It’s not Fifty Shades vs. feminism, actually

I’m never quite comfortable with an article that seems to demand the opening phrase “As a feminist”. One might as well begin with “As a postman” or the old acceptable classic “As a mother”, which I am willing to cede is a position of irrefutable expertise in everything for at least as as long as I’m staying at home having my meals cooked for me. With feminism, however, one can almost hear less open-minded readers running for the hills, possibly shouting “Watch out, she’ll take off her bra!”. Be not afraid, reader; I will probably do this, but not right now. It’s cold.

Unfortunately, E L James’ saucy Fifty Shades trilogy seems to have brought the entire internet out in hives that spell “IS FEMINISM DEAD?!?!” across the forehead of society. So here, (as a feminist) is my answer: no. Don’t be ridiculous.

Now, before you scuttle away in fear of my endless locks of unshaven armpit hair (that I may or may not use as a lasso to capture unwary men) remember that Fifty Shades is apparently now part of the National Conversation, which is a nice change from talking about the weather. You don’t want to be left out when the rest of us feel able to approach a stranger, gesture vaguely, and say “Butt plugs”. “Oh yes,” the lady at the checkout will reply, nodding. “But we had far better butt plugs last year. This is a classic example of British summer butt plugs”. Endless fun will be had.

So, if you won’t dive into the slightly sticky pages of this “erotic” trilogy, one handed or otherwise, here’s a vague sketch of the plot. Virginal and permanently lip-chomping student Anastasia Steele meets the handsome and outstandingly rich sex gladiator Christian Grey, only to discover that he intends to subject her to regular nipple clamping and bondage play in return for enhancing her apparently natural ability to orgasm at the touch of a light breeze. Anastasia doesn’t really do BDSM, but this doesn’t really matter because most of the trilogy is just endless, half-heartedly kinky sex scenes anyway, as per the erotica remit.

Even allowing for the old adage that one woman’s erotica is another’s “Postage stamps are not sexy Cynthia, what is this rubbish you’re reading”, I have to admit that the books left me cold and wondering if “phlegmatically” can ever be considered a sexy word apart from in specialist spheres of enjoyment. James repeats herself frequently, mangles metaphors (see Grey’s physically impossible “tight” eyes) and throws in the odd scrap of Standard Disturbed Childhood Back Story to fill gaps between sex scenes, thus perpetuating the myth that anyone who wishes to indulge in an alternative sexual lifestyle is obviously an abuse victim.

Yet there is, surprisingly, something for the feminist liberal reader to salvage from the wreck. James’ characters always practice safe sex, the rustle of little foil packets a profoundly reassuring presence within the series that has reputedly made James one of the most influential people on the planet. Other Liberal Lefty highlights include Grey’s dedication to solving world hunger and ecologically friendly construction. But please don’t start waving the red flags of equality just yet.

Our friendly neighbourhood object of lust is hideously rich and wants to look after Anastasia, buy her fancy cars, clothes and whatever she likes. He also wants all responsibility, so that she doesn’t have to worry her pretty little head about anything, like working, or keeping her own last name if she wants to. He may or may not be keeping her in a state of alcoholic submission (read through book one and count how many “slugs of wine” Steele takes down). He actually wants to tie her up. With millions of women reading the books and taking them to heart (or at least to the nearest branch of Ann Summers), does this mean that feminism is dead?

Balls is it. We are currently enduring one of the longest and most drastic periods of economic insecurity of the century. Women in particular are taking the brunt of unemployment and cuts to the services that once supported their autonomy and ability to earn. If we consider the fact that Fifty Shades has notoriously been branded as “Mummy-porn”, and that women at the biggest disadvantage in the job market are those bringing up children, about to have children, or returning to work post-children, who exactly can blame them for the odd idle fantasy about an easy out with a multibillionaire?

We can daydream unchallenged about being James Bond, essentially wedded to a rich and generous Government that sends him to fancy places and buys him fancy toys (one does not have to try very hard to imagine M smacking him lightly on the ass, slipping a £20 in his panties and telling him to buy himself something pretty). Even James Bond is essentially obeying orders, albeit generally ones that don’t involve butt plugs but do involve jumping out of planes with the Queen. Why not choose Anastasia Steele, and not have to worry about anything except not biting your lip so much it falls off?

Feminism operates in the real world, and as long as we can credit women with enough intelligence to distinguish between reality and fantasy, I don’t think we have to worry too much about Fifty Shades. If anything, the trilogy’s influence has mostly been to cause women everywhere to pop down to the shops and pick up some handcuffs, acting on a basic tenet of feminism that if you want something you can damn well have it, even and especially if you think it’s sexy.

Our mothers and grandmothers fought for sexual autonomy, and if what you choose to do involves getting handcuffed to a radiator, no man or grouchy lady comment writer can stop you. In an ideal world some magnificent circumstance _would_ sweep in and remove all this economic uncertainty for good. We’d drink fancy wine, not have to make any of those now-daily money decisions that mean feeding a family OR clothing them, not both, and we’d have fabulous sex exactly the way we like it continually. At least the sex thing is vaguely achievable.