems to be targeted to two types of audiences: unimaginative housewives who are bored with their own lackluster lives and college virgins, who are hoping to be whisked away by a rich, disturbed dominatrix.

Feminists argue that these books are revolutionary, but hasn’t female pornography been around for decades? Perhaps for run-of-the-mill minds that have not discovered the Internet, these depictions of BDSM are shockingly acceptable because there is the added illusion of romance to them.

Fifty Shades seems in favor of women fantasizing about obsessive, stalker-like boyfriends and co-dependent relationships.

There are several elements to these novels that make them utterly nauseating. For one, the dimwitted dialogue between the characters reads more like a poorly written screenplay.

Comparing Edward Cullen and Bella Swan to Christian and Ana is an insult to Twilight and that is saying something. Stephanie Meyers shows the emotion and intensity of her characters through dialogue, unlike James, who interrupts every conversation with corset-ripping madness.

The highly anticipated sex scenes are absurdly repetitive. James does a good job at painting a vivid picture for readers; however, his superfluous descriptions are so detailed that it becomes wearisome to read.

Let's face it, there are only so many euphemisms for male and female genitalia, and, with each scene lasting three pages, the thrill of erotica shortly disappears.

Throughout the dragging storyline, there are several references to Grey’s belief that pain does not exist without pleasure. I found this strange yin-yang concept to be true—the pain of turning each page and reading yet another abhorrent scene between these banal characters was completely masked by the pleasure of being rid of these wretched books once and for all.