I've read the first two books: "Fifty Shades of Grey" and "Fifty Shades Darker." It's ok. I think this book glamorizes sexual deviancy the way Pretty Women glamorized prostitution. Remember when Julia Roberts played a prostitute and Richard Geer played the rich John. They fell in love and then every girl in her 20s wanted to be a prostitute because of the glamorous lifestyle. We all know how glamorous prostitutes have it.
It's the same old story.... poor unknowing virgin meets insanely rich man. She manages to do what no other woman before her could... fix him and make him happy! Bla! Why is it never the other way around? Why is it never the poor unknowing male virgin meets the rich beautiful woman? Why is it women never get to be on top?
It's a good read if you're in your 20s or 30s even. If you're in your 40s or 50s, you'll just want to bitch-slap the lead character Anastasia Steele and say "Smarten up!"
It got me to thinking. I am a writer! I could write a book like this for women in their 40's on up! Soft porn for women going through the change! I am 50ish. I know what turns on a woman going through mid-life. So I sat at my computer and began my erotic, amusing and deeply moving "Fifty Ways a Day" a tale that will obsess you, possess you and stay with you forever.
Chapters 1- 9
These chapters suck because you're just getting to know the characters. Skip to Chapter 10 where the good stuff happens.
Christian Ways, the Adonis stands in my kitchen. His tool belt hanging off his hips, the way I like it. I am the richest women in the world and this poor carpenter has responded to my ad in the newspaper for a "Handyman." I warn him, there is a contract he'll have to sign.
He says he is into vanilla carpentry. No add-ons, no toys. My dog walks into the kitchen. "Who's that?" he questions. "That's Charlie Tango, my dog. Get used to him." He seems impressed.
"What do you want me to do for you?" he asks shyly. I stare down at my knotted fingers. "There's a hole in my wall. Do you know how to fill it" I question him. "I have Fifty Ways of fixing everything." I gasp at his assertiveness.
His gaze is unwavering and intense. His tousled hair falls on his face, his voice is like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel. The kind you can only get in those Cadbury eggs at Easter.
"You should steer clear of me. I am not the handyman for you" he warns. "Fix my wall" I order him. He's home improvement on legs I think to myself.
He moves gracefully through the kitchen. His muscular arm reaches to the top of the wall and he slides his hand down feeling the texture. He examines the hole. "I can fix this hole now." Without warning he whips out a trowel from his tool belt. It sends shivers down my spine. Where did the plaster come from? I don't know. Within seconds the hole is filled and the smell of plaster and sweat is intoxicating. "What now?" he greedily asks me.
"There's a hissing in my toilet. It's been there for weeks."
"Show me to the bathroom" he says and I oblige immediately. Before I know it, he's on his knees... listing to the hiss. "I know how to stop your hiss" he tells me. I stand beside him, relishing his knowledge. Maybe he is too good for me. I've had three plumbers look at this toilet. Neither could find my hiss. His fingers carefully lift off the top of my toilet and sensually lays it on the closed seat. He plunges his hand into the cold toilet water. "It's wet" he says. "I know. The water in there always is" I warn him.
Fifty Ways knows his stuff. He whips out the hose. "Your hose is broken." He slowly pulls his knife out of the tool belt. It's still hanging on his hips. The way I like it. He cuts the hose and places it back in the cold wet water. "Your hissing is gone now. I've cut out the broken part" he explains. "You don't need a long hose to get the job done. Sometimes a shorter hose can do that job too."
He was just Fifty Ways of craziness. He bent over to pick up the toilet seat and his Levis were as tight as the fitted sheet on my mother's bed.
"What's next?" He's brazen. My head is swimming. I didn't expect it to be like this. Getting all this work done today. I quiver and gasp.
"My hardwood floors aren't level" I groan. "Show me" he commands.
I take him to the living room. He gets down on all fours. In an earth-shattering moment he pulls out his level. Oh my God. I had no idea my floors were that bad! It tears at my soul. I stare down at my knotted fingers then at Fifty. His grey eyes turn cold. He pulls something out of his pocket and I hear the tearing of foil. I can't believe it! He has his own steel wool!
"I can't fix this. I am not the handyman for you" he cries out. "I'll think about your contract and get back to you."
He doesn't smile. He just turns on his heels and stalks to the front door. "Good-bye" he softly says and he looks utterly, utterly broken. A man in agonizing pain. I tear my gaze from him. The physical pain of losing him overtakes me and I surrender myself to my grief. A good handyman is so hard to find I cry out.
Stay tuned for book two. While the handyman wrestles with not being able to fix the floor, the richest woman in the world must confront the anger and envy of all the other women in the neighbourhood who want him to fix their holes.