50 SHADES OF GRIM (a critique)

As I looked into the window, the room lit up in red. It had been dark a moment ago. It intrigued me. It was as though the light had been turned on for me. Not worrying too much, I kept looking in.

A woman entered the room. She wasn’t clothed. It was odd, she wasn’t completely naked either. She was covered in leather straps, tightly wound all over her limbs and body. Her breasts, too, were tightly tied in straps. I could tell how bruised her skin was, even through the red light. Her nipples were pinched between metal clamps. A silicone tab peeked through from between her legs, like something she had buried deep inside her body.

She had heavy, seductive makeup on her face, dark eyeliner and heavy mascara on her false lashes, bright red lipstick on her swollen lips. She looked at me, moving seductively as if performing for me, trying to enchant me. But it only worried me. She didn’t look comfortable in her body, in her sense of self. It looked like a shell of a person was staring at me, a shell that had forgotten what lived inside.

She walked toward me, trying her best to channel her feminine power, but it looked broken, deeply bruised, like it had been beaten out of her long ago. Like the feminine had been smothered, and a man had taken over it now. She walked to the window as if she were dancing. There was no joy in her movements. Every gesture was like a cry, screaming and asking me for approval. I swallowed, feeling disturbed by the bleakness of it all.

She came to the window and, on the glass pane, mounted a bright pink silicone toy. The whole time, her eyes were glued to mine, never breaking eye contact, almost not blinking. She began pleasuring the toy with her mouth, as if to seduce me with it. Her hands remained tied behind her, willingly. They had been free a moment ago.

She kept going, taking it deeper and deeper into her throat. Tears flowed from her eyes, and her eye makeup turned them black. The black tears were the only thing that made sense so far.

Nobody forced her to perform this act, but she kept going, taking it deeper, almost hurting herself now. Crying, but trying to keep her face seductive for my gaze. I was deeply disturbed, but not disgusted, by her behavior. I was worried. It felt as though she was trying to feel something, anything. Anything besides what she truly felt. But it was all through her skin. All through her body.

I told her many times: it’s the heart that will make you feel, not your skin. But as if unable to hear me, as if the glass were soundproof, she kept choking herself with the toy, keeping her eyes on me through it all, as if she were doing it for me. As if this was all she had left in her now. This was all she had received and was filled with.

She kept hurting herself until her body could no longer take it. She fainted, out of breath, and fell down on the floor from suffocation.