5 Women Who Could Submit Christian Grey
by Annie Riordan
No, I have not read Fifty Shades Of Grey. I do not intend to ever read Fifty Shades Of Grey. I think I’d rather attend a Twilight film fest than read Fifty Shades Of Grey. I’ve been out of the loop book-wise since losing my job at Borders almost a year ago, so much so that I had to Google “Fifty Shades Of Grey” to find out what the hell it was. I found out and I still didn’t care. Ultimately, I thank God for company wide liquidation in the wake of bankruptcy, because otherwise I’d be unpacking endless boxes of that shit and suppressing a wicked facial tic every single time I had to sell a copy to some doughy housewife.
I skimmed the synopsis for Fifty Shades Of Grey this morning, and was immediately overcome by an all-encompassing desire to brush my teeth until my gums bled and then scrub my vagina with a steel wire brush and an entire can of Borax. “Pretty little virgin with zero self-esteem meets a sociopathically handsome corporate douchebag and agrees to let him pop her cherry, spank her, criticize her, belittle her, admonish her and finally beat the shit out of her.” Ooo. How original. Oh MORE of THAT for ME, please. Oh, allow me to join the stampeding hordes of lobotomized lemmings en route to the bookstore! There’s simply nothing I need more than another film/book/daytime talk show to instruct me how to remove my spinal cord and replace it with Freud’s Madonna-Whore complex. Girls, the only way to make the boys like you is to be an unspoiled, untouched virginwhore sperm vacuum with no brain, no will and no sense of self worth. Because yes, you ARE incomplete without a man and may as well curl up and die if you’re too ugly to attract one or (as I was recently accused of being) too “selfish” to bother dating at all.
Yeah, eat me. Just because I occasionally want a man doesn’t mean I need one. Shit, I’ve even gotten to the point where I can open my own pickle jars and kill my own spiders, and I sure didn’t get this way following the example set by the Anastasia Steeles of this world. I chose darker role models, in shades of deepest black ranging from bloodstained obsidian to eternally damned soul. You want to be a real woman? Follow these five steel-ball examples of women who know what they want, go out and get it and don’t give a single fat shit what anyone thinks of them:
50 Ways to Filet – Julie, Return of the Living Dead Part 3 – Julie loves her boyfriend Curt. She also has a healthy appetite for sex. But when her ill-timed horniness causes her death, Curt (apparently suffering from a massive case of blue balls) brings his beloved back to life with a dose of 2-4-5 Trioxin. Julie returns with a more ravenous appetite than ever, except it’s no longer sex she craves, but brains. Julie’s not one to cave to her impulses; instead, she masters them, curbing her insatiable hunger with pain. Using whatever is at hand, Julie pierces, carves, impales and slices herself to ribbons, decorating her mutilated flesh with glass shards, nails and hooks and transforming herself into the sexiest endorphin junkie fetish zombie that ever ate a man raw. You’ll be begging her to bite your blue steak, baby.
50 Kinds of Prey – Katherine, From Beyond – Prim little Katherine Michaels gets a load of Jeffrey Combs and his engorged resonating pineal gland and finds herself freed from all inhibition. Luckily, someone left a scanty little S&M outfit lying around and it just happens to be Katherine’s size! A dash of scarlet lipstick and Kathy is ready to experience the ultimate mind orgasm, semi-raping a sleeping Jeff and moving on to Ken Foree. Crampton rocks the butt-floss like a born Dominatrix, and was the subject of many teenage boy masturbatory sessions back in the late 80s.
50 Years of Decay – Angelique, Hellraiser: Bloodline – Buy a chick a new dress and she’s yours, right? Wrong. When two vainglorious assholes slaughter a peasant girl and offer her skin to a demon, they think they’ve got themselves an eternal slave, willing to do their bidding. But no sooner does Angelique slip into the empty skin than she betrays the men who summoned her, kills them both and teams up with Pinhead to deliver the most exquisite pain and suffering upon any idiot who dares summon them. Just because you call them, doesn’t mean you own them. You’re the bitch now, pinkboy.
50 Times a Day – Varla, Faster Pussycat Kill! Kill! – Varla never tries anything, she just does it, and she does it all in a skintight leather jumpsuit with a generous neckline that allows her majestic cleavage to heave freely. Varla is a go-go dancer, a race car driver, a bisexual lover and a cold blooded criminal. She’s always hungry: for food, sex, cash and power. Nobody gets in her way. Nobody fucks with her and lives to tell the tale. In the course of a single day, Varla kills a man with her bare hands, has a hot roll in the hay, wins a drag race, kidnaps a girl, robs an old man and makes eating a leg of chicken look absolutely pornographic. And she enjoys every single second of it all. You wanna try her?
50 Scars to Display – Nicki Brand, Videodrome – Nicki Brand knows what she wants and makes no apologies for it. A gorgeous brunette in a smoldering red dress with lipstick to match, Nicki reacts to everything with a cool detachment which proves to be an intoxicating aphrodisiac for scummy Max Renn. But no one can ever really own a girl like Nicki, who gets off on violent porn, likes incorporating needles in her foreplay and burns herself with cigarettes, relishing the pain the way I relish a jelly donut. When Nicki announces that she’s auditioning for the TV show “Videodrome” in which participants are whipped, beaten and tortured, Max knows he can’t stop her, and doesn’t really try. Nicki has already made her choice, not merely to embrace the New Flesh but to BE the New Flesh, and the eagerness in her eyes glitters like a child anticipating Christmas morning.
All five of these girls would take zero shit from the likes of Mr. Christian Grey and all fifty of his fucking shades. Grey would be curled up in a corner, wetting his panties and crying like a little girl in the presence of these chicks, chicks who don’t need anyone but themselves and exist for no one’s pleasure but their own. They will laugh at your shallow, pathetic attempts to control them. They will make your tiny little dicks shrivel up like frightened turtles and they will wipe their feet on your ass when they’re done. Stephen King stated in his book “Rose Madder” that sometimes men need to know what it is to fear a woman. To that I would add: “women need to rediscover the liberation of self-respect.” If you can master that, you’ll never need anything else to make you feel complete.
Oh, and if you want to read about the REAL world of BDSM, put down that limp-dick shit you’re reading and pick up a copy of Christa Faust’s “Control Freak.” Learn what it’s like to wield the whip rather than bend beneath it, for fucks sake.