The intent of this post is rather embarassing. A few days ago I was at work and picked up a book off of the shelf and started reading it on a whim. The cover was intriguing, and yes I must admit the worst part of this story may very well be the fact that I have fallen victim to one of life's greatest sins. I not only judged a book by it's cover, I grossly misjudged it. Days later I would find that this book, which I had compulsively read the first page, a middle page, and the last of (as I do with every book I judge) and set it back on the shelf for later review, was the new craze. It plasters newspaper reviews, television shows, facebook posts and posters in front of bookstores. Fifty Shades of Grey, the tale of an inexperienced and passionate young woman and the youngest business tycoon/ closet BDSM master to conquer the world. I have to admit, after judging it as a good book by it's less than fascinating cover (after further reading and understanding), I was wrong, this book is not good; it is amazing, maybe even life changing in a sense that is unexpected, uncanny, inexplicable.
Many are drawn to the utterly erotic context. Some to the sad love story. Even others to the tortorous exchange of pain and pleasure. Not I. I am drawn to this book because of its ability to push boundaries, to test limitations. This is not a book about sex, this is a book about love, and the bounds that people will break, both consciously and unconsciously, to satiate the innate need for it. This book shows love for what it truly is: a compulsion.
And the more I read, the farther I am enthralled by these two people. And it is strange because usually when this happens it is because I want to live that life, to feel those feelings, to experience life in ways that I have yet to. This is not the case here. I am obsessed with their compulsion because I need to understand it, to understand this need that has somehow overtaken me already. This sounds strange in the context of this book if you know anything about it. But I'm talking about the bare bones of the story. Obviously it is an extreme example, but it is also the epitome of what it desperately tries to describe. The compulsion to love the one person that is not necessarily easy to love... practically, emotionally, physically, or otherwise. Because that is what I do, what I have always done, what I am doing once again.
But I ask you this, is it wrong to want to be compulsed by him?