I wrote my university dissertation on the Fifty Shades of Grey books and as the film adaptation makes it’s on screen debut this Valentines Day, I am reminded of my own bondage related stories that are, unfortunately for me, not quite as sexy as E. L. James describes in hers.
During my fresher year at London College of Communication, I was suffering from pre-uni boyfriend syndrome. That’s right, like many others that cannot bear to break up with their high school lovers, I continued with a relationship as I started my new life in The Big Smoke. One February 14th, however, I found myself alone in my Walworth Road halls of residence, nursing a steak and feeling sorry for myself because my boyfriend had chosen to get high with his mate in Uxbridge – and they say romance is dead?
As I metaphorically cried into my rare cooked sirloin, I heard a knock at the door and was greeted by The President (of the university, not the United States) and his loyal following of one, flyering the floors of our building in the hope that he would again be successfully voted in ‘parliament’. Earlier in the year, my flat mate and I had made acquaintances with El Presidente, whom we both found attractive in an endearing and cartoonish way.
“Come in come in!” We ushered the boys through the door, “would you like a drink? All we have is gin, no mixer.”
As we choked back our Tesco’s finest spirits, we laughed and joked into the night, stopping only to run to my room and find the ‘sex bag’ I’d been gifted for my 18th birthday. “You have to see my vibrator,” I exclaimed and proceeded to poke the Pres in the face with the buzzing phallic object I’d retrieved from its red velvet home. I blindfolded him made him eat chocolate orange body paint, all in our communal kitchen overlooking the bright lights of Elephant and Castle tube station.
As the night grew late, I was kindly reminded that I was not currently single and should probably put away the handcuffs that were sitting on the side next to the piles of TV Licence reminders.
I reluctantly agreed and gathered up my modest tools of erotica and staggered back to room A, where I then vomited violently into the floral bin beside my single bed.
As I awoke the next day to the smell of regurgitated red meat and straight dry gin, I thought the only sensible thing to do was to go online and vote for that boy to remain president, after all he’d put up with that night he bloody well deserved it. As for me, I’d probably had the Worst Valentines Day ever. Until 2 years later when I found that very same president in my bed wearing a onesie covered in semen…